Chapter 72 – The First Clash: Trial of Strategy
The sun rose higher, casting long shadows across the vast open plain. Dust stirred under the countless boots and hooves of armies aligning themselves for battle. Steel clattered, banners snapped in the wind, and the ground trembled with anticipation.
From the right flank, Fenrir Eisenwald stood tall at the head of his 3,500 Eisenwald troops. His crimson wolf banner fluttered defiantly, a small flame amidst the ocean of over 60,000 men gathered under Marquis Helbrecht and his allied vassals.
Fenrir's hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. His lava-red aura glimmered faintly, not flaring wildly as in duels, but radiating just enough to steady the men behind him. This was not about spectacle—it was about resolve.
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Eisenwald's Formation
The divisions were set exactly as drilled:
Infantry – 1,800 under Viktor Redmane. Shield wall and spear lines, positioned solidly on the front-right flank.
Archers – 700 under Selene Aestra. Positioned behind the infantry, elevated slightly on low ridges, prepared for V- and wedge-pattern volleys.
Cavalry – 450 riders under Garrik Stormhoof. Waiting in a diagonal wedge behind the infantry, poised to exploit openings.
Scouts/Assassins – 150 elites under Lyra Nightshade. Hidden near the treeline to the far right, tasked with reconnaissance and sabotage.
Artillery – 50 operators with 10 ballistae under Roland Ironarm. Placed carefully behind the infantry, with range calibrated for the first enemy push.
This was a textbook adaptation of the Hammer-and-Anvil principle: infantry to hold, cavalry to strike, and ranged units to disrupt momentum. But Fenrir layered it with stratagems from his former life—"Decoy Push," "Triangle Sweep," and "Rapid Crossfire."
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War drums thundered.
From the opposing side, a mass of enemy infantry surged forward. Spears leveled, shields clashing, their voices roared across the plain. The sheer weight of numbers was crushing—thousands pressing toward the Eisenwald flank.
"Shields up! Hold the line!" Viktor's voice boomed, steady and commanding. Eisenwald's infantry locked shields, their spears bristling outward like a wall of thorns. The collision came like a thunderclap—wood splintering, steel grinding against steel, cries of men locked in deadly embrace.
Fenrir's sharp eyes darted across the melee. The enemy pressed hard on the right, leaving their flank stretched thin. He raised his hand and signaled.
> "Garrik—now!"
The cavalry wedge burst from behind the line. 450 riders thundered forward, hooves pounding like rolling thunder. They smashed into the exposed side of the enemy formation, scattering men like leaves in a storm. Garrik's voice rang clear as his lance skewered through the first row.
"Crush them! Ride like the storm!"
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At the same time, Selene Aestra gave her command.
"Loose!"
Arrows hissed into the sky in perfect formation, descending in a deadly wedge. The rain of shafts struck the densest pockets of enemy infantry, piercing shields, armor, and flesh. Men screamed, stumbling back as chaos rippled through their lines.
Fenrir's lips curled faintly. Good. Their formation is overextended. Now we bite deeper.
He turned to Roland Ironarm. "Ballistae—target their center ranks. Break their push."
Roland grunted, his massive arms pulling levers. Ten ballistae unleashed bolts the size of tree trunks, tearing into enemy ranks with devastating force. Shields shattered, men impaled, and gaps widened in the enemy's charge.
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Meanwhile, Lyra Nightshade and her 150 operatives slithered through the treeline like ghosts. They cut down enemy messengers, sabotaged rope lines on siege carts, and slit the throats of isolated squads. Chaos bloomed in the enemy's rear before they even realized the source.
One enemy captain barked orders, only to collapse with a dagger buried in his throat—Lyra herself watching coldly as his body crumpled.
"Return to the shadows," she whispered, her unit vanishing once more.
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Fenrir did not remain idle. He strode forward into the shield line, his sword raised high. His aura flared—not as an endless blaze, but as a sharp, focused surge that magnified his strike. His blade crashed against an enemy axe, sparks flying. The force rattled his arms, but he twisted with precision, driving the blade into the man's chest.
"Push forward! Don't give ground!" Fenrir roared. His voice carried like steel, amplified by his skill [Leadership Lv.4]. Eisenwald's morale surged; men fought harder, their formation holding even as waves of enemies battered them.
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Observation of the Masters
High above, the four generals of Helbrecht observed.
Magnus Varholt, the Supreme Commander, narrowed his eyes at the Eisenwald flank.
> "That boy… he's not breaking. Impressive."
Reinhart Solberg, his spear gleaming, leaned forward.
> "His cavalry struck clean. Not bad for a baron's levy."
Ulrich Falken stroked his beard.
> "But his infantry won't hold forever against sustained pressure."
Erika Von Sturm's sharp eyes traced the arc of Eisenwald's arrows.
> "Disciplined. Calculated. They fight like veterans."
Helbrecht himself allowed a faint smile. So, Crimson Wolf, you truly have fangs.
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The battle raged for hours. Eisenwald's line bent but did not break. Cavalry charges tore into enemy flanks, archers poured fire, and assassins created havoc behind enemy lines. Yet the sheer scale of enemy numbers pressed them relentlessly.
Fenrir's muscles burned, sweat stung his eyes, but his mind remained sharp. He saw patterns, adapted instantly, plugging gaps, repositioning reserves, signaling Garrik for a second flank sweep, ordering Selene to shift volleys toward the enemy's archers.
Every move bought Eisenwald survival. Every adaptation proved his men could fight beyond their size.
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At midday, horns blared. The enemy pulled back, regrouping to reform lines. Eisenwald's men gasped for breath, battered but still standing.
Fenrir looked over the field—blood, broken weapons, bodies strewn across churned earth. Eisenwald had not only survived the first clash; they had drawn blood.
He raised his sword high.
> "Eisenwald! You stood against the tide! Today, the world saw our fangs!"
A roar erupted from his weary soldiers, echoing across the plains.
But Fenrir's thoughts remained cold and focused. This was only the beginning. Tomorrow, the real trials will come.
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