The Way of KnightChapter 20 – Aftermath of Iron FangSilence After the Thunder
The swamp that only hours ago had been a boiling crater of battle was now eerily silent. Only the hiss of steaming mud and the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and iron lingered in the air.
Fenrir stood over Klaus' corpse, his sword still dripping warm blood. His own body was battered, cuts and bruises painting his young frame, yet he refused to fall. His legs felt heavy, as if anchored in the mire, but his eyes stared forward with unwavering focus.
Behind him, the Eisenwald militia—boys and girls who months ago had never held a weapon—erupted into victorious cries.
"The commander is dead!"
"We won! We survived!"
Their cheers rang through the swamp, sending birds scattering into the night sky.
Fenrir, however, merely drew in a long breath. Victory? No… this is only the beginning.
At last, Fenrir raised his sword high. The cheering quieted as hundreds of eyes turned to the blood-soaked thirteen-year-old boy who now commanded their respect—and fear.
"Hear me!" His voice cracked but carried authority. "The battle isn't over. Stragglers remain. From this moment, we secure the swamp!"
He pointed, dividing them into groups.
"First group! Gather the bodies of our fallen. They deserve a proper burial." "Second group! Tend to the wounded. Use every potion, every scrap of cloth." "Third group! Hunt down the mercenaries. Those who resist—kill them where they stand."
The militia nodded. The roar of victory shifted into order and discipline. They no longer saw a child—they saw a commander.
Steps echoed through the mire. Bodies were pulled from the mud; some still warm, others cold, their empty eyes staring at the stars. A cry tore through the night as a boy found his younger brother among the dead.
Fenrir's chest tightened at the sight, but his face remained hard.
Meanwhile, mercenaries were dragged in chains before him. Some whimpered for mercy, others cursed.
"Release me, brats! Klaus will kill you all!" one spat. He was silenced by a kick that shattered his jaw.
Fenrir approached, his crimson eyes glowing faintly. To the mercenaries, he looked nothing like a boy, but a predator.
"Those who surrender will be bound and questioned," he said coldly. Then, raising his blood-stained sword, he added, "Those who resist…"
SHRAAK!
His blade flashed, severing a mercenary's head.
The swamp froze in silence. Even his own militia stiffened in shock. For the first time, they witnessed their young commander execute without hesitation.
Fenrir wiped the blood from his cheek. "That is the price of defiance. Remember—we are Eisenwald, not cowards."
The execution changed everything. Fear sharpened into obedience. Eisenwald's militia no longer questioned him; they followed without a word.
The remaining mercenaries dropped to their knees, sobbing, vomiting, trembling. None dared resist now.
"Bind them," Fenrir ordered. "We'll decide later who's worth keeping alive… and who's worth killing."
Later, Fenrir stood among the bodies of Eisenwald's dead. More than thirty youths lay before him, boys who only days ago had been farmers, hunters, and shepherds.
He clenched his sword so tightly his knuckles bled. They died because they trusted me…
But he shed no tears. Instead, he raised his sword and shouted:
"You who fell tonight… your blood will not be in vain. By your sacrifice, Eisenwald still stands!"
A murmur of assent rippled through the militia. Some bowed their heads, others dropped to their knees in silent reverence.
Meanwhile, news of Klaus' death spread like wildfire among the mercenaries scattered across the swamp.
"Klaus is dead…"
"The boy killed him…"
"That's impossible… if it's true…"
Fear gnawed at their ranks. The mercenary army, once emboldened by the Iron Fang's reputation, crumbled without their leader. Some fled into the forest, others simply deserted.
The swamp, once ruled by their shadow, now belonged to Eisenwald.
Fenrir returned to the center of the battlefield, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. A trembling militia boy approached him.
"Baron's son… we won. Klaus is dead. The mercenaries are fleeing…"
Fenrir's eyes, sharp and cold, stared past him. "This isn't victory. This is only the beginning."
His gaze swept over the swamp littered with corpses—friend and foe alike. A new vow burned within him: Eisenwald will not merely survive… we will rise above all who try to bring us down.
That night, the swamp bore witness to the birth of a leader. Fenrir, the thirteen-year-old baron's son, was no longer just an heir. He was a commander, an executioner, and the symbol of Eisenwald's survival.
As whispers of Klaus' death spread beyond the swamp, one truth became clear: the name Eisenwald had been etched in blood onto Luminaria's map of power.
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