Chapter 77 – The Wolf's Blood
The clash of steel and the screams of men still echoed across the battlefield. Yet tens of thousands of eyes now turned to a single point—the duel between Baron Fenrir Eisenwald, the Crimson Wolf, and Count Valgaard von Eisenmark, the Wolf-Hunter.
---
"RAAAH!" Valgaard roared, his greatsword sweeping in a deadly arc like a giant's hammer.
Fenrir leapt aside, but the tip still slashed his thigh. Blood spurted. Pain flared, sharp and searing. He nearly collapsed but steadied himself with his sword.
Valgaard sneered. "Look at you now! Your first wound. You're no wolf—just a child gnashing milk teeth."
Fenrir clenched his jaw, blood dripping from his lip. "A wounded wolf… is the deadliest of all."
He lunged forward with a cry, blade thrusting at Valgaard's neck.
CLAAAANG! The greatsword blocked it, crimson and blue aura bursting, the shockwave flinging nearby soldiers to the ground.
---
Around them, Eisenwald's soldiers fought desperately.
Viktor's infantry, once 1,800 strong, now 1,600, their shields dented and bodies bloodied, but still holding.
Selene's archers, 500 left, loosed their final volleys before drawing swords to fight as light infantry.
Garrik's cavalry, 350 riders, crashed into enemy flanks, buying moments of reprieve.
Lyra's scouts, fewer than 100, struck from shadows, sowing confusion but paying dearly in blood.
A soldier cried out while parrying a spear thrust, "Our Baron is fighting the Count himself! We cannot falter now!"
The cry rippled like fire, driving Eisenwald's weary men to fight with newfound ferocity. They knew the outcome of the duel would shape the battle itself.
---
Valgaard pressed harder, his dark blue aura surging, the weight crushing. Even seasoned warriors staggered simply standing near.
Fenrir nearly buckled, blood dripping from his thigh. His knees trembled under the force.
He's stronger. His aura is steadier…
Yet in his mind, Elena's voice echoed: You swore to protect this land. You swore to be Eisenwald's fangs.
Fenrir's crimson aura flared brighter, hotter, like molten magma spilling from cracks.
"I WILL NOT YIELD!"
Their auras collided—red lava against dark blue storm. The earth split beneath their feet, shockwaves hurling men aside.
---
Fenrir feigned a stumble, then darted low at the last second, slashing Valgaard's wrist. Blood sprayed.
The Count roared, but instead of weakening, he grew more savage. "Good! You made me bleed… Now it's your turn!"
The greatsword swept horizontally. Fenrir couldn't dodge fully. The blade smashed into his shoulder—armor shattered, bone cracked, blood sprayed. He was flung across the ground, rolling through mud and gore.
"BARON!" his men screamed.
Fenrir rose slowly, body mangled and dripping blood. His shoulder hung useless, breath ragged. Yet his eyes still burned—not despair, but rage.
If I fall here, Eisenwald falls with me. No. I must stand. I must win.
---
Fenrir lifted his sword again, hand trembling, aura flaring crimson-bright. His body was battered, but his spirit unbroken.
Valgaard bled from his leg, his grip firm on his greatsword, eyes alight with savage hunger.
The duel was far from over.
Across the battlefield, soldiers paused in awe. For a moment, the fate of tens of thousands hinged not on armies, but on two men locked in mortal combat.
---
---
#wanD48