Chapter 3 – The Baron Father
The evening air carried the scent of woodsmoke and dry grass. Fenrir sat on the worn porch of Eisenwald manor, staring at the golden fields stretching toward the horizon. The sun was sinking behind the hills, painting the sky in hues of fire.
In the distance, his father appeared—Cedric von Eisenwald—walking slowly with a cane in his right hand and a basket of corn in his left. His back remained straight despite the limp that marred his steps.
Fenrir studied him closely. A baron… yet working like a farmer.
In his old world, barons were figures of prestige, surrounded by knights and servants. Yet here, Cedric labored alongside peasants, not out of pride, but necessity. No grandeur, only toil.
When Cedric reached the porch, sweat glistened on his brow. Elena hurried out to meet him, taking the basket from his hands. "Cedric, you shouldn't strain yourself. That leg isn't fully healed."
Cedric chuckled low, his voice rough but warm. "If I don't work, who else will help them? Our farmers are shorthanded this season."
Fenrir's chest tightened. This father… he's nothing like the barons I imagined. But maybe that's why I admire him more.
---
That night, as they ate dinner under the dim glow of an oil lamp, Fenrir finally asked, "Father… you used to be a knight, didn't you?"
The question froze the air. Cedric stared into the flickering flame, his face shadowed with old pain. Elena looked down, her expression clouded.
At last, Cedric exhaled heavily. "Yes. Once, I fought as a knight on the border wars. I served under Luminaria's banner. I killed… many men for the empire."
His voice was bitter, each word weighted with memories too heavy to bear. Fenrir saw then—the limp was not his father's only scar. His soul bore wounds far deeper.
"Then why did you stop?" Fenrir pressed softly.
Cedric's lips curved into a bitter smile. "Because I was useful enough to be spent, but never important enough to be kept. When the war ended, I was broken. My superiors gave me this land—a reward, and a convenient way to discard me."
Fenrir clenched his fists beneath the table. Even here, politics poisons everything.
Cedric's gaze shifted to his son, sharp and piercing, as if he could read Fenrir's very soul. "Fenrir… listen well. The world of nobles is not fair. You will be mocked, belittled, forgotten. But if you wish to survive… you must grow stronger than all of them."
The words struck like a brand. Fenrir bowed his head deeply. "I understand, Father."
---
Days later, Cedric led Fenrir to an old storage shed. Inside lay relics of war: dusty weapons, cracked shields, and rusted armor. The smell of old iron filled the air.
"These are all that remain of my battles," Cedric said, lifting a worn sword. The blade was dull, but its edge still gleamed faintly. He held it out. "I want you to start now. Your body may be frail, but your eyes… I see fire in them."
Fenrir accepted the sword with both hands. Its weight was immense, nearly unbearable. His small arms quivered, his shoulders strained.
Cedric stepped close, adjusting his grip. "Don't fear the weight. Let your body learn first. Remember, a sword isn't only about strength. It's about resolve."
Fenrir drew a long breath. Yes… I'll learn. With this body, with this weakness, I'll carve out strength.
---
That night, when the manor slept, Fenrir swung his wooden practice sword in his room. Each strike made his arms ache, his muscles burn. Yet he refused to stop.
Then, the cold voice echoed once more:
[New Quest: Basic Training]
Swing your sword 100 times each day for 7 days.
Reward: +1 Strength, +2 Endurance.
Fenrir's lips curled into a tired grin, his eyes gleaming. So be it. If this is the path, I'll walk it without hesitation.
Outside, the night wind whispered. Inside, a frail baron's son trained with iron will—
and that small beginning would one day forge the knight who would shake the world.
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