Kael didn't rest after the Duskwolf.
He couldn't.
Every moment wasted was a moment the world moved toward the same hell it had once become.
By noon, he was in the village square, walking through crowds with purpose. Farmers sold vegetables. Kids played in the mud. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
This is what they'll destroy. Not this time.
A loud clang rang out. Kael turned.
In the center of the square, a boy stood holding a training sword, facing off against a taller, armored teen surrounded by his lackeys.
Jorin. A noble's son. Bully then. Coward now. Would go on to become a corrupt knight in the capital.
Kael narrowed his eyes. He knew this exact event. It ended badly for the younger boy.
Not this time.
Jorin shoved the boy down. "Get up, peasant. Didn't your mother teach you how to hold a sword?"
Laughter echoed.
The boy tried, trembling. His sword wobbled in his grip.
I could ignore this. Focus on training. But then I'd be no different than I was before…
Kael stepped forward.
"Pick someone your own size," he said calmly.
Jorin turned, sneering. "Kael? Still pretending you're a swordsman? Go back to chopping wood."
Kael didn't reply.
He grabbed a nearby wooden sword from the display rack and stepped into the dirt circle.
[System Notification]
Emotion Detected: Anger (Controlled)
Surge Blade ready.
Combat Skill Bonus: +5%
Jorin charged first — overconfident.
Kael sidestepped the sloppy swing and struck his ribs with the flat side of the sword — hard.
CRACK.
The crowd gasped.
Jorin staggered, wheezing. "Y-You—!"
Kael didn't wait.
He advanced with calculated aggression, delivering three quick strikes — wrist, shoulder, thigh. Clean. Sharp. Unrelenting.
Jorin fell on one knee, blood at the corner of his mouth.
[Sync Rising… 15%]
Trait Unlocked: Focused Instinct Lv.1 — Boost reaction speed under pressure
Kael's eyes sharpened.
The final strike came fast — a downward slash aimed straight at Jorin's face.
He stopped just short.
The wooden sword hovered inches from Jorin's cheek.
"I could've ended you," Kael said quietly. "Remember that."
Jorin collapsed, humiliated.
The crowd was silent.
Then — someone clapped.
An older man in dark leather armor, leaning on a cane, stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. His eyes didn't leave Kael.
"Well now," the man said with a grin. "That was no village spar. Who taught you to move like that?"
Kael recognized him instantly. Garen Rhys — a wandering mercenary. In Kael's old life, this man would become captain of one of the five elite guilds in the North.
He's here earlier than before…
"Self-taught," Kael said carefully.
Garen smirked. "Liar. But I like it."
He tossed something — a small black coin with a wolf's insignia.
"Come to Frosthold in a month. That's a guild token. Not many get one."
Kael caught it.
This time, he wouldn't join the military.
This time, he'd carve his own path.
Next Chapter: "Frosthold"