Chapter 78 – The Wolf's Strategy
The evening sky burned red with smoke and blood. The clang of steel, the roars of men, and the thunder of hooves all merged into a single chaotic storm. Yet on the right flank of the battlefield, all eyes were drawn to a single duel: Fenrir Eisenwald, the Crimson Wolf, against Count Valgaard von Eisenmark, the Wolf-Hunter.
Fenrir's body was battered and bleeding. His thigh was torn, his shoulder fractured, blood dripping freely onto the earth. He could barely breathe, but his eyes locked onto his enemy, unbroken.
Valgaard too bled—from wrist and ribs—but still stood tall, his dark blue aura raging around him, heavy and oppressive.
"You've lasted longer than I expected," Valgaard said grimly. "But true power belongs to real nobles."
Fenrir's lips curled faintly. If I fight head-on, I'll die. I must turn this into a game of wits…
---
Fenrir let his blade sag slightly, his stance wobbling, as though he were ready to collapse.
Valgaard's eyes gleamed. "At last—you're finished! Die!"
The Count charged, his greatsword arcing to cleave Fenrir in two.
At the final instant, Fenrir darted low, slipping into the inside of the swing. His blade drove into Valgaard's side, piercing through armor.
CRAAASH!
Blood burst from the wound. Valgaard roared, but his free hand slammed the hilt of his sword into Fenrir's face.
The young Baron staggered back, blood streaming down his brow. The world swayed, but his attack had left a deep gash in his enemy's ribs.
---
Around them, Eisenwald's battered force still fought desperately.
Viktor's infantry, once 1,800 strong, now 1,400, their shields cracked but their line intact.
Selene's archers, 450 left, had nearly exhausted their arrows and fought as light infantry.
Garrik's cavalry, just 300 riders, kept slamming into the enemy flank.
Lyra's scouts, fewer than 80, prowled behind enemy lines, striking and vanishing.
A bloodied soldier cried out, "Our Baron faces the Count himself! As long as he stands—we do not fall!"
The words carried, reigniting weary men. Their battle became not for survival alone, but for the wolf bleeding before them.
---
Fenrir recalled the stratagems he had memorized in his past life:
"Feigned weakness lures the enemy in."
"Small cuts kill a giant slowly."
Each time Valgaard swung that massive blade, Fenrir struck at small points—wrist, hip, knee. None fatal, but together they slowed the Count, one heartbeat at a time.
Valgaard snarled, his face twisted with rage. "Little rat! Stop scratching like a coward!"
His aura surged, pressing down like an iron wall. Fenrir's knees nearly buckled, blood spilling from his lips.
His EXP plummeted, his body failing. But his eyes still blazed.
Even if I'm broken… I'll leave this man with scars he'll never forget.
---
Fenrir jammed his sword into the ground to steady himself. Slowly, painfully, he stood again, raising his weapon with a trembling hand.
His crimson aura flickered—not blazing, but smoldering like the last embers of a dying fire.
Valgaard stared, fury mixing with disbelief. "This boy… doesn't even know how to die."
The duel was not finished.
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Status Panel – Fenrir Eisenwald
Name: Fenrir Eisenwald
Title: Baron of Eisenwald, The Crimson Wolf
Age: 17
Level: 15
EXP: 7,200 / 26,000
(plummeted due to severe wounds and Valgaard's aura suppression)
Aura: 150 → 88 ( -62 )
Stamina: 148 → 95 ( -53 )
Strength: 112 → 92 ( -20 )
Cunning: 198 (unchanged)
Charisma: 125 (unchanged)
Mental Fortitude: 172 → 176 ( +4 , bolstered by unyielding resolve)
Condition:
[Bleeding Wound – Thigh] → -10 Stamina per hour if untreated
[Fractured Shoulder] → -20 Strength until healed
[Aura Suppression] → -15 Aura under Valgaard's pressure
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