8 – First Battle at the Border
The night air was cold, sharp as a blade, biting through the thin tunics of Eisenwald's peasants who now stood with tense faces. Torches flickered in the wind, their flames dancing wildly, casting shadows that stretched across the trees like watching phantoms.
At the front stood Fenrir. His body was small, but his eyes gleamed with the sharpness of a wolf about to pounce. In his hands, he clutched not steel but a simple wooden training sword. Yet, to him, it was far more than wood—it was a symbol of his resolve, of the vow he had given his mother.
In the distance came the sound of laughter, crude and ugly. Torches burned brighter as figures emerged from the woods. Bandits—at least twenty of them. Their bodies were thick with muscle, faces marked with scars, and their clothes were ragged. Their weapons were rusted but sharp enough to spill blood.
Fenrir raised his hand, signaling the villagers behind him to stay silent. They trembled, some nearly in tears, but his unwavering gaze held them in place.
Steady. This is not about reckless courage. It is about cunning.
🌑 The Clash Begins
The first bandit at the front stepped onto what looked like ordinary ground. In the next moment, the earth gave way beneath him. His scream tore through the night as he fell into a pit lined with sharpened stakes.
"Trap! Watch your step!" another bandit roared.
But before they could regroup, a short whistle pierced the air.
A boulder, loosened from its brace on the slope, thundered down the hillside. It smashed into two bandits, crushing them beneath its weight. Panic rippled through their ranks.
"Kill them all! Before they scatter!" bellowed the bandit leader, a tall brute with a long scar across his face.
Fenrir retreated, deliberately drawing them deeper into the narrow path where more traps awaited. Geralt and Branik, with three other youths, crouched in ambush behind the undergrowth, holding their breaths.
As the bandits funneled into the choke point, ropes were pulled. Crude nets filled with stones dropped from above, slamming into their backs. Screams and curses rang out.
"Now!" Fenrir shouted.
The village youths charged from both sides, armed with wooden spears and farming tools. They did not fight head-on. Instead, they stabbed quickly and retreated, just as Fenrir had drilled them. Their movements were clumsy, but the coordination was enough to confuse the bandits further.
⚔️ Into the Fray
Fenrir himself rushed at a lone bandit. The man swung a massive cleaver downward, the blade whistling toward the boy's head. Fenrir's heart pounded like a war drum, but he gritted his teeth and dodged at the last second.
Remember. Never meet strength with strength. Exploit the gaps.
He pivoted, slamming his foot into the man's knee. The bandit stumbled, and Fenrir struck his temple with the wooden sword. A sickening crack followed. The man collapsed, unconscious—or worse.
Fenrir's hands shook. It was the first time he had truly struck another human down. But there was no room for hesitation. Screams and the clash of weapons jolted him back into the chaos.
Geralt fought like a living wall, his massive frame shielding the others. His staff cracked bones and broke arms, each blow a testament to brute strength. Branik, who had doubted at first, now fought with grim fury. With an old sickle, he slashed deep across a bandit's arm, drawing a howl of pain.
But the bandits were seasoned killers. Their blades carved through makeshift defenses, and arrows whistled in the dark. One villager fell with a cry, pierced through the chest.
Fenrir's stomach twisted. No! I can't lose them here!
He dashed forward, his voice cutting through the din. "Hold the line! Don't break formation!"
A faint shimmer rippled over his body. Not magic—aura. Thin and fragile, but real. It made his steps quicker, his swings heavier.
His wooden blade crashed against a rusted helmet, knocking the bandit flat. The youths stared wide-eyed. "He's using aura…?" they whispered.
Fenrir didn't slow. His eyes locked onto the bandit leader. The scarred man snarled back, sensing a challenge.
🔥 The Climax
The leader advanced, brandishing his greatsword. "You think a brat like you can stand against me?"
Steel met wood with a brutal clang. Logic dictated that Fenrir's weapon should shatter instantly—but the faint aura reinforcing his body allowed him to withstand the blow, though the impact hurled him backward.
Blood dripped from his lip, but he forced himself upright. His voice rang out, hoarse yet resolute. "I am not just a child… I am Fenrir of Eisenwald! And this is our home!"
The villagers roared in response, their fear transforming into fire. They surged forward, driving the bandits back with renewed fury.
Fenrir steadied his breath, watching for an opening. The leader raised his sword for a killing strike. At that moment, Fenrir darted aside, his small body moving faster than expected. His wooden blade smashed into the man's wrist.
The greatsword clattered to the ground. The scarred leader dropped to his knees, gasping in pain. His hate-filled eyes glared up at the boy.
Fenrir hesitated for a heartbeat. Should I finish him? The weight of the decision pressed on him. But then his mother's face flashed in his mind—her tears, her trembling embrace.
If I falter, everyone dies.
With a cry, Fenrir swung down. The wooden sword cracked against the man's skull. The leader collapsed, motionless.
And then there was silence.
Only the ragged breaths of survivors, the moans of the wounded, and the crackle of torches filled the air.
🌅 Aftermath
By dawn, Eisenwald still stood. The bandits were scattered, their dead left behind. The villagers bore wounds, and one life had been lost, but they had won.
Fenrir stood in the middle of the battlefield, covered in mud and blood. His wooden sword was broken in half, yet he gripped it tightly.
Cedric arrived too late, bringing reinforcements. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. "Fenrir… you led them?"
Fenrir turned, his small face smeared with dirt but his eyes blazing. "Father, I made a promise to Mother. I will protect this home. No matter what."
Elena rushed forward, tears streaming, and wrapped him in her arms. "My son… oh, my dear son…"
But Fenrir's gaze drifted beyond the forest, where shadows lingered. This battle had been won, but it was only the beginning. Bandits were nothing compared to the greedy nobles, the wars between kingdoms, the struggles of empires.
Today I defended Eisenwald against a shadow. Tomorrow… I will face storms far greater.
The System's voice chimed in his mind.
[Quest Completed: Shadows of the North]
Reward: +3 Strength, Skill [Tactical Planning Lv.1].
Fenrir clenched the broken sword fragments in his hand. A thin smile spread across his lips.
The little wolf of Eisenwald… has bared his fangs.
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