The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos and steel. The crisp autumn air carried the sounds of clashing weapons, the cries of dying men, and the relentless drumbeat of combat. The sun, now fully risen, cast long shadows across the bloodstained earth.
Alexander moved like a force of nature, his black-metal sword cleaving through armor and bone with surgical precision. Each movement was controlled, efficient—no wasted effort, no hesitation. He wasn't just fighting; he was commanding the battle itself.
His warriors, emboldened by his presence, pushed forward. The mercenaries, once so sure of their strength, were faltering.
But the battle wasn't over yet.
The Duel
A massive figure surged through the chaos.
The mercenary leader.
He was a towering brute of a man, his scarred face twisted in a sneer of contempt. A seasoned warrior, his greatsword was as broad as a man's torso, its edges chipped from countless battles. His armor, though dented and smeared with blood, was still intact.
And his eyes—his eyes locked onto Alexander with unbridled fury.
"You're the one they follow," he growled, rolling his shoulders as he stalked forward. "Let's see if you're worth their loyalty."
Alexander met his gaze, his stance unwavering.
He had no words to waste.
The mercenary leader lunged, swinging his greatsword in a brutal arc meant to cleave Alexander in two.
Too slow.
Alexander sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the massive blade cut through empty space. He countered with a swift slash, aiming for the ribs, but the mercenary twisted at the last second, catching the blow on his armor. Sparks flew as black-metal clashed against steel.
The brute laughed. "Not bad, boy!"
He came again, pressing the attack—relentless, each strike meant to overpower and crush. His sheer strength sent shockwaves through Alexander's arms as he parried, the ground trembling beneath their feet.
But strength alone wasn't enough.
Alexander fought with precision. He studied his opponent's movements, noted the slight delay after each heavy swing, the fraction of a second where the brute's balance faltered. He just needed an opening.
A feint.
Alexander lunged forward, exposing his side—an intentional mistake.
The mercenary took the bait, swinging hard.
Alexander pivoted at the last second.
The greatsword cut through empty air.
And Alexander struck.
His blade sliced through the mercenary's exposed side, cutting deep through armor and flesh. The brute staggered, his sneer replaced by shock.
Blood seeped from the wound, dark and sluggish.
"You—" He tried to raise his sword, but his body wouldn't obey.
Alexander didn't hesitate.
One final slash—clean, precise—across the throat.
The mercenary choked, his hands clutching at the gaping wound as he sank to his knees. His eyes, once burning with arrogance, dimmed.
Then, he collapsed.
The leader of the mercenaries was dead.
The Turning Point
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the shift came.
The mercenaries—those still standing—wavered. They had been fighting under the illusion that victory was still possible, but now? Their leader lay dead in the mud, his greatsword useless beside him.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Some mercenaries threw down their weapons, surrendering on the spot. Others turned to flee, breaking ranks in desperation.
That was their final mistake.
Tyrell's archers, stationed on the ridges, picked off the retreating men with ruthless precision. Arrows struck backs, legs, and skulls as the would-be deserters fell where they ran.
Elias, bloodied but grinning, wiped his blade on a fallen enemy's tunic. "We've won."
Silas approached Alexander, surveying the battlefield. His sharp eyes took in the piles of bodies, the wounded being gathered, the captured mercenaries kneeling in surrender. He gave a slow nod.
"It's over."
Alexander exhaled, lowering his sword.
The battle was won.
But this was just the beginning.
Warlord Path Unlocked
A shift.
Not physical, but something deeper.
A pulse of awareness spread through Alexander's mind, sharpening his instincts in an almost unnatural way. A familiar notification flashed before his eyes.
[Path Unlocked: Warlord Path Level 1 - Tactical Commander]
[Buffs:]
✔ Troops gain +15% attack & defense in all engagements.
✔ Units recover stamina 25% faster, allowing prolonged combat endurance.
✔ Morale loss from casualties is reduced by 30%, preventing panic and disarray.
Power.
Not just his own—but the power to command, to lead, to turn battles before they even began.
Alexander had fought before. He had won before. But this was something different. This was a moment that would shape the future of Emberhold.
This was the foundation of an army.
The Aftermath
The battlefield belonged to them.
Mercenary corpses littered the ground, their weapons and armor scavenged by survivors. Blood seeped into the earth, staining the once golden grass a dark crimson.
The captured mercenaries knelt before Alexander's warriors, hands bound, faces grim.
"What do we do with them?" Elias asked, arms crossed.
Alexander regarded the prisoners with an unreadable expression.
"They came here for gold," Silas murmured. "Mercenaries don't fight for causes, only coin."
Alexander nodded. "Then we'll give them a choice. Join Emberhold, or leave with nothing but their lives."
Some would accept. Others would refuse. It didn't matter—Emberhold would grow stronger regardless.
Alexander turned to Tyrell. "Secure the outpost. We'll use it as a forward base."
The scout nodded, already issuing orders.
Watchtowers would be built. Patrols would be doubled. The frontier would no longer be a place for raiders and mercenaries to roam freely.
Elias clapped a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "Not bad for a 'settlement,' huh?"
Alexander exhaled, scanning the land before them.
No.
Emberhold was no longer just a growing settlement.
It was something more.
Now, it had an army.