Chapter 70 – March of Sixty Thousand
The sky that morning was heavy, blanketed by sluggish gray clouds that drifted across the horizon. It was as if the heavens themselves anticipated the coming clash of armies that would shake the land.
From far in the distance, the dull thrum of war drums began to echo. At first faint, then louder, until the booming rhythm rolled like thunder across the plains before the Marquis's residence.
Fenrir stood tall at the head of his men, armored in light steel, a crimson cloak embroidered with the Eisenwald wolf sigil snapping behind him in the wind. Behind him, 3,500 soldiers of Eisenwald stood in precise formation. Small compared to the ocean of men that gathered on the field, yet each face radiated determination fierce enough to pierce the heavens.
---
When the first trumpet blared, the earth itself trembled.
Over 60,000 soldiers began to march.
The Marquis's core army of 30,000 advanced at the vanguard. Shield walls gleamed like silver rivers, spearpoints thrust into the air like a steel forest. Every step was measured, disciplined—an iron tide rolling forth.
Behind them followed another 30,000 soldiers from the vassals—counts, viscounts, dukes, and barons. Their formations varied wildly. Some moved with military precision, others shuffled loosely, their banners flapping like scattered leaves in a storm.
Amidst the massive tide, a single crimson banner bearing the wolf sigil of Eisenwald swayed. It looked small among giants, yet it did not falter.
The ground shook with every synchronized step. Horses snorted, iron-shod hooves clattering against stone. Birds scattered from the treeline. Even the air quivered with the clash of steel on armor, shouted commands, and the relentless pounding of war drums.
---
Eyes inevitably turned toward Eisenwald's column.
Some sneered openly.
> "Only three and a half thousand. They'll be crushed in the first clash."
Others, however, were quieter, watching with wary curiosity.
> "Look at their formation. No gaps. No wavering lines. For a baron's levy, this is… unusual."
Fenrir heard the whispers but paid them no mind. His gaze was fixed forward, his jaw set. He knew too well: if his small force faltered once, Eisenwald's name would be trampled into the dirt.---
Eisenwald's Divisions
Long before the march, Fenrir had made sure each division knew their roles.
1. Infantry – 1,800 men
Commander: Viktor Redmane
Heavy shields and long spears. The backbone. Form tight phalanxes to hold the line.
2. Archers – 700
Commander: Selene Aestra
Rain down arrows from behind infantry lines, using "V" and "Wedge" firing formations.
3. Cavalry – 450 riders
Commander: Garrik Stormhoof
Fast-moving, designed for flanking and swift charges.
4. Scouts / Assassins – 150 elites
Commander: Lyra Nightshade
Recon, sabotage, infiltration. Operate in shadows ahead of the army.
5. Artillery & Siege – 50 operators, 10 ballistae/catapults
Commander: Roland Ironarm
Long-range fire support, disrupt concentrated enemy clusters.
Fenrir rode along the line on his black warhorse, meeting the eyes of his men. Some faces were tense, others fiercely resolute.
He raised his sword high.
> "Remember this, Eisenwald! You are not a small number in a great tide! You are the Crimson Wolf's fangs. Stand tall, and the world will know your bite!"
The response thundered back, three thousand voices roaring in unison. Even veteran captains of other lords turned their heads. For a moment, Eisenwald's roar cut sharper than the drums of sixty thousand.
---
The army moved east, toward the borderlands of Marquis Reindhart. Villages along the road quaked under their passage.
The roads were reduced to mud by the endless stamp of boots and the grinding weight of supply wagons. Dust clouds rose like smoke from the earth.
Peasants lined the wayside, some cheering, others silent with fear. For them, sixty thousand armed men meant nothing but devastation, no matter the victor.
Fenrir's eyes caught the endless columns of supply carts. Barrels of grain, salted meat, water casks, medicines, spare iron, all dragged by oxen and horses. The quartermasters had calculated: 90 tons of food consumed per day. If the supply line broke, the entire tide would starve.
This is war on a scale beyond baronies, Fenrir thought grimly. And the true battlefield lies not just in blades, but in logistics, morale, and strategy.
---
Discipline and Disorder
As the march stretched for miles, contrasts became stark.
The Marquis's core troops moved like a machine—shield to shield, spear to spear, flawless.
Many viscount and count levies moved noisily, some singing, others shouting, even breaking formation at times.
Eisenwald, though small, was silent and tight. Their steps measured, lines crisp, as if cut from one cloth.
That discipline drew quiet respect. Some officers of the greater lords scribbled notes on their tablets: Eisenwald—small but professional.
---
By evening, the command horns blew. The massive host halted, spreading across the plain. Thousands of tents rose, torches flared, fires kindled. The plain glowed with a sea of orange, like stars fallen to earth.
Fenrir gathered his five commanders in a modest command tent.
Viktor, the grizzled veteran, reported first:
> "Infantry steady. Morale high. No signs of fatigue."
Selene's calm voice followed.
> "Archers have maintained spacing. They're ready to cover any advance."
Garrik, ever bold, grinned wide.
> "The horses snorted all day, eager for blood. Once we find open ground, my riders will carve their names into it."
Lyra's tone was cold and flat.
> "Scouts already ahead. No sign of enemy disruption. But Reindhart may send raiding parties soon."
Roland, massive arms crossed, declared:
> "Ballista crews are restless. Give me a target, and I'll make them regret standing."
Fenrir nodded, his dark eyes sharpening.
> "We are not here to follow the tide blindly. Eisenwald is a wolf pack. We strike when others hesitate. Remember that."
Each commander bowed in acknowledgment.
---
The Quiet Before the Storm
Night descended. The endless army's campfires twinkled like a living galaxy across the plains. Soldiers ate meager porridge, sang low songs, or slept with swords at their sides. Horses snorted and pawed at the ground restlessly.
Fenrir wandered to the camp's edge alone. He looked out across the vast expanse of tents, banners snapping in the cool wind, the shadows of thousands at rest.
This is the empire's true scale, he thought. And within this storm, I am but a speck. Yet even a speck can scar the world, if it burns bright enough.
The thought lingered, heavy but sharp, as he turned back to his men.
---
Status Panel
[Status Panel – Fenrir Eisenwald]
Name: Fenrir Eisenwald
Title: Baron of Eisenwald, The Crimson Wolf
Age: 17
Level: 15
EXP: 21,500 / 26,000
Aura: 145
Stamina: 160
Strength: 115
Cunning: 200
Charisma: 130
Mental Fortitude: 170
Skills:
[Aura Control Lv.3] – Refined aura manipulation in combat.
[Swordsmanship Lv.3] – Adaptive strikes, efficient blade work.
[Leadership Lv.4] – +20% morale to commanded units.
[Tactical Instinct Lv.3] – Rapid adaptation to battlefield shifts.
[Passive – Legacy of Strategies] – Knowledge of ancient stratagems applicable in war.
Traits:
[Wounds That Shape] – Scars of battle permanently increase Mental Fortitude.
[Lord of the Marsh] – In swamps: +25% Cunning, +15% Strength.Active Quests:
1. Expand Eisenwald's Territory (1/2 complete).2. Marquis War – Helbrecht vs. Reindhart (Ongoing).
---
At dawn, drums thundered once more. Sixty thousand men rose like waves. Armor clattered, horses neighed, horns blared.
The march resumed, each step bringing them closer to the border where the clash would erupt.
In the east, a faint mist clung to the horizon, hiding the killing fields beyond.
Fenrir's crimson cloak flared behind him as he raised his sword toward the unseen battlefield.
> "Eisenwald! Time for the Crimson Wolf to bare its fangs to the world!"
The roar of three thousand answered, swallowed by the thunder of sixty thousand feet as they marched into history.
---
#wanD48