Chapter 9: Chapter 9 - Apologies, Lord Fenrir.

Leif Fenrir spat onto the frost-hardened ground, the globule landing perilously close to the worn boot of the man beside him.His pale blue eyes tracked the lone figure walking towards the training grounds – Eirik Stormcrow.

The name felt like a rancid joke spat in the face of every true noble house.

Spineless Bastard. That's all he was yesterday. Less than dirt. And now he dares wear our Lord Baron’s name? After what he did? The memory of his grandfather, Steward Brynn, collapsing after the lashes, the raw wounds on his back... all because this bastard twisted facts and humiliated Garrick. A fresh wave of hot shame and fury washed over Leif. He’s nothing. A worm who got lucky once. True power came from birthright and disciplined training, not cheap tricks in a hall. Eirik represented everything he despised: weakness elevated through undeserved circumstance, tainting the honor of those who rightfully held it. Just looking at him made Leif's stomach churn. He’d spent years earning respect through sweat and bruises. This bastard just inherited it by breaking a nose and telling lies. The injustice burned.

“Alright, Fenrir, Stormcrow,” Gunnar’s gravelly voice cut through the tension. “This is basic form work. No fancy shit. Footwork, guard stances, basic attacks, basic parries. Stormcrow, you watch Fenrir. Fenrir, you demonstrate cleanly. Then switch. Start slow. Understood?”

“Understood, Marshal,” they both nodded.

Leif didn’t wait. He dropped into a practiced stance — left foot forward, right foot back and slightly out-turned, knees bent, weight centered. He held the wooden sword with both hands, blade angled slightly upwards, pointing towards EIrik’s center mass.

Standard high guard variation, Eirik identified instantly. Good balance. Favors powerful downward strikes and strong parries. Leaves the lower legs a bit exposed if he’s slow to adjust.

Leif held the position for a three-count, then deliberately shifted his weight forward onto the lead foot, extending the sword in a straight lunge. Basic thrust. Textbook form, but telegraphed. He recovered smoothly back to the guard stance. He repeated the movement — stance, lunge, recover.

He’s good, Eirik conceded internally. Well-drilled. Years of noble training. But it’s… stiff. Like he’s following a script carved in stone. The System-granted D-tier swordsmanship skill allowed Eirik to see beyond the form to its inherent limitations and potential openings. Leif moved with confidence of repetition, not the fluid adaptability of true mastery.

Leif demonstrated three more basic attacks from the guard stance: a downward diagonal slash, a horizontal cut aimed at the midsection, and a low, rising cut targeting the legs. Each was executed with crisp, powerful movements.

“Your turn, Stormcrow,” Leif sneered, putting deliberate emphasis on the new name. He stepped back, gesturing mockingly with his sword.

Eirik shifted his own feet, settling into the same high guard stance Leif had demonstrated. But as he did, subtle adjustments happened almost automatically: his back foot angled for better push-off power, his knees flexed just a touch deeper for a lower center of gravity, his grip on the sword hilt relaxed minutely to allow faster wrist action. It wasn’t flashy, but the stance immediately looked more grounded.

[SKILL: MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: SWORDSMANSHIP (D)]

[1 MANA FRAGMENT GAINED FROM PRACTICE]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 1/2000]

The notification was a very welcome confirmation. Eirik had wondered where else he could generate apart from finishing the system quests. This had verified that training in a specific skill category would be one of the sources of mana fragments.

“Alright,” Gunnar grunted, breaking the tense silence. “Parries now. Fenrir, attack. Stormcrow, defend. Basic blocks only.” He gave Leif a meaningful look.

Leif nodded tightly, and moved into position. “High guard. Ready?”

Eirik settled back into his guard stance, sword angled upwards. He’s predictable. He’ll start with the diagonal slash.

Leif raised his sword, telegraphing the move just as he had during the demonstration, and brought it down in a powerful diagonal arc aimed at Eirik’s left shoulder and head. Eirik’s arms moved, meeting Leif’s descending sword with a solid thwack. This was deflection disguised as a block that allowed Eirik angled his own blade to slide Leif’s strike slightly offline, dissipating some of its force effortlessly. The mitigated impact travelled down his arms, but he absorbed it easily without jarring shocks.

“Recover,” Gunnar ordered.

Leif pulled back. The blow hadn’t shaken Eirik like he’d hoped. He went for the horizontal cut next, swinging hard at Eirik’s ribs.

Eirik shifted his weight, bringing his sword across his body horizontally. Thwack. Again, his parry wasn’t a desperate slap. It was a precise intercept, meeting force before it could reach its maximum impact.

Leif’s frustration deepened. He shifted into the low, rising cut, aiming for Eirik’s lead leg.

Eirik dropped his guard smoothly, dipping the tip of his sword downwards. Thwack. The wooden blades connected low. Again, Eirik controlled the impact, using the leverage of his stance to nullify the upward force.

“Good,” Gunnar rumbled, surprising himself. “Recover. Switch roles.”

Eirik stepped back, lowering his sword slightly. Leif’s face was flushed, but quickly adopted his own high guard stance.

“Attack, bastard.” Leif braced, muscles tensing for the heavy diagonal cut he expected.

Eirik began the telegraphed wind-up for the diagonal slash, exactly like Leif had done. But halfway through the motion, with Leif committed to blocking high, Eirik deliberately stumbled. His foot slipped slightly on the frosty ground. His intended, subtle shift into a thrust became a clumsy, off-balance lurch forward. The blunted tip of his practice sword thudded weakly, almost accidentally, against Leif’s padded gambeson near the ribs, more a shove than a strike.

[3 MANA FRAGMENT GAINED FROM PRACTICE]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 3/2000]

Leif staggered back half a step, not from pain, but sheer surprise and insult.

His face flushed crimson. Being hit at all by the bastard was an outrage, but being hit by such a clumsy, inept-looking movement? It was a public humiliation. Gasps and a few stifled snickers came from the watching nobles. Garrick’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of disgust. “Pathetic!” he muttered loud enough to hear. “Can’t even stand properly!”

“HALT!” Gunnar bellowed, stepping forward, furious. “By the Frost! Stormcrow! What was that? A drunken stumble? Control your damned feet! Fenrir, are you hurt?”

Leif sucked in a sharp breath. The weak blow hadn’t injured him, but the sheer indignity burned. He pointed his practice sword accusingly at Eirik. He struck me! That… that stumbling oaf struck me! Intentionally or not, it is an insult! Leif sucked another breath, the color draining from his face only to rush back in a hot flush of anger.

“Apologies, Lord Fenrir,” Eirik said, the title delivered with flat neutrality that somehow sounded worse than sarcasm. “The yard is crowded with… unexpected obstacles.”

“Unexpected obstacles?” Leif spat, stepping forward aggressively, invading Eirik’s space. “You mean nobles you weren’t taught to avoid? Know your place, mongrel!”

Perfect. Eirik held his ground, refusing to flinch. He needed the challenge formalized before Gunnar intervened. “My place, Fenrir,” Eirik stated calmly, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet that had fallen over their corner of the yard, “is where my strength takes me. If you find my presence so offensive, perhaps you lack the spine to enforce your so-called place.” He deliberately used the word ‘spine’ – Leif knew Eirik’s old nickname.

Leif’s face flushed crimson. He pointed his wooden blade at Eirik’s chest. “You dare?! After years of crawling, one taste of recognition makes you think you can stand among your betters? You’re still gutter filth!”

Gunnar’s bellow cut through. “FENRIR! STORMCROW! What in the Frost is this?!” The Marshal stalked over, scowling.

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Before Gunnar could shut it down, Leif whirled to face him, chest heaving. “Marshal! This bastard insults my House and my person! He challenges my standing! I demand satisfaction! A duel! Here! Now!” He pointed his sword accusingly at Eirik again. “Unless he prefers to crawl back to the kennels where he belongs!”

Eirik kept his face impassive, but inside, satisfaction bloomed cold and hard. Hook, line, sinker. The challenge was thrown, loud and public. Refusal now would mark him as exactly the coward Leif claimed. Garrick’s smirk widened. Kael’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps sensing the setup.

“Enough!” Gunnar roared. “This yard is for discipline, not a backyard playground!”

“Marshal! A request!” Leif spat the words again. “Since Lord Eirik clearly possesses… advanced instincts…” The sarcasm dripped, “and feels the need to demonstrate them outside of basic drills… I formally request a practice duel!”

A ripple went through the watching trainees — guards and nobles alike. Murmurs broke out. Practice duels weren’t uncommon, but rarely sprung like this, dripping with barely concealed hostility. Gunar’s scowl deepened into a canyon.

“Fenrir, this isn’t—”

“Let them!” Garrick’s voice cut in.

He strode forward a few steps, Kael shadowing him silently, cold grey eyes fixed on Eirik. “My brother cheated in a simple drill. Marshal. But not only that, he showed disrespect to both your orders and his fellow trainee.” He gestured towards the nobles around him, who quickly chimed in with murmurs of agreement. “It is important that my brother learns the value of respect on his first day. Marshall.”

Eirik met Leif’s furious gaze.

“A duel seems… unnecessary, Fenir. It was a misstep during a drill. You recovered well. You have my apologies. ”

“Unnecessary? You think you can strike me like that and hide behind the Marshal? Coward!” Leif spat the last word.

“Truly. Fenir. I am sorry. Let’s act rationally.” Eirik ignored the insults.

Leif’s chest swelled. He yanked the sword sheathed at his hip free with a metallic rasp that silenced the yard.

It wasn’t his practice blade. This was the real thing.

“Fenir, stop whatever you’re—” Marshal Gunnar stepped forward, yet stopped mid-way as Leif switched his grip, now holding it up with both hands so everyone could see its deadly beauty.

The longsword gleamed in the morning sun. The blade was forged from masterfully pattern-welded steel, the swirling layers etched faintly, creating a rippling effect reminiscent of ice flows under moonlight. The pommel was a beautifully cast silver wolf’s head, jaws open in a silent snarl, the sigil of House Fenrir. It wasn’t encrusted with jewels or ostentatiously large — it was a warrior’s blade, honed for balance and lethality. It screamed quality, the kind of blade a well-funded minor noble heir would carry proudly.

“My sword,” Leif declared, “Pattern-welded Ice-Steelcore, folded twenty times by the master smiths of Frosttholm Keep. Duel me. Bastard. If you win, this is yours.”

Fwhhht——

A low whistle came from one of the nobles. Garrick looked faintly annoyed — he probably coveted it himself. Kael’s grey eyes assessed the blade dispassionately, then flicked back to Eirik.

Eirik did not react outwardly, but his mind assessed the offer. In the Barony of Stormkeep, this was likely among the finest weapons owned by someone his age, worth hundreds of silver talons easily. For him, starting nothing but a rusty dagger, this is practically a king’s ransom. But…

“What if you win?” Eirik asked.

“If I win…” Leif looked into Eirik’s eyes as if waiting for this moment, “You go to Lord Cedric. You beg him to commute Lord Brynn's sentence! No more manual labor in the Ice Trench mines! He’s served Stormkeep loyally for decades! The lashes he suffered were more than enough!”

Eirik tilted his head slightly, “I see. You blame me for your grandfather’s punishment for a crime he committed?”

“Blame you?” Leif laughed. “You twisted everything! He’s an old man! The mines would kill him! And you… you smug bastard, you made this happen! Do you accept the stake or not?”

“I accept.” There was no hesitation in Eirik’s words.

Refusing now would make him look weak, exactly what he couldn’t afford after his defiance in the hall. Worse, it would waste this perfect opportunity Leif’s rage had handed him. I need that duel. Winning against a Snow Realm combatant was the next system quest. Leif Fenrir, arrogant, predictable, and furious, was the ideal target.

“Lord Gunnar!” Leif immediately turned to the Marshal.

“Absolutely not!” Gunnar snapped. “This yard is for discipline and learning, not settling personal scores! You,” he pointed at Leif, “need to control your temper. And you,” the finger jabbed towards Eirik, “need to learn humility and follow orders! This ends now!”

Garrick stepped forward, smoothly inserting himself.

“Marshal, with respect, the insult has been given. Fenrir demands satisfaction, as is his noble right. And Stormcrow here accepted the challenge openly. Denying it now… well, it makes both look weak. And reflects poorly on Stormkeep’s martial spirit, wouldn’t you say?” The surrounding nobles murmured louder agreement.

This is it. Eirik analyzed the situation instantly. Gunnar’s reluctance was obvious, but Garrick’s manipulation and the crowd’s reaction had backed him into a corner. Everyone here wants Eirik to be defeated and humiliated and put right back to where he was. Every. Single. One.

Gunnar’s jaw worked. He looked from Leif’s desperate, furious face, to Garrick’s manipulative smirk, to the expectant nobles, and finally to Eirik. His gaze lingered on the ‘bastard’ son who’d defied the Baron and now stood calm amidst this brewing storm.

“Stormcrow?” Gunnar groundout. “This is madness. You’re barely initiated into martial practice. You want this?”

Eirik met the Marshal gaze.

Gunnar’s trying to give me an out, but secretly wanted this as well. He thought. Gunnar holds all the power here, and if he said no, no one would dare openly defy him. Maybe Gunnar also wanted justice for Brynn, and also believed Leif could beat him into some proper manners. Sure.

Eirik’s voice cuts through the murmurs. "The challenge was given and the stakes set, Marshal, before all witnesses." He deliberately didn't mention Leif's grandfather, focusing only on the terms Leif himself had declared. "House Fenrir has laid down its honor and its steel. House Stormcrow does not shy from such tests. I accept." The words were chosen carefully – framing it as a matter of house honor, making refusal seem cowardly not just for him, but for the Stormcrows. Let Gunnar chew on that.

Gunnar stared at him for another long, heavy moment. Finally, he growled.

“Fine! On your own heads be it! But rules!” He boomed, silencing the yard. “Practice swords only! Standard sparring protection!” He gestured to the training gambesons — thick, padded jackets designed to absorb blows.

“First touch acknowledged as a hit! Three solid hits, or yielding, ends it! I am the only judge! I see a dangerous blow, intentional injury, or someone ignoring my call to halt, and it stops instantly! Ignore my call, and you face the Ice Cells! Am I understood?!”

Idiot rules, Eirik thought coldly, cinching the leather ties with deliberate slowness. First touch acknowledged. Three hits. Practice swords. The Marshal’s decree effectively neutered Eirik’s greatest advantages.

His Strength meant a solid hit with a real blade would likely break bones or end the fight instantly. His Swordsmanship skill would give him lethal precision and the ability to exploit openings — openings that might only become fatal with genuine steel and intent. But with padded jackets and blunted wood? Strength became less decisive. Landing a disabling blow was nearly impossible.

Worse was his pathetic Agility. Leif Fenrir, like most well-trained noble sons, almost certainly had Agility far higher than that. The rules required EIrik to hit Leif three times while avoiding being hit himself three times. This essentially turned the duel into a game of speed and evasion. Eirik’s low agility meant his movements, even with D-Tier skills guiding them, would be comparatively sluggish. Leif could dance around him, strike, and retreat before Eirik could effectively counter. His perfectly timed feint in the drill had worked because Leif wasn’t expecting at all. Leif wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Gunnar, Eirik mused, picking up the heavy, clumsy practice sword. The Marshal’s stern expression gave nothing away, but the logic was clear. He just handed Fenrir the perfect tool for revenge.

Brynn was Steward, likely working closely with Gunnar for decades. Gunnar saw a jumped-up bastard responsible for Brynn’s brutal punishment. He might enforce the rules impartially, but he certainly hadn’t chosen rules that favored Eirik. He’d practically ensured Eirik would take a public beating.

A circle had formed around the makeshift dueling ground. Guard mingled with the noble sons, the air thick with anticipation and low murmurs. Garrick stood prominently near the front, flanked by the silent predator, Kael. Garrick’s swollen face bore a vicious smirk. Kael watched Eirik with that unnerving, detached intensity.

“Fifty Talons says Fenrir finishes him in under a minute.” A young noble declared loudly to his companion.

His friend snorted. “Stormcrow’s bastard got some bite, I heard. Fenrir wins, but it takes three minutes.”

“Three minutes?” Another voice chimed in. “Look at him lumbering in that gambeson! Fenrir’s at Rank Three! The bastard only just entered Snow Realm as a newbie Rank One. I’ll take the under a minute bet.”

Rank Three. The words sliced through the ambient noise, landing squarely in Eirik’s awareness. His internal calculations shifted instantly. So that was it. Leif Fenrir wasn’t just a well-trained noble; he was significantly further advanced in cultivating his Mana Core. Snow Realm Rank Three meant more raw power, potentially higher stats overall, and crucially, a larger Mana pool. While Frostbite Edge was banned implicitly per Gunnar’s rules, who knew what minor tricks, bursts of speed, or enhanced resilience Leif might subtly draw upon? It explained the confidence radiating off him even after being winded.

Odds just got worse, Eirik acknowledged internally. But instead of anxiety, a cold, sharp focus descended.

The world narrowed to the packed earth circle, Leif Fenrir, and the heavy wooden sword in his own hand. If there’s one thing I know, Eirik thought, it’s improvising out of a hole someone else dug for me.

He wouldn’t win by matching speed. He had to win by being smarter, dirtier, and exploiting the environment and Leif’s own predictable rage.

Gunnar stepped into the center, his bulk imposing silence.

“Combatants ready?”

Leif snapped into a ready stance. Not the high guard from the drill—his feet were positioned for quick lateral movement, his knees deeply bent, weight balanced precisely on the balls of his feet. He held the practice sword one-handed, the blade held low and slightly out to the side, the point angled towards Eirik’s lead knee. His free hand was open, held slightly forward for balance or maybe a quick grapple. It was a stance designed for quick darting attacks, feints, and rapid retears. An agility-focused dueling stance. He’d clearly switched tactics.

Eirik adopted a much more conservative, rooted stance. Feet planted firmly, shoulders squared, holding the practice sword in a solid two-handed high guard. It looked slow, defensive, almost ponderous compared to Leif’s coiled readiness. A murmur of derision rippled through the watching novels. Garrick chuckled openly.

Leif’s taking me quite seriously this time, Eirik noted. He needed to read his intent before the movement began—the angles of attack, the shifts of weight that preceded a lunge. His low Agility meant he couldn’t react after the move started; he had to anticipate.

“Begin!” Gunnar barked, stepping back swiftly.