Feeling the newfound strength coursing through his body, Aldrich hurried to his room, his small frame moving with an uncharacteristic urgency. Annie, who had been reading nearby, watched him dash out of the library with a raised eyebrow. 'What's gotten into him?' she thought before shaking her head and heading off to find her mother.
Aldrich arrived in his modest room, his breath quickened with excitement. Dropping to his knees, he peered under the bed where the wooden greatsword lay forgotten. Dust clung to its surface, a testament to its recent disuse. He reached out, his small hands gripping the hilt, and pulled it free with a determined tug.
'It's much lighter than I remember,' he thought, gripping it with both hands.
A wave of nostalgia swept over him as he recalled the first time he'd tried to lift it—a struggle that had left his arms trembling and his pride bruised. Now, holding it with ease, he felt a rush of excitement mixed with a strange sadness.
'I've come so far already, but that was the beginning of my journey.' His grin widened, determination flaring in his chest. 'This time, I'll wield it like a warrior.'
A grin spread across his face. 'Finally, I can begin training my body properly.'
He glanced down at himself, appraising his stature. Standing roughly three and a half feet tall, he towered over what anyone would expect from a one-year-old.
'Raising my stats must be affecting my growth,' he mused, his thoughts a mix of curiosity and unease.
'It's an advantage for training and combat, but what if it doesn't stop? What if I become some kind of giant, out of place among normal people?' He sighed, shaking his head. '
No, focus. This is power, and power is what I need to survive.' The thought drew a reluctant sigh from his lips, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task ahead.
He assumed a firm stance, recalling his father's demonstrations with perfect clarity. Holding the greatsword aloft, he shouted, "First stance!"
The weapon, which weighed a full kilogram, angled backward above his head, poised to strike.
"Strike!" With a powerful swing, he brought the sword down in a fluid, half-moon slash. The whoosh of air echoed faintly in his small room.
"Second stance!" Aldrich shifted his posture, angling the sword downward as though readying a deceptive thrust.
"Strike!" He jabbed forward, the blade's tip slicing through the air.
With each successive stance, Aldrich's movements became sharper, more precise.
"Third stance!" The hilt rested against his hip, the sword's point jutting forward defensively.
"Strike!" He lunged, imagining an opponent's attack being parried and countered.
"Fourth stance!" This time, the greatsword pointed outward, an aggressive posture meant to deflect and retaliate.
"Strike!" A quick thrust punctuated his words.
"Fifth stance!" Lowering the tip to the ground, Aldrich visualized sweeping through a horde of enemies.
"Strike!" The sword arced horizontally, creating a small gust that stirred the dust in his room.
Finally, he reached the last form. "Sixth stance!" Holding the weapon behind him, he imagined guarding against unseen enemies.
"Guard!" The stance seamlessly transitioned back to the first, completing the cycle.
Minutes turned into an hour, and soon Aldrich was drenched in sweat, his small chest heaving as he leaned on the sword for support. His muscles burned, but he felt exhilarated. 'Father and his soldiers can train like this for hours,' he thought with a mixture of awe and determination. 'Their weapons are heavier, too. One day, I'll reach their level.'
A fleeting thought crossed his mind—should he use his newfound strength to level up again? He shook his head. "No," he murmured to himself. "I'll wait. The books said twelve years is the age to peak average stats. I need to master my current abilities first."
Far away, on the border of the South Almira Kingdom and the Saharan Desert, chaos reigned.
Arthas swung his massive greatsword in a wide arc, the blade cutting through the thick neck of an orc warrior. The headless body crumpled to the ground as he turned to face the next threat. His greatsword, weighing a staggering 100 kilograms, moved as if it were an extension of his arm.
"Damn it!" Arthas growled through gritted teeth.
"A month into this war, and we've already lost a thousand men. Meanwhile, their numbers seem endless—over forty-five thousand strong." His frustration was palpable, his voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of battle.
Beside him, a fellow Tier 3 Enhanced Warrior shouted, "Don't falter, Arthas! Another wave is coming! Fall back to the barricade; the archers will cover us!"
The command was clear. Arthas and his squad retreated in a hurried but disciplined manner, their boots kicking up clouds of sand. The orc horde's relentless roars echoed behind them.
Suddenly, a guttural roar sounded above the din. Arthas turned to see a massive troll wielding a stone spear. The creature hefted its weapon and hurled it with terrifying speed and precision.
"Incoming!" someone shouted.
Arthas braced himself, his muscles tensing as the massive spear hurtled toward him, cutting through the air with a piercing whistle. The ground beneath his feet trembled with the sheer force of its approach, and the air seemed to compress, carrying the scent of scorched sand and iron.
Raising his greatsword, its weight a familiar anchor, he positioned the flat of the blade to meet the projectile. The impact exploded against him with a deafening clang, the vibration jolting up his arms and leaving them momentarily numb.
The force sent him skidding backward, the rough sand scraping against his boots as he teetered dangerously close to the cliff's edge.
Just as he began to lose his footing, a hand shot out, gripping his arm.
Locke's voice cut through the chaos, his tone light but edged with urgency. "Gotcha! And hey, sorry about nearly breaking your arm last month." Despite the humor, his eyes flickered with genuine concern, revealing the weight of the situation beneath his joking demeanor. He laughed, his grip steady as he hauled Arthas back to safety.
Arthas winced but managed a weak grin. "Now's not the time for jokes, Locke. We've got a battle to win."
The troll, undeterred by its failed attack, was now smashing through the lower-tier warriors with its stone hammer, which weighed no less than 500 kilograms. Goblins peppered the humans with crossbow bolts, while orc-riding wargs charged through the fray, their snarling mounts tearing into flesh.
Locke's laughter faded as his expression turned grim. "Stay here," he said. Gripping his massive mace, which weighed an astounding 1,000 kilograms, he leaped with astonishing speed, covering a hundred meters in mere seconds. The mace came crashing down on the troll's skull, silencing its roars forever.
The human soldiers cheered as Locke turned his attention to the warg riders, dispatching them with ruthless efficiency. The battlefield was a whirlwind of violence, but for Arthas, it was just another day in this relentless war.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, a long horn sounded from the orc's camp, signaling a retreat. Arthas exhaled deeply, relief and exhaustion washing over him as he trudged back to the barricade.
Edward, a grizzled veteran, met him with a disapproving shake of his head. "You're losing your edge, lad. Stay here next time. Supervise the soldiers; leave the fighting to those with the stamina for it."
Arthas said nothing, retreating to his tent. Collapsing onto a worn cot, he replayed the battle in his mind. His Tier 3 strength, once an object of pride, now felt insufficient against the overwhelming tide. He clenched his fists, frustration gnawing at him.
'I wasted too much time as a baron,' he thought bitterly. 'Now it might cost me my life.'
Closing his eyes, he forced himself into meditation, the image of Eleanor's smile flickering in his mind. The thought of his family spurred a mixture of sorrow and resolve. 'I can't afford to fall here,' he vowed silently.
In the orc camp, Grommash loomed over the returning horde, his tusks gleaming in the firelight. The acrid stench of sweat and blood permeated the air, mixing with the thick smoke from hastily lit campfires.
The guttural growls of injured orcs and the restless snarls of wargs echoed in the background, while the flickering flames cast ominous shadows on the jagged tents and crude weapons scattered about.
The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily, a stark reminder of the brutal conflict that awaited them with the dawn.
He singled out the captain of the warg riders with a snarl.
"You," he growled, pointing a clawed finger.
The captain saluted stiffly. "Warchief!"
"What news?" Grommash demanded, his breath hot and foul.
The captain's voice was steady. "A human warrior, likely a Tier 6 Battle Master, killed the troll and half my riders. We were forced to retreat." He gestured to the few remaining warg riders.
Grommash's eyes narrowed as he turned away. "Tomorrow, we draw them out," he muttered to his troll advisor.
"Utilize the warg riders and goblins, do guerilla tactics. It's not time yet to fight in the frontlines." As it was too early in the war, the army of both races will have to withhold any trump cards unless it will be a deciding fight.