The Way of the Knight
Chapter 37 – The Butcher's Perspective
The swamp reeked of blood.
The mist hung thick, curling like a shroud around broken spears and half-buried corpses. Mud sucked at the boots of every man who dared to move, and the cries of the wounded echoed with a raw, almost inhuman sound.
Baron Klausen von Rottweil—called the Butcher of the North—stood tall amidst the chaos. His chest rose and fell slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, though streaks of blood marred his armor and sweat dripped into his beard. His greatsword, a monstrous blade almost too heavy for most men to lift, dripped mud and gore in equal measure.
A deep blue aura coiled around him, dense and powerful like rolling tides of the sea. It surged and ebbed, a living thing that seemed to weigh on the hearts of everyone nearby.
And opposite him stood a boy.
A boy of only seventeen, blade plain and armor simple, his body lean, not yet filled out. Yet his aura burned a molten crimson, thick and oppressive, like molten lava spilling from a mountain. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, and for the first time in years Klausen felt… anticipation.
The corners of his mouth curled into a grin.
"Interesting… truly interesting."
---
Years ago, Klausen had waded through the northern frontier. Winter storms howled across endless plains, and barbarian tribes came in wave after wave, hungry for plunder.
Klausen had led his men through the blizzards, cutting down foe after foe. Entire valleys had turned red beneath his sword. By the time the snow thawed, the tribes whispered a single name in terror: the Butcher of the North.
He had built his reputation not through honor, but through fear. Through sheer, merciless violence. To Klausen, war was not a game of honor. It was slaughter. It was the strong feeding on the weak.
That was how he had lived his life. That was how he intended to die.
Yet here, in this miserable swamp, a mere boy dared to meet his blade head-on.
---
Klausen's experienced eyes never missed a detail. The boy's movements were not those of a green soldier. They lacked the raw power of seasoned knights, yes—but every step was measured. Every feint calculated.
When Klausen swung down, the boy did not retreat directly back into the mud but instead slipped sideways onto firmer ground, using the terrain with instinctive precision.
Not normal, Klausen thought. No youth fights like this. His feet know the earth too well, his eyes read the battle too deeply. This is the work of someone… older. Someone weathered.
The greatsword crashed again, spraying mud. The boy rolled away, forcing Klausen to step deeper into the mire.
Klausen chuckled, amused rather than angered. "You lured me, didn't you? Clever brat. But mud is no shackle to me!"
Aura surged in his legs, and with a roar, he ripped free from the swamp's grasp, charging once more.
---
The duel stretched on. The boy—Fenrir, he had been called—did not match Klausen in brute strength. Instead, he cut in with sharp thrusts, then darted away, always probing, always bleeding him slowly.
Every nick, every small gash slowed Klausen's swings by the barest margin. But the margins were building.
Attrition, Klausen realized with a narrowing of the eyes. This is no duel. This is war, condensed into one-on-one combat. A death by a thousand cuts.
The strategy was familiar. He had seen generals employ it on campaign, armies wearing down superior foes bit by bit. But how could a swamp-born baron's son possibly understand it, let alone execute it with such precision?
---
Impossible. He should not know these patterns. No boy this young moves with such deliberation. He fights like someone who has commanded men in battle, like someone who has read the ebb and flow of entire wars.
The next clash of blades rattled his bones. Klausen's grin only widened.
"Who are you, boy?!" he demanded between swings.
Fenrir said nothing. His breath was ragged, but his eyes—those burning red eyes—never wavered.
---
It was not only Klausen who saw the difference. The mercenaries behind him grew restless, confused by the way the Eisenwald militia refused to break.
Fenrir's defiance spread like wildfire. Every time he shouted, every time his crimson aura flared, his men straightened their backs. Their spears steadied. Their fear bled away.
Klausen, in the midst of battle, saw it clearer than anyone.
He lifts them… not with coin, not with promises, not with threats. With himself. With presence alone.
---
With a snarl, Klausen leapt high, his blade descending like the judgment of the gods.
"RAAAAAH!"
Fenrir raised his sword with both hands. Crimson lava met tidal blue.
BOOOOOOOM!
The swamp shook. Water exploded outward. Both militias staggered, knocked back by the shockwave. Men screamed as the force hurled them into the mud.
Fenrir's knees buckled. His body trembled under the sheer weight of Klausen's aura. Yet he held. He held, staring up into the butcher's eyes without a flicker of fear.
---
And then, within the young baron's mind, a voice of iron rang.
[Passive Skill Unlocked]
Name: [Eternal Strategy]
Effect: All knowledge of tactics, warfare, and stratagems from the previous life is permanently integrated into instinct.
Bonus: +25% tactical efficiency, +20% logistics and mobilization effectiveness, +15% army cohesion when employing strategy.
For a heartbeat, Fenrir's chest tightened—not with fear, but with exhilaration.
So it's no longer just memory. This… is my weapon now. My advantage. My destiny.
---
The boy's aura shifted. Not in size, but in clarity. His stance tightened, his counters sharper, as though invisible strings connected every move to a larger pattern only he could see.
Klausen snarled, lips curling back over his teeth.
"You little monster. It's not just your aura—it's your mind. A poisonous mind in a child's body."
He pressed harder, his greatsword sweeping in wild arcs, aura blazing like a storm. But Fenrir was no longer retreating blindly. Every dodge brought him closer to favorable ground, every strike dragged Klausen deeper into unfavorable footing.
---
Their swords clashed again and again, each impact like a drumbeat of war. Crimson sparks met azure waves, the battlefield itself trembling with the rhythm of their duel.
Mud splashed, soldiers gaped, and for a moment, every man knew this fight was not merely between two nobles. It was a clash between eras. Between brute force and cunning intellect.
Fenrir's eyes glowed like coals.
"You think this swamp will swallow my men? No, Klausen. It will swallow you."
---
Klausen froze for just a fraction of a heartbeat. Then his booming laughter filled the air, unhinged and delighted.
"Hahahahaha! Yes! That's it! Show me your teeth, boy! Show me whether the swamp devours the butcher, or the butcher devours the cub!"
The mist thickened, the air heavy with clashing aura. The duel surged forward once more, and the swamp itself seemed to hold its breath.
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