The Way of the Knight
Chapter 38 – The Wolf's Strategy
The swamp quaked beneath their clash.
Water erupted skyward, mud spraying like shrapnel, mist thickening until even the sky seemed smothered.
Fenrir gripped his sword with white-knuckled hands. His breath came heavy, blood ran down his side, yet his eyes burned brighter than ever. The voice of the system still echoed in his mind:
[Passive Skill Unlocked]
Name: [Eternal Strategy]
Effect: All knowledge of tactics, stratagems, and warfare from your previous life has been permanently integrated into instinct.
Bonus: +25% tactical effectiveness, +20% logistics and mobilization efficiency, +15% army cohesion when employing strategy.
A faint smile crept across Fenrir's lips. So everything I memorized… every stratagem I studied, every campaign I obsessed over—it's no longer just theory. It's part of me now.
---
He cast his gaze over the mire. Mist cloaked vision, mud sucked at every step, water rose and fell in uneven depths. To most men, it was chaos. To Fenrir, it was a map.
Klausen thrives on brute strength, Fenrir thought. But the swamp is his enemy. Every step pulls him deeper. And every step is one I can exploit.
He turned his head. The Eisenwald militia looked battered—armor cracked, shields dented, faces pale. Fear lingered in their eyes. Yet they still looked at him. They were waiting. Believing.
Fenrir raised his sword high. Crimson aura flared, slicing through the fog like molten fire.
"Eisenwald! Hear me! This swamp is not our grave—it is our weapon! Follow my blade, and let the swamp devour our enemy!"
At first, their answer was hesitant, voices quivering. Then louder, fiercer. "Eisenwald! Eisenwald!"
---
Klausen charged, his greatsword carving a path, spraying mud and water as if the swamp itself parted before him. His aura roared like an ocean storm.
"Young whelp! Stop hiding behind lofty words!"
Fenrir met him, blade raised, sparks flying from each clash. His body trembled with the weight of Klausen's power, but his mind was alight with clarity.
Guerrilla warfare: strike, withdraw, strike again. Attrition: wound slowly, grind him down. Psychology: let his men lose themselves in the fog.
He barked orders between breaths.
"Spear line—shift left! Archers—loose when they're knee-deep! Do not meet them head-on—bleed them, choke them, break them!"
---
The militia, once clumsy and scattered, moved as one. Spears thrust where mud bound mercenaries' legs. Arrows whistled from the mist, thudding into exposed shoulders.
The mercenaries faltered. They had fought open battles for coin, but never in terrain like this. The swamp betrayed them at every step.
Klausen snarled. "Vermin! You think tricks and fog can stop the Butcher?!"
He cleaved the mist apart with a swing of his aura-laden blade, tearing through the line, scattering soldiers like straw. But Fenrir was already moving.
---
Their swords crashed, red fire against blue tide. It was no longer just a duel. The morale of both armies hung upon every blow.
When Fenrir stood firm, Eisenwald roared.
When Klausen pressed him back, the mercenaries cheered.
Fenrir knew: this was not simply strength versus strength. It was a war of wills, of symbols. And in war, symbols were as sharp as blades.
He sidestepped, eyes cold. Blitzkrieg—focus everything on a weak point, then vanish before retaliation.
His sword darted, nicking Klausen's thigh before he rolled back behind the spear wall. A shallow wound, but blood spilled. And when the mercenaries saw their leader bleed, unease rippled through their ranks.
---
The Butcher's roar shook the swamp. Blue aura exploded outward, forcing soldiers stumbling back.
"ENOUGH GAMES, BOY!"
He waded deeper, carving men apart, his sword a whirlwind of slaughter. Yet every step sank him deeper into muck, every swing cost more breath.
Fenrir's voice rang clear.
"Don't panic! Hold your line! Let the swamp take him—inch by inch!"
The militia obeyed. They gave ground deliberately, always dragging Klausen further, always cutting off his retreat. His power remained overwhelming, but the swamp now fought for Fenrir.
Fenrir's eyes narrowed. Now.
---
He lunged, crimson aura blazing like molten rivers. Klausen met him head-on, greatsword sweeping with the weight of a storm.
BOOOOOOM!
The impact cracked the earth beneath. Water geysered into the air. Red and blue flared, twisting around each other in a violent spiral.
Fenrir staggered, blood dripping from his mouth. But Klausen, too, reeled—his wound deepened, his breath ragged.
Every soldier froze.
---
Fenrir straightened, body trembling, and raised his blade high.
"Eisenwald! Look—he bleeds! He falters! The Butcher can fall! Together, we break him!"
His voice ignited their courage. Militia roared, surging forward. Arrows darkened the fog, spears drove mercenaries back step by step.
Klausen's mercenaries shouted in panic, their leader no longer an invincible titan.
Klausen's teeth ground together. His glare fixed on Fenrir, hate and respect mingling.
"You… you're no mere boy. You're a wolf."
Fenrir's crimson aura surged higher, boiling the swamp's mist.
"I am no longer the son of a poor baron. I am Fenrir Eisenwald—and this swamp shall be your grave!"
---
The swamp erupted into chaos. Soldiers screamed, steel clashed, arrows hissed through mist.
At the heart of it, two auras burned brightest—molten red and storming blue—colliding again and again as the armies crashed together.
The battle was no longer just survival. It was legacy. And the swamp would decide who walked away.
---
#wanD48