Albert hadn't planned this. But when his horse reached the forest's edge, when he saw the open ground ahead—hard, rocky terrain, spacious enough, flanked by cliffs on two sides—he knew this was the place.
He pulled the reins. The white horse stopped, whinnied, turned in place. Behind him, the sound of hoofbeats grew clearer. Aldric and his men were close.
Albert dismounted. His feet touched the ground, and for a moment he stood still, feeling the vibrations through the earth. Twenty-three pursuers. Maybe twenty-five. In tight formation, they'd emerge from the forest gap in a minute or two.
His hand reached for the leather pouch at his waist. He lit a cigarette with his flint and steel, his fingers—he noticed—trembling slightly. Not from fear, but his body was exhausted. Two hours of fighting, one hour of being chased. The wound at his side throbbed with heat.
The first puff of smoke entered his lungs. He closed his eyes for a second. Then he stubbed out the cigarette as the sound of horses grew nearer.
They emerged.
Aldric in the lead, atop a large brown horse whose muscles rippled beneath its hide. Behind him, two dozen soldiers—not ordinary troops. Their armor was high quality, their shields sturdy, their eyes cold. Clearly, these were elite forces.
They halted at the field's edge, watching Albert standing alone in the center. For a moment, no one moved.
Aldric dismounted. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a cat in no hurry to catch its mouse.
"Stopping here?" His voice echoed between the cliffs. "You know you can't run anymore?"
Albert didn't answer. His hand rested on Wurzel's hilt. His eyes were fixed on Aldric.
The man walked closer, stopping ten meters from Albert. Behind him, his men began forming a semicircle, blocking all escape routes.
"I've heard a lot about you," Aldric said. His eyes were pale blue, calm like a winter lake. "The Black Sword Demon. Slayer of the left-flank commander. The wonder boy from Götthain." He smiled. "You're younger than I imagined."
Albert didn't take the bait. "You want to capture me."
"Commander's orders." Aldric shrugged. "But I can offer you a choice."
"A choice?"
"A duel of honor." The man drew his weapon—not a sword, but a war hammer. Its head was massive iron, one side pointed like a crow's beak, the other flat for crushing. He held it lightly in his hand, like a toy. "You against me, one on one. If you win, you're free to go. If you lose, you come with me willingly. My men won't interfere."
Albert stared at the hammer. One blow could shatter bone, crush a helmet, kill in a single strike. Against a sword, a hammer was slower but deadlier at close range.
"And if I refuse?"
Aldric's smile widened. "Twenty-three against one. I'm sure you can do the math."
Behind Albert, footsteps sounded—Aldric's men were moving, closing the circle. There was no way out except this.
Albert drew Wurzel from his belt. The black blade gleamed in the evening light, the frozen wave pattern on its surface like a river turned to ice.
"I accept."
Aldric nodded, satisfied. He turned to his men. "Pull back, give us room. No one interferes, no matter what happens."
They retreated, forming a wider circle. Aldric stepped into the center of the field, war hammer in his right hand, round shield on his left.
Albert remained where he was. His eyes never left his opponent.
One thing he'd learned in his previous life: in close combat, surprise was everything. An enemy who knew exactly what you were going to do was already halfway to victory. And Aldric—from the way he stood, from the way he held his weapon—wasn't an opponent to be taken lightly.
He knelt, placing Wurzel on the ground. His right hand reached for the earth nearby—wet soil, mud mixed with sand from the small stream near the cliff. He smeared it onto the blade, coating that black surface with brown sludge.
Aldric frowned. A few of his men laughed.
"What's that? A ritual?" one shouted.
"Let him pray to the earth gods!" another yelled, laughing harder.
Albert paid them no mind. He finished applying the mud, stood, and spun Wurzel in his hand. The blade now looked dull, without shine—but he didn't need shine. He needed this blade not to reflect light. He needed the enemy unable to read the direction of his swings from sun glints.
A small trick. But in a duel, small tricks could mean the difference between life and death.
"Begin?" Aldric asked.
Albert nodded.
Aldric attacked first. The hammer came down like lightning—fast, brutal, deadly. Albert leaped aside, feeling the rush of air across his face as the hammer passed. Its pointed tip struck the ground behind him, shattering a small rock into fragments.
Albert countered. Wurzel slashed toward Aldric's neck—but the hammer was already raised again, blocking with its haft. CLANG. Albert's hand went numb for a moment.
Sir Aldric spun, the hammer sweeping horizontally. Albert ducked, feeling the wind ruffle his hair. He thrust forward—toward the exposed stomach.
Wurzel's tip struck armor. The gleaming metal dented slightly, but didn't penetrate. Just a scratch.
Sir Aldric stepped back, looking at his armor, then smiled. "Good. But not enough."
They exchanged blows.
Albert moved like water—dodging, parrying, thrusting into gaps. But Sir Aldric was like a rock formation. Every counterattack was devastating, every hammer blow lethal.
Two minutes. Five minutes.
Albert wounded him. A gash on his temple—blood trickled thinly into Aldric's beard. But it was just a scratch. Not enough to stop the man.
Meanwhile, Albert's body began to waver.
A hammer blow struck his shield. The wooden shield cracked, his arm going numb. Another blow—he dodged the headshot, but the hammer caught his left ribs.
CRACK.
The sound was clear in his ears. Pain radiated from his ribs throughout his body, like fire spreading through his veins. Albert staggered, nearly falling.
Sir Aldric showed no mercy. The hammer descended again. Albert rolled, feeling the hammer shatter the ground where he'd stood a second ago. He rose, breath ragged, his ribs pulsing with every intake of air.
His ribs were cracked. Maybe broken. He didn't know.
He thrust—desperate, quick. Wurzel pierced through and struck Aldric's arm, leaving another gash. The man grunted, swinging the hammer's haft toward Albert's head.
Albert blocked with Wurzel. The two weapons met, vibrating. Aldric's strength was too much—Albert fell to one knee, his arm trembling under the pressure.
They stared at each other from inches away. Aldric's breath—fast but controlled. Albert's breath—gasping, broken, painful.
"You're incredible," Aldric hissed. "For someone your age, you're incredible. But not enough to defeat me."
He pushed. Albert flew backward, hitting the ground. Wurzel slipped from his hand, landing a few meters away.
Aldric stood over him, hammer raised for the final blow.
And in that moment, Albert saw something in his eyes. Not victory. Not anger. But... respect? Regret?
"A shame," Aldric murmured. "You could have been a great knight someday."
The hammer began its descent.
Albert rolled right. The hammer struck the ground where his head had been. With his remaining strength, he kicked Aldric's leg—not to wound, but to throw him off balance.
Aldric staggered. Albert grabbed Wurzel, rose, and thrust.
The sword's tip struck the side of the hammer's head, exactly at the joint between the iron head and the haft. Not a planned target—just reflex. But that joint was weak. Wurzel pierced through, damaging it.
Aldric growled, twisting the hammer to free Albert's sword. The movement loosened the hammer's grip—the head wobbled, nearly falling off.
Albert didn't waste the opportunity. He pulled Wurzel free, then slashed at Aldric's hand.
Not to cut, but to disarm.
The hammer's haft broke. Its head fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Aldric stared, stunned at his suddenly empty hand.
And at the same moment, Wurzel fell from Albert's hand. His fingers could no longer grip. They opened, muscles failing.
Both weapons lay on the ground between them.
Aldric looked at Albert. Albert looked back. Their breaths were equally ragged. Blood flowed from small wounds on Aldric's body. Albert's ribs throbbed like they were being hammered with every breath.
A draw.
No one said it. But they both knew.
Aldric's men began moving forward, hands on their weapons. Their faces—angry, dissatisfied. They wanted to finish Albert, regardless of the duel's outcome.
But before they could reach Albert, another sound rang out.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Arrows rained down on the ground between Albert and the Leandrian soldiers. Not to kill—but to halt. Thirty archers appeared atop the cliffs, bows drawn, arrows aimed downward.
Hilda.
The woman stood above, her short brown hair blowing in the wind. Beside her, dozens of Dornenholz archers in ready position.
"Enough!" Hilda shouted, her voice echoing between the cliffs. "The duel is over. It's a draw. This is a matter of honor—respect it!"
Aldric raised his hand, stopping his men. He looked at Hilda, then at Albert, then back to Hilda.
"Who are you?"
"A Dornenholz archer. Now serving under Lord Götthain." Hilda's voice was flat, but clear. "Do you want a battle here? Thirty archers above, the main Helvetian force behind that hill. You can kill My Lord, but you and all your men will die afterward."
Aldric was silent. His men grew restless.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty seconds. No one moved.
Finally, Aldric let out a long breath. He bent down, picked up the broken hammer head from the ground. Stared at it for a moment, then tossed it aside.
"This duel is a draw," he said. His voice held no anger—just weariness, perhaps slight disappointment. "Since it's a draw, he's free to go."
His men protested. But Aldric raised his hand again. "SILENCE! This is my decision."
He looked at Albert. Those pale blue eyes—no longer cold, something else there now.
"You're a strange young man," he said. "I hope we don't meet again on the battlefield, or you will die."
Albert didn't answer. He just stood there, trying to stay upright even though every breath was torture. At his side, an open wound oozed fresh blood. His ribs—he didn't want to think about it.
Hilda descended from the cliff with half her force, approaching Albert. Several archers remained above, bows drawn, watching.
"Come, My Lord." Hilda grabbed Albert's arm, helping him stand straight. "We need to leave before they change their minds."
Albert nodded. He glanced at Aldric one more time. The man still stood in place, watching him leave. In his hand, blood from the gash on his arm dripped slowly to the ground.
Open wounds and wet soil—infection would surely set in.
Albert knew. He knew what would happen. Not now—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. Fever would come, wounds would swell, and that mighty warrior would die slowly in his own tent.
But that wasn't his concern now.
He turned and left, supported by Hilda and two other archers. Leaving that rocky field, leaving Sir Aldric with his broken hammer and small wounds that would kill him.
***
An hour later, on a southern hillside, Luise was still fighting.
The main force had retreated according to plan. But the enemy was too numerous, too fast. While Albert had led Aldric on his chase, a second enemy wave had pressed the left flank viciously.
Luise did not retreat.
"MEN-AT-ARMS, SHIFT RIGHT!" she shouted, her voice hoarse but still carrying. Around her, Götthain soldiers fought with their remaining strength. Klaus on the front line, his sword blood-soaked. Stefan leading the levies with their spears, thrusting into every opening.
But the enemy kept coming.
A Leandria soldier—large, with a two-handed axe—broke through the line. Two men-at-arms fell from his charge. He rampaged, war cry on his lips.
Luise moved. She slipped between her own soldiers, appearing beside the man just as his axe descended. Her sword slashed upward from below, cutting the tendons behind his knee. The man screamed, dropping to his knees. Second slash—neck opened.
He was finished before his body hit the ground.
Three more soldiers surrounded her. Luise counted quickly—one, two, three. First sword thrust from the front, she blocked with her shield. Second sword swung from the side, she dodged by twisting her body. Third axe came down from above—she leaped back, the axe striking earth.
She struck back. Slash to the right—neck opened. Thrust forward—belly torn. Spin, slash to the left—arm severed at the elbow.
Three corpses at her feet. She didn't stop.
"RETREAT! RETREAT SLOWLY!" she yelled.
The force began moving back, maintaining formation. The remaining Dornenholz archers kept releasing volleys from behind, slowing the enemy.
Luise stayed at the rear, becoming the last line. Every time the enemy got too close, she emerged from the shadows, killed one or two, then vanished again.
Blood spattered her armor and face. She didn't care.
In the distance, she spotted movement. Figures in the forest—thirty? Fifty? Blue uniforms. More enemies trying to encircle from the eastern side.
"KURT!" she shouted. "EAST SIDE!"
Kurt nodded, pulling half the men-at-arms toward that direction. They arrived just as the enemy emerged from the forest—impact, screams, metal clashing against metal.
Luise remained at the rear line. Kept killing. Kept moving. Her body was like a machine—not thinking, just reacting.
A Leandria soldier—young, maybe sixteen—attacked her with a trembling spear. His eyes were wild, frightened. His first battle, probably.
Luise could have killed him in one motion. Her hand was already raised, sword ready to strike.
But she stopped.
The boy stared at her. His lips moved—maybe praying, maybe calling for his mother. His knees shook. He didn't want to die.
"Retreat," Luise hissed.
The boy didn't move.
"RETREAT! LIVE, DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU'RE STILL YOUNG! RETREAT NOW!"
The boy stared at her for one more second. Then he turned and ran, leaving his spear on the ground.
Luise had no time to think about what she'd just done. More soldiers were coming.
Another hour. Two hours.
The force kept retreating, leaving bodies behind—enemy bodies, comrade bodies. Luise lost count of how many she'd killed. Dozens? Maybe.
As the sun began to set, they reached the final hill. At its peak, the remaining Dornenholz archers—Hilda had just returned with Albert—stood guard with bows drawn.
The enemy halted at the hill's base. They saw the archers above, saw the force beginning to reorganize its ranks. They were exhausted, had lost too many.
Retreat horns sounded in the distance.
They turned and left.
Luise stood on the hillside, watching them go. Her body swayed. Her hand—still gripping her sword—trembled. Her chest rose and fell like a pump.
Behind her, Hilda's voice. "Luise! Are you wounded?"
Luise looked down. There was a gash on her arm—she didn't remember when. There was blood on her stomach—maybe enemy blood, maybe her own. She didn't know, too exhausted to think about it.
"I'm fine," she said. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.
She walked to the hilltop, searching for one figure.
Albert lay on the ground near a small campfire, his face pale, thick bandages around his waist and chest. His eyes were open—staring at the darkening sky.
Luise sat beside him.
"You're wounded," Albert said quietly, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
"It's nothing." Luise's voice was flat. "My Lord?"
"My ribs are cracked. Some other minor wounds. Gerit says I'll live."
"Hm."
Silence returned.
Luise looked at the sky. Stars began appearing one by one. In the distance, the sound of a flowing stream—the same sound as when they'd first camped here.
"I almost killed a child today," she said suddenly.
Albert turned, looking at her.
"A Leandria soldier. Maybe sixteen. His first battle." Luise sighed. "I told him to run. And he ran."
Albert didn't answer, just kept looking at her.
"You're kind, Luise."
Luise snorted. "Not kind. Just... didn't want to kill children."
"Same thing."
The day had been exhausting, but they were still alive. That was what mattered most.