The air inside the hut grew taut. Leon's blunt words hung like a blade above the gathering.
The elven guards shifted their weight, hands tightening around bowstrings. Their eyes burned with indignation, their pride stung raw. One of them, a wiry man with sharp cheekbones, finally stepped forward, his jaw trembling.
"You dare speak so arrogantly in our home—"
But the elf leader raised his hand, silencing him.
Alaric noted the small gesture. Authority, earned not demanded. The leader's expression was calm, yet behind his eyes flickered a tired shadow.
"My name," he said slowly, "is Kaelen Tamriel. Once, my family and I belonged to a great tribe of the eastern woods. A proud people—strong in number, rich in wisdom." His voice softened, yet each word carried weight. "But pride breeds cracks. Disputes festered, factions tore at each other. When blood threatened to spill, I chose to leave. I gathered those still loyal, my children, and a few who had the same belief as me. We walked away from the tribe we called home."
He paused, his hand brushing the head of his daughter, who clutched her new necklace tightly.
"Our life has been harder since. We created this settlement and named it Tamriel, we all even took it as our last name. However, The forest is not forgiving. Food runs thin. Beasts test our strength. Twice, raiders tried to claim us. We survived—but each time, barely."
The room fell quiet. Even the guards lowered their eyes.
Alaric studied Kaelen closely. His words rang of truth: a leader carrying both his people's weight and his own regrets.
Before Alaric could respond, the door flap burst open. A breathless elf stumbled inside, armor nicked with scratches.
"Chieftain!" he gasped. "We scouted the east grove. There… we found it. A wolf den. At least thirty—maybe more."
The priestess's face paled. Agis gripped his father's tunic tightly.
A low growl escaped Leon's throat. His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened.
"Thirty wolves," he repeated, voice like grinding stone. His gaze snapped to Kaelen. "And one already nearly killed my lord."
The atmosphere shifted. Fury radiated from him, raw and unrestrained.
"Gather your warriors," he commanded. "Spearmans, archers, whatever you have. You'll follow me. I'll show you what true strength is."
The elves stiffened, glancing at Kaelen in uncertainty. But something in Leon's presence—the sheer conviction in his voice—left little room for protest.
Kaelen hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. "Five spearmen, the rest archers. Eighteen in total. They will follow."
Leon's mouth curved in the faintest shadow of a grin. "Good. Todayt, we hunt."
The moon hung low as the group moved out. The forest whispered with every step, branches creaking like hidden voices. Leon led at the front, his pace steady, unhurried, yet brimming with predatory intent.
Alaric followed behind, his wounds freshly bandaged but his mind burning with questions. Could one man truly command and conquer thirty wolves?
When they reached the grove, the smell hit them first: musk, blood, and wet fur. The den sprawled beneath a thicket of roots, shadows shifting within. Yellow eyes glimmered in the dark—dozens of them.
The elves tensed. Bows lifted, spears lowered. Their breaths came sharp, uneven.
Leon drew his sword in a single, fluid motion. The steel caught the moonlight, gleaming pale and cold.
"Listen well," he said, his voice cutting through the night. "You're used to fighting in scattered lines, losing arrows in fear. That ends tonight. You move when I say move. You strike when I say strike. Obey—and you'll live."
Something in his tone, fierce and absolute, reached into the warriors' bones. Even Kaelen's hardened guards found themselves nodding without question.
Then the wolves surged.
From the den spilled shadows—thirty, thirty-five, maybe more. Fangs bared, eyes blazing.
Leon roared back. "Spears, from the wall! Archers, hold!"
The elves snapped into motion, their bodies obeying before their minds caught up. Five spearmen braced, points forward.
The first wolf lunged—only to meet Leon's blade. His strike was clean, precise, as though guided by invisible lines. The beast fell in two before it even realized it was dead.
"Loose!" Leon bellowed.
A volley of arrows streaked past him, striking the second wave of wolves.
Another rushed the flank. Leon pivoted, his movement a blur. His blade traced a perfect arc—the Dragon Saber Formula in full display. One wolf collapsed with a crushed skull, another spun lifeless into the grass.
"Advance!"
The spearmen pushed forward, confidence growing with each command. Wolves snarled, snapping at their points, but Leon's sword flashed again and again, severing limbs, carving paths.
To Alaric, it was mesmerizing. This wasn't just brute strength—it was artistry. Every strike flowed into the next, seamless and inevitable.
The elves, once hesitant, began to follow his rhythm. Their arrows grew sharper, their movements more sure. Fear faded, replaced by the strange, intoxicating sense of unity.
By the time the last wolf fell, the grove was painted red. Thirty corpses lay silent, steam rising from their bodies.
Leon stood at the center, his blade dripping, his chest rising steady. Not a single cut marred his armor.
The elves stared at him, their breaths heavy, their eyes wide with awe. What began as doubt had transformed into respect—respect that rooted deep, unshakable.
Alaric swallowed hard. My first subject… and he's this powerful?
The priestess, who had insisted on accompanying them despite her age, whispered in reverence. "In all my years, never have I seen such a genius. His strength, his command—it is as though war itself bends to him."
Alaric couldn't deny it. He summoned the interface, pulling up Leon's details.
Subject Name: Leon Valerius
Title: The Dragon's Fang
Occupation: Lord Alaric Personal Guard
Race: Human
Potential Value: 84 (Extraordinary)
Strength: 90
Intelligence: 82
Growth Rate: Exceptional
Specialties:
Instinctive Command: Can instantly assess and optimize any battlefield. Troops under his command gain +35% coordination and morale.Dragon Saber Formula: Personal combat effectiveness increased by 70%. When leading from the front, his unit's attack power increases by 25%.Aegis of the Sovereign: Defensive capabilities of forces protecting the Lord or the capital are doubled.
Evaluation:A martial prodigy. Leon's strategic genius is innate, not taught. His loyalty, once sworn, is as immutable as the mountains. He is both the unbreakable shield and the unstoppable spear, capable of forging a militia into a legendary army. His presence alone guarantees that any territory he guards will be a fortress.
Alaric let out a slow breath. He couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips. With him by my side… perhaps this world won't break me after all.
The elves wasted no time. They skinned the wolves, butchered the meat, and prepared a great fire in the settlement clearing. The aroma of roasting flesh filled the air, banishing the stench of blood.
By nightfall, the feast began.
Platters of steaming wolf meat were laid out, seasoned with forest herbs. Cups of fermented berry wine passed from hand to hand. Laughter, hesitant at first, began to ripple among the elves.
At the head of the long table sat Alaric, his wounds wrapped, a goblet in hand. Leon sat to his right, ever-vigilant, though the faintest trace of satisfaction lingered in his eyes.
Kaelen rose, lifting his cup high. "Tonight, we honor the man who saved my children. And the warrior who showed us strength beyond our imagination. To Alaric and Leon Valerius!"
"To Alaric! To Leon!" voices echoed, strong and unified.
Alaric inclined his head politely, though warmth stirred in his chest.
It wasn't long before Kaelen leaned closer, his tone quieter. "Tell me, Alaric. What were you doing, alone, in these woods? A man of your bearing is not some wandering vagrant."
Conversations hushed. The elves' ears perked, curiosity crackling through the air. Even Agis leaned forward, eyes wide.
Alaric set down his cup. Slowly, he looked toward the star-flecked sky above the clearing.
"I was searching," he said softly, "for a place to claim as my own. A base, from which to pursue my true goal."
Agis's voice piped up, earnest and innocent. "Big brother… what goal?"
Alaric's gaze remained on the heavens, the firelight painting his profile in gold and shadow.
"My goal is not much," he said with a faint smile. "I want to be lord of the strongest territory in these ancient lands—unmatched, unbroken by any foe. A land where blood or race doesn't matter. Where birth grants no privilege, and merit is the only measure. A place where all work together, as family, supporting and protecting each other."
Silence fell. The words hung in the night, heavy, daring, impossible—and yet spoken with such steady conviction that none could dismiss them outright.
Leon's lips curved upward. Pride lit his eyes. My lord… truly, you are no ordinary man.
Agis stared at Alaric as though he'd glimpsed the sunrise. His small hands balled into fists. "Then I'll help you! I'll help you make it real!"
Across the fire, the priestess—Lyra—covered her face. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "A land where race matters not… a dream I thought would die with me. But hearing you… seeing your confidence… I believe. Perhaps the gods have answered at last."
Kaelen said nothing. But the weight in his eyes had shifted, the suspicion dimmed. He looked at Alaric not as a stranger, but as something else. Something dangerous, perhaps—but also something… inevitable.
And in the crackle of the fire, in the glow of feasting elves, Alaric understood.
This was the first step.