Chapter 108 – Day One: The Clash of Infantry
The morning air was heavy with the taste of iron. A pale mist clung to the open plain as sunlight crept over the horizon, casting a golden sheen across the forest of spears and shields. The earth trembled under the collective step of thousands. From the east, banners of the three allied barons—Hohenberg, Falkenhain, Drachenfels—stretched like a wall of cloth, snapping in the wind. From the west, the black-and-red wolf banner of Eisenwald answered, its jaws bared at the horizon.
Fenrir sat astride his black horse on a small ridge, sharp eyes measuring the lines ahead. He did not count numbers; he measured rhythm. He saw what he had hoped for: the enemy's infantry advanced like a swollen tide, but their line was uneven, their coordination brittle. Discipline is weak, he thought. Here lies our advantage.
"Darius," he called without turning.
The grizzled commander, scarred across the brow and shoulders like a map of old wars, bowed slightly. "My lord?"
"Rotation. Twenty breaths for the first line, then switch. Keep the wall alive, never stagnant. When they slam forward, open their ribs."
Darius grinned like a man given his favorite weapon. "A wall that breathes. Aye." He clanged his axe against his shield as he descended to the lines.
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Trumpets blared from the enemy ranks. The earth quaked under ten thousand boots. Roars rose like a storm as Hohenberg's men crashed into Eisenwald's wall.
"FRONT RANK! LOCK SHIELDS! SPEARS FORWARD!" Darius bellowed.
The first rank braced, their tower shields interlocked, their spears thrusting forward like a bristling hedge. The impact was thunderous—wood against iron, spear against ribcage, flesh against shield rim.
"ROTATE!"
The front line pulled back in unison, the second rank stepping forward, fresh arms replacing exhausted ones. The wall did not falter. The hedge of spears stabbed anew.
The enemy blinked in shock. Most infantry lines would falter after the first crush. Eisenwald's wall breathed instead—living, unbroken.
Fenrir's lips curled faintly. This is what I learned from history: rotation preserves stamina, while the undisciplined waste theirs.
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"Darius," Fenrir murmured. "Time to show them the claw."
The commander raised his axe high. "WOLF'S CLAW—FORM UP!"
The wall of shields opened small gaps, two men wide, spaced every few paces. The enemy surged forward eagerly into these "weaknesses."
But the claw snapped shut. Spears jabbed from the flanks of the gaps, short blades stabbed low, and hook spears yanked enemy shields aside. Soldiers who thought they had found an opening collapsed in screams, blood pooling at their feet.
"Don't chase!" Darius thundered as his men shivered with eagerness. "We are wolves, not dogs! Bite—release—bite again!"
The men laughed grimly, discipline holding. The claw raked the tide.
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On Eisenwald's left, Drachenfels' infantry advanced with heavy axes, their intent clear—smash shields apart. Cracks rang out as wood splintered.
"Left wing thinning!" a sergeant cried.
Before the message reached, Fenrir was already moving. He rode down with three guards, sword bare. He did not unleash his aura yet—no need to waste it. He wanted presence, not fireworks.
"Anchor left!" he commanded, voice sharp. "Hammer and anvil. Lock their weapons, push them sideways. Don't meet force with force."
Darius relayed, his axe sweeping in command. The left flank pivoted like a hinge, letting the enemy's axes fall wide. Hooks dragged the heavy blades aside, and short spears thrust into exposed ribs and armpits. The momentum of Drachenfels' men betrayed them.
A captain broke through, axe raised high. Fenrir stepped forward, sword flashing. With a single cut, he sheared the wooden haft behind the blade, the axe head clattering to the dirt. His sword hovered a finger from the man's throat.
"Leave now, or die," Fenrir said coldly. The man stumbled back, fear spreading through his unit. Fenrir lowered his blade. "Rotation," he ordered.
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Time blurred. Fifteen breaths, rotate. Twenty breaths, rotate. Eisenwald's line moved like clockwork, while the enemy tired.
Myra, a corporal with braided hair, sealed a sudden breach by ramming her shield into a man's knee, stabbing a dagger into another's ribs, then bracing as two fresh shields locked beside her. The wall lived again.
Fenrir's eyes narrowed in approval. It is not my blade alone—it is these men and women who make tactics flesh.
The enemy pushed again and again, but each surge met the same breathing wall, the same snapping claws. Their rhythm frayed; Eisenwald's steadied.
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Trumpets from the enemy lines gave a short call—not retreat, but a pause to catch breath. The battlefield exhaled like a giant chest.
Darius wiped sweat from his eyes and glanced up at the ridge. Fenrir raised a hand, five fingers then a fist—hold position, don't waste lives chasing scraps.
"We stay wolves," Darius barked. "No heroes today! We live to bite again!"
Laughter rippled along the line, grim and sharp.
Fenrir scanned the field. The barons had not broken, but their momentum had. Falkenhain's troops still held their cavalry in check, waiting. Hohenberg fumed in the center. Drachenfels' axes wavered. Let them think we are only the wall. Tomorrow, we become the fangs.
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Real-Time Report (Midday – Not End of Day)
Eisenwald Army
Engaged: ~7,000 infantry
Killed: 87
Severely wounded: 143 (evacuated, unlikely to return)
Lightly wounded: 211 (many returning after bandaging)
Morale: High – rotation works, wall holds
Arrows/artillery: Still unused
Three-Baron Alliance (infantry engaged)
Engaged: ~10,000
Killed: ~620
Severely wounded: ~900
Lightly wounded: uncounted (chaotic withdrawals during rotations)
Morale: Dropping in center; Drachenfels' flank still dangerous
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Fenrir rested his blade's tip against his iron boot, eyes fixed on the enemy banners. "This is only the beginning," he muttered. "Tomorrow, the wolf's fangs will strike deeper."
The first day was far from over.
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