Chapter 75 – Blitzkrieg Mini: The Lightning Strike
The fourth day of battle dawned beneath a blazing sun. The mist that had cloaked the plains lifted, revealing a battlefield soaked in blood and strewn with broken bodies. The stench of iron, sweat, and rotting flesh hung heavy in the air, while drums and horns once again called men to kill.
Fenrir Eisenwald stood at the forefront of his army, his crimson banner fluttering in the dry wind. Behind him, the men of Eisenwald—reduced now to 3,000 from the original 3,500—tightened their ranks. Five hundred were gone, dead or too gravely wounded to fight. Yet the survivors did not falter. Their faces were hard, their eyes sharp.
Five hundred fallen. But the wolves that remain are hungrier than ever.
Viktor Redmane stepped forward. "Baron, if we continue defending as before, we'll be ground down. They have fresh reserves every day. We don't."
Fenrir nodded, his voice calm and cold. "That's why today, we won't wait. Today, we bite first."
He knelt, drawing quickly in the dirt with his sword.
Viktor's infantry would advance in a tight wedge, breaking the enemy's line with sudden pressure. Selene's archers would employ crossfire, volleys from two angles to disorient and shatter cohesion. Garrik's cavalry would strike fast and shallow, never staying more than a few minutes before pulling back. Lyra's scouts would infiltrate behind, cutting signals and burning supplies to spread confusion. Roland's ballistae would be used only once on open ground. If the fighting grew too close, artillery was useless.
"This is a Blitzkrieg Mini," Fenrir declared. "A lightning strike on a small scale. The goal isn't destruction. It's shock. We hit, we break, and we pull back before they can answer. Then we strike again, somewhere else."
His commanders' eyes gleamed. Garrik laughed. "So we truly become the fangs at the flank?"
Fenrir's lips curled faintly. "Not just fangs. We will be the poison in their blood."
Trumpets wailed.
The enemy surged forward in waves—infantry at the front, cavalry sweeping wide, arrows blotting the sky.
But before they could complete their push, Eisenwald moved.
"They're advancing first?!" disbelief rippled through allied lines behind them.
Fenrir's sword flashed high. "Forward! Don't stop until I say so!"
Viktor's infantry slammed into the enemy front like a wall of steel. Spears thrust deep, shields battered skulls, men screamed and fell.
"Archers, crossfire!" Selene commanded.
Arrows sang from two angles, cutting into the enemy ranks like shears through cloth. Chaos spread, formations broke.
"Garrik—cut through them!"
The cavalry wedge roared forward, slashing through gaps, striking once, twice, then vanishing before the enemy could trap them.
From the enemy's command tent, voices rose in fury.
"They've struck first? With only three thousand?!"
"The Crimson Wolf again! That cub dares defy us?"
The Count commanding the sector clenched his fist. "If he thinks himself a wolf, then I'll break him with my own hand."
But even as he raged, Lyra's shadows moved. Scouts slit the throats of signalers, torched reserve arrows, and cut banners free. Supply wagons caught fire, panicked horses tore through the rear. Confusion rippled like a disease.
Roland's booming voice cut through the din. "Ballistae, fire!"
THRUM—CRACK!
Massive bolts screamed through the air, crushing men and shields in their path. A gap tore open. But Fenrir's hand cut sharply.
"Enough. Pull them back! We can't risk artillery once the melee closes."
Roland grunted, obeying without hesitation.
Fenrir himself strode into the clash, blade singing. He cleaved a spear in half, then drove steel into the chest of the man behind it. His aura flared in short, brutal bursts—enough to cut deeper, strike harder, inspire his wolves.
"Push them! Do not yield until they break!"
The infantry roared. Their fatigue melted into fury, their strikes heavier, their steps relentless.
Within minutes, the enemy flank wavered. Their ranks buckled, men tripping over corpses, retreating in panic. For the first time, the enemy line pulled back, shoved by a force one-twentieth their size.
Fenrir did not press too far. He raised his sword, voice cutting through the chaos.
"Fall back! In order! We are here to shock them, not to die!"
Obediently, Eisenwald pulled back, reforming their lines with discipline.
The cost was heavy—200 more lost, leaving only 2,800 soldiers fit to fight. But the reward was undeniable: the enemy had reeled backward, their morale shaken by a strike they hadn't believed possible.
On Helbrecht's command hill, Magnus Varholt rumbled, "He struck faster than the rest, and it worked. The enemy staggered."
Reinhart Solberg's eyes narrowed. "That wolf pup will draw the enemy's gaze now. They'll mark him as a target."
Erika Von Sturm smirked faintly. "Let them. While they're fixated on the wolf, we'll strike the heart."
Ulrich Falken exhaled, beard bristling. "The boy carries more weight than his years. One day it may break him."
Across the battlefield, the Count leading the enemy's right flank seethed, his pride burned.
"That Crimson Wolf dares humiliate us? Then I'll be the one to crush him."
Fenrir stood in his line, chest heaving, sword dripping with blood. The wind caught his banner, torn but proud, still high over his battered men. His eyes were not those of a boy, nor merely a baron. They were the eyes of a predator, one who had tasted his enemy's blood and wanted more.
Today we did not endure. We attacked. And a wolf that attacks… never returns without blood on its fangs.
#wanD48