Chapter 38: Battle

After resting at the camp for several days, Leo could no longer endure the dull and tedious life. He packed up his gear alone and once again slipped across the river into the Wolfbane Plains.

The riverside camp, now settling into routine, was filled with arduous labor every day, with nothing novel to distract the settlers. Urian had no intention of sparing him, treating Leo like a beast of burden—either driving him to repair the dam or making him carry beams alongside the able-bodied men.

A future knight’s squire—what stature and dignity! And yet, forced to toil at menial tasks like these? Leo had set off at dawn, eager to escape.

The Wolfbane Plains were not a flat expanse; they brimmed with hills and mountains, especially near the foothills of the Grand Barrier, where ravines and deep gorges carved by rushing water crisscrossed the land. This would one day be their homeland, but now, it was poised to become the battlefield against the boarfolk.

The boarfolk had not yet discovered the riverside camp, but that would not last forever. Fiercely territorial and aggressive, they would never tolerate a neighboring race growing stronger. Although the wildfolk had not agreed to join Leo in attacking the boarfolk, Leo would not simply wait for them to discover the camp and bring war to its doorstep.

Thus, Leo needed to familiarize himself with the terrain, securing the advantage of position and timing. He climbed the local heights, memorizing the lay of the land, and found boarfolk traces outside a valley.

He was already quite close to the Anzeno River; with a practiced path, it was less than two hours’ walk to the riverside camp.

He crept forward, and from several hundred meters away, spotted a squad of boarfolk warriors in the valley. Five of them huddled in a sheltered nook, resting around a campfire. Four robust, one-horned war boars lay alongside them.

Scanning the area, Leo also spotted three boarfolk warriors with crossbows standing guard atop the valley’s heights, keeping watch.

From the look of the valley, this must be a boarfolk hunting outpost.

Estimating the distance to the nearest boarfolk sentry, Leo drew his yew longbow, preparing to sneak closer.

A stealthy arrow, a quick shot, and then a dash—this was the thrill he sought.

Just then, a faint whistle sounded beside him. Leo turned, alert, and saw, twenty meters away, a bear’s head staring back at him.

The bear’s head lifted, revealing beneath it a face covered in a thick beard—it was a wildfolk hunter.

The hunter eyed Leo and gestured for him to halt.

Leo crept forward and discovered two other wildfolk lurking nearby. Their skill at concealment was remarkable—lying in the woods, covered in brown bear or gray wolf pelts, they blended seamlessly with pine needles and dead leaves. Beyond twenty meters, they were nearly invisible.

The wildfolk hunter raised his longbow and beckoned Leo to follow, then moved toward the valley.

Leo followed the three wildfolk hunters down the slope, approaching the valley.

When they were within a hundred meters of the boarfolk’s campfire, Leo suddenly heard the twang of bowstrings in the distance. The three boarfolk sentries atop the ridge were simultaneously struck through the head and tumbled silently down the valley.

Before the boarfolk around the campfire could react, the three hunters beside Leo bent their bows and loosed arrows. Three sharp shafts whistled through the air, striking the boarfolk warriors directly.

Two heavy arrows pierced skull and chest, the thick iron tips protruding from the other side, already slightly deformed. The third arrow, as the boarfolk reacted swiftly and rolled aside, struck only its hand. The powerful impact exploded the boarfolk’s broad palm, fingers flying.

The wounded boarfolk warrior, though screaming in agony, did not lose its fighting spirit. It snatched up its heavy weapon with one hand and, with its surviving companions, launched a charge.

Leo was stunned—these wildfolk hunters were akin to legendary sharpshooters, each one a master marksman!

Though Leo had been diligently practicing with his yew longbow and possessed decent talent, he could not guarantee a hit at a hundred meters—only within fifty meters could he be fairly accurate.

The wildfolk hunters pressed their attack without pause, their heavy arrows flowing smoothly from their bows. Six men’s arrows rained down from all sides upon the boarfolk warriors, forming a veritable storm.

The last three boarfolk warriors managed to rush forward ten meters, only firing their crossbow bolts before being riddled with arrows, collapsing as they tumbled.

Leo shot an arrow as well, but in his haste, it merely grazed a boarfolk warrior and disappeared into the woods.

In the blink of an eye, a squad of eight boarfolk hunters was wiped out, leaving only four frenzied one-horned war boars.

The wildfolk were well practiced at handling these beasts; before they could charge, the hunters scrambled up the trees, clinging tightly.

Leo imitated them, quickly climbing a tree. He had just reached five or six meters when the entire tree shook violently, nearly tossing him off.

A powerful one-horned war boar had rammed the tree, its horn nearly a foot long embedded deep in the trunk.

Despite the force, the boar was unharmed, merely struggling to pull its horn free.

Leo drew his steel sword, gripped it with both hands, point down, and leapt from the tree.

Using the momentum of his fall, he drove the blade deep into the boar’s neck, nearly piercing through.

Habitually, Leo twisted the sword and pulled it sideways.

Half the boar’s neck was sliced open, blood spraying, its thrashing quickly subsiding until it stiffened.

The other three wildfolk hunters switched to bone spears and, working together, slew the remaining war boars.

When the fight ended, the lead wildfolk hunter approached Leo, glanced at the slain boar, then at Leo’s steel sword, envy shining in his eyes.

“My name is Bjorn,” the hunter said, extending his right hand. “I’ve seen you before.”

“I’m Leo,” Leo replied, quickly reaching out and gripping Bjorn’s arm—the traditional greeting of the Northfolk.

“How did you come to be here?” Leo asked. Though they were close to the riverside camp, it was still dozens of miles from the great waterfall.

“The boarfolk are growing more numerous. We need to kill some of them,” Bjorn answered simply. Sensing Leo’s next question, he added, “Not every fight goes so smoothly. Sometimes we suffer heavy losses, especially in larger battles.”

Leo understood well. The wildfolk were skilled archers, but their armor and weapons were primitive, while the boarfolk warriors possessed immense strength, naturally outmatching the wildfolk.

In close combat, the wildfolk would be at a disadvantage. Once the boarfolk gathered in numbers, led their war boars in a charge to disrupt the wildfolk’s archery, and the melee began, the wildfolk could only retreat.