Shield and Fang: The Second Isekai of Naofumi Iwatani
The stone under Naofumi's boots felt dry and sun-warmed, but the air was heavy—thick with noise, heat, and contempt. Nobles lined the courtyard in tailored silks, sipping wine, sneering behind jeweled fingers. Knights loitered near the ring with their helms off, expressions lazily curious. The crowd wanted a show, and they thought they knew how it would end.
He didn't look at them. Didn't need to.
Across the courtyard, Motoyasu stood in gleaming armor, spear balanced over one shoulder like a walking statue. Polished, poised, useless. Myne—no, Bitch—hovered at his side, whispering something with a conspirator's smile. Her voice didn't carry, but it didn't need to. Naofumi had heard enough lies in two lifetimes to recognize one by the curve of a mouth.
He exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze to the shield strapped to his arm. Not the default trash this world had gifted him, but the one he'd earned in another. Targe of the Blooded. The edges were worn, its face dented and dark with memory. The blood it remembered wasn't from goblins or slimes—it was bandits with daggers in the Reach, Thalmor patrols outside Markarth, a Falmer warlord beneath Blackreach. It hummed under his skin like an old wolf called to battle once again.
He muttered the words under his breath, feeling mana stir in his spine. "Ebony flesh, dragon's will, bend the blade and shatter the point…"
A faint shimmer laced his skin for a breath before vanishing. The magic sank deep into muscle and marrow. Dragonhide—eighty percent damage resistance. Not flashy. Not visible. Just there. Just real. He doubted anyone here would even recognize it. No one in this kingdom knew what real war looked like.
The king stood on his balcony like a dried-out corpse with a crown. "This duel shall determine the truth of honor and justice. The Spear Hero shall prove his valor. Begin!"
Trumpets sounded. The crowd roared.
Motoyasu smiled and spun his spear dramatically, kicking up dust. "Still time to back down, Shield guy. No hard feelings."
Naofumi didn't reply. He stepped forward, one boot at a time, dragging the shield slightly through the dirt. Let him think he was tired. Let him believe whatever made him slower.
Motoyasu lunged.
The first strike was pure flair—twisting overhead arc, perfect for parades. Naofumi didn't flinch. The spear clanged off the Targe, barely nudging him. He pivoted slightly, adjusting for the force, then stepped in and slammed the shield forward.
It connected with Motoyasu's chest in a brutal thud.
Not a glancing blow. A power bash. Naofumi felt the edge bite into armor, followed by the subtle squelch as the Targe's rusted spikes did their work. Blood. Not much—but enough. The bleed had begun. Three points per second. Five seconds. And he wasn't done.
Motoyasu reeled, confused. "What the hell—?"
Naofumi shifted right, boots scraping stone. He circled like a wolf testing a wounded elk. Calm. Calculating. The crowd was still cheering, but a few faces furrowed in confusion.
The Spear Hero came again, this time faster. A thrust. A slash. Another.
Naofumi let him hit. The strikes connected, glanced off his side, shoulder, shield. But Dragonhide held—blades skated off his flesh like wind on glass. He waited for the exact moment—then lunged and bashed again, catching Motoyasu just above the hip.
Another bleed.
Motoyasu stumbled back, gasping. His armor was shining less now. Dark streaks soaked his tunic.
"This isn't how it's supposed to go," he muttered.
Naofumi let the silence do the talking.
Motoyasu gritted his teeth and activated a skill—something flashy, a wide-arc strike with glowing spearpoints. The crowd cheered again. He closed the gap in a blink.
Naofumi braced—and held.
The spear collided with his shield, hard. He dug in, legs bent. Let the blow ride over him. Then he spun under the shaft, locked it with his arm, and rammed the shield into Motoyasu's collarbone. He felt the crack through his arm.
The Spear Hero cried out, staggered, dropped to one knee.
Naofumi didn't give him space.
Shield charge. Boot to the gut. Another bash to the side of the head. Controlled. Efficient. Years of training in Skyrim taught him not to waste movement. Shields were not for defense. They were for domination.
Blood ran freely now from Motoyasu's nose and ear. He looked up, dazed. "You… you're cheating…!
Naofumi said nothing.
Behind the lines, Myne moved. He saw it—her hand raising subtly, spell forming. He didn't need to guess what it was.
He finished it before she could.
Naofumi grabbed the front of Motoyasu's cuirass, pulled him forward, and slammed the shield directly into his jaw. The crowd gasped as Motoyasu crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The courtyard fell silent.
Dust settled.
Naofumi stepped back. His breathing was steady. His shield was wet.
Raphtalia broke through the stunned crowd, rushing toward him, wide-eyed. "Naofumi-sama…"
Myne screamed something. The king was shouting. Someone was calling for guards.
Naofumi didn't listen.
He lowered the shield to his side, turned toward the jeering crowd that had fallen silent, and looked them each in the eye—not angry, not proud, just done. These people hadn't forged him. Skyrim had. Winterhold had. The Companions had. The blood of wolves and warriors ran thicker than their petty crowns.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't explain. Just walked past them, boots scraping stone, shield still dripping.
Let them talk about had happen this day.
He'd already survived a harder world.