Chapter 73 – Day Two: The Crimson Wolf's Maneuver
The second day of battle dawned blood-red. The sun rose quickly, bathing the plains in harsh light, as if the heavens themselves demanded to witness the slaughter to come. The air stank of iron and decay. Carrion birds circled above, their cries mixing with the deep, resonant pounding of war drums.
Sleep had been brief, no more than a few hours stolen between screams and the clash of steel. Yet every soldier stood once again, armor strapped tight, weapons gripped, eyes staring forward into the killing ground.
Fenrir Eisenwald, Baron of a small marshland turned rising force, stood upon a low rise on the right flank. His banner—the Crimson Wolf—snapped in the wind. He looked not to his own men at first, but across the sea of soldiers, scanning, analyzing, remembering every detail of yesterday's clash.
The enemy had not broken. Neither had they. And that meant today would be bloodier.
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Messengers from Marquis Helbrecht's command rode hard to Fenrir's position. Their voices rang out, desperate but disciplined.
"The left wing is under heavy pressure! General Ulrich Falken's infantry is being pushed back! If the line collapses, the entire formation will fold!"
Fenrir's brows furrowed. The enemy was smart. They were massing their strength against the left to break through and roll the army from the side. If that happened, even Helbrecht's 60,000 men would crumble.
If the left wing falls, the right will be next… and Eisenwald will be swallowed whole.
Fenrir turned sharply, calling his commanders forward.
Viktor Redmane, commander of the infantry.
Selene Aestra, commander of the archers.
Garrik Stormhoof, commander of the cavalry.
Lyra Nightshade, commander of scouts and assassins.
Roland Ironarm, commander of artillery.
Their armor still bore the scars of yesterday's battle, but their eyes were steady, waiting for orders.
Fenrir spoke with clipped precision.
"The left is breaking. If it falls, we all die. We—Eisenwald—will strike there."
Viktor's jaw tightened. "With only 3,500 men?"
Fenrir's lips curled into a thin smile. "Not men. Wolves. And wolves fight with brains, not just teeth."
---
He drew quickly in the dirt with his sword, sketching shapes and arrows.
Viktor's infantry would advance first, forming a wall to absorb the initial clash.
Selene's archers would rain volleys into the densest formations, breaking their rhythm.
Garrik's cavalry would hide behind the infantry, bursting forward the moment the enemy wavered.
Lyra's scouts would infiltrate, targeting commanders, signalmen, and supply caches.
Roland's ballistae would anchor the maneuver, striking with thunder where the enemy pressed hardest.
"This isn't about annihilating them," Fenrir said, his tone sharp. "Our job is to stab deep enough to draw blood, to stall, to save the flank. Once Ulrich regroups, the pressure will ease."
His commanders nodded. Orders rippled down the ranks. Men checked shields, spears, bowstrings. Horses stamped impatiently. The Crimson Wolf's army was ready.
---
Trumpets blared.
The ground shook as tens of thousands surged forward once more. On the left wing, Ulrich Falken's infantry groaned under the weight of enemy numbers, shields splintering, men falling by the dozens.
Then Eisenwald moved.
"Advance!" Fenrir's voice cut like steel.
Viktor's infantry marched in lockstep, shields interlocked, spears bristling outward. They angled sharply toward the exposed side of the enemy pressing Ulrich's men.
"Loose!" Selene cried.
Arrows hissed through the sky in perfect V-formation. They struck the densest ranks, piercing shields and armor, dropping men where they stood. Confusion rippled through the enemy line.
Garrik's cavalry crouched low, hidden in the shadow of the shield wall. Then Fenrir's hand slashed downward.
"Now!"
The wedge burst forth. Four hundred and fifty riders thundered into the gap. The wedge slammed into the enemy's exposed flank, spears and sabers tearing flesh and scattering men like chaff in a storm.
The enemy screamed, trying to pivot—but too late.
---
Enemy captains shouted frantically.
"Who are they? Where did they come from?!"
Even as they struggled, Lyra Nightshade was already at work. Her assassins cut down messengers, torched arrow stockpiles, and slit the throats of signalers. Smoke rose from sabotaged supplies. Commands faltered. Chaos spread.
Roland's deep voice roared over the din. "Fire!"
THRUM—THUD!
Ballistae bolts the size of tree trunks slammed into clustered ranks, impaling multiple men at once, ripping holes in the formation.
Fenrir seized the moment.
"Forward! Don't let them recover!"
---
Fenrir strode into the melee himself. His blade cleaved through a spear, then through the man holding it. His aura flared—not wastefully, but in sharp bursts that magnified his strikes. His soldiers, seeing him drenched in blood yet unyielding, roared with renewed ferocity.
"Stand! Eisenwald does not yield!"
Men who should have broken instead pressed forward. The Crimson Wolf's voice carried like a war drum, binding his small force together with sheer will.
---
From the command hill, Helbrecht's generals observed with sharpened eyes.
Ulrich Falken, who had nearly been overwhelmed, stared in disbelief.
"That boy… he's turned the flank with just 3,500 men?"
Magnus Varholt, arms folded, nodded slowly.
"Not reckless courage. Calculated strikes. He sees the board clearly."
Reinhart Solberg smirked. "His cavalry hit like trained veterans. That's no peasant levy."
Erika Von Sturm's golden hair gleamed in the sunlight as she tracked the arrows.
"Volley in V-pattern… rare even among trained legions. This baron is no ordinary child."
Marquis Helbrecht's lips curved in satisfaction. So… the Crimson Wolf bares his fangs.
---
Hours passed in brutal struggle. Eisenwald fought like a knife jammed into the enemy's ribs—too small to crush them, but too sharp to ignore. Every move Fenrir called mattered: repositioning Viktor's wall, signaling Selene to switch targets, ordering Garrik to pull back before overextension, dispatching Lyra to kill officers.
By noon, the enemy's push had faltered. Ulrich's battered infantry had recovered, counterattacking with renewed strength. Eisenwald had bought them the time they needed.
Fenrir raised his sword, his armor caked in mud and blood.
"Pull back, reform!"
His men obeyed with discipline, retreating in order rather than chaos. They had done their part. The flank was safe.
---
When the horn sounded the temporary halt, cheers rippled through Helbrecht's lines. Soldiers pointed toward the right flank.
"It was the Crimson Wolf's men. They saved us!"
Eisenwald's banner snapped proudly in the wind.
Fenrir, however, only wiped the blood from his blade, his face grim. This is only the second day. Tomorrow, the trials will be even worse.
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Status Panel
🔻 [Status Panel – Fenrir Eisenwald] 🔻
Name: Fenrir Eisenwald
Title: Baron of Eisenwald, The Crimson Wolf
Age: 17
Level: 15
EXP: 20,100 / 26,000
Aura: 145
Stamina: 150
Strength: 110
Cunning: 195
Charisma: 123
Mental Fortitude: 165
Skills:
[Aura Control Lv.3] – Refined aura manipulation
[Swordsmanship Lv.3] – Adaptive strikes
[Leadership Lv.4] – +20% morale boost
[Tactical Instinct Lv.3] – Battlefield adaptation
[Passive – Legacy of Strategies] – Access to ancient stratagems
Traits:
[Wounds That Shape] – War trauma increases Mental Fortitude permanently
[Lord of the Marsh] – Advantage in swamp terrain
Active Quests:
1. Expand Eisenwald's Territory – Conquer or integrate two neighboring baronies (Progress: 1/2)
2. Prove the Crimson Wolf – Survive and gain recognition in the Internal War (Ongoing)
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