Chapter Eleven (TIBK)

[Tutorial Quest #4 (out of 7): The duelist —— Completed!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Strength]

[STRENGTH: 13 → 18] 

[Reward Claimed: 5 Points in Agility]

[AGILITY: 3 → 8] 

[Reward Claimed: 2,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward Claimed: Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze)]

[Skill Upgrade Crystal (Bronze): Upgrade any skill of choice to D tier. Only usable for F-tier skills.]

[Reward Claimed: Identify]

[Identify: Ability. Must be equipped to Cast. ]

———

[New Quest issued:]

[Tutorial Quest #5 (out of 7): Leader of the Pack ]

[Quest Type: Martial]
[Objective: Rally a warband under your banner and crush an enemy force of 50 souls or more in a single battle. ]

[New Quest issued:]

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery ]

[Quest Type: Learning]
[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]

———

[Existing Quest:]
[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest ]

[Quest Type: Stewardship]
[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (0/5000)]

———

[Tutorial Quest #7 (out of 7): ???]

[Quest Currently Locked!]

[Complete All Previous Quests to Unlock!]

———

Relief, sharp and swift, washed over him. 

It’s done. Against a Snow Realm Rank Three opponent, hampered by idiot rules and crippling low agility. Eirik catalogued the immediate outcomes, breathing deeply despite the discomfort. 

But first, the spoils.

His mind quickly scrolled past his increase in strength, agility, and mana fragments. Power surged through him, and the heavy practice sword, which felt like an anchor moments ago, suddenly felt light. Moreover, his balance felt surer, grounded yet fluid. The agility upgrade meant he’d transformed from a tortoise to… passably average fighter? Maybe better? The sheer relief was staggering. Leif’s last, desperate feint would have been trivial to counter with this. No more clumsy over-reliance on strength alone. 

This changes everything. 

As for the mana fragments, his immediate thought was to reserve them for a realm rank upgrade soon. The training today not only crossed another objective out of his to-do list, but also made him realize that he could generate skill-specific mana fragments just by training and doing combat. Essentially, he could just swing the sword for long enough time and the skill will naturally progress to the next level. Which means the free mana fragments should NOT be spent on skills unless absolutely necessary. 

Skill Mastery was more or less a quite straight-forward quest. 

Getting one Skill to C- Rank, and choosing Swordsmanship is pretty much a no-brainer. The duel had proven the skill system’s core mechanic: do the thing, gain the progress. Swinging the sword earned his swordsmanship fragments. He could level these skills purely through practice, and use the free mana fragments for realm upgrade only. 

Three more skills to D rank. Maybe Alchemy to make himself available to potions for healing and enhancements? He’s got a great foundation in intellect, after all. Or adding Stealth for a more assassination-type of build? What’s next? He’d have to think about this more. 

He compartmentalized the learning mission away, and focused on the “Leader of the Pack mission.” 

The objective was brutally clear, yet the prospects were daunting. Rally a warband. Crush fifty enemies. He had the legitimacy of his Stormcrow name now,but legitimacy didn’t fill bellies or forge loyalty. His coffers were empty. His “retinue” consisted of Harkin. Recruiting capable fighters, equipping them, feeding them — it all screamed the one resource he desperately lacked: money. 

He needed to strategize how he’d go about this carefully and deliberately when he got back to his quarters. 

Now, the thing that made him so very curious that he’d save it for last. 

[Identify: Ability. Must be equipped to Cast. ]

Equip. 

He focused his mind, visualizing the ability. Mentally, he reached for the first of his only available Mana Slot (the next slot would unlock at Snow Realm Rank 3). He imagined slotting the intangible concept for [Identify] into it.

[Ability: Identify equipped to Slot One.]

[Equip Cost: 2 Mana.]

[Mana: 3/5]

Can I use this on myself? He quickly scanned his own hands, summoning his mana. A faint, almost imperceptible chill radiated from his core, channeled into the spell.

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[Cast Cost: 1 Mana. ]

[MANA: 2/5]

[TARGET: EIRIK STORMCROW (SELF)]

[REALM: SNOW (RANK 2)]

[STATS: STR 18, END 7, AGI 8, INT 12, CHA 6; Mana: 2/5]

[SKILLS: SWORDMANSHIP: (D); OTHERS (F)]

[TALENTS: (LOCKED)]

[ABILITIES: IDENTIFY (EQUIPPED)]

… 

This would be pretty neat, if he can cast this also on enemies or allies to obtain intel. He thought about using it on Cedric, Garrick, or maybe his potential… matchmaking prospects. Before the outside world intruded sharply. 

"Uhngh!"

Leif was groaning, being helped to his feet by two other nobles, his right arm cradled uselessly. Garrick Stormcrow shoved his way towards the fallen noble, his face purple with fury. Ignoring the sword entirely. 

“Get him to the infirmary! Now! ” He whirled, spittle flying as he jabbed a finger towards Eirik. “You cheating filth!”

Marshal Gunnar moved swiftly, planting his massive frame between Garrick and Eirik. “Enough Lord, Garrick! The duel is decided by the rules set! Your brother won within those rules.” He turned to Eirik. “You! Collect… your prize.” His tone made it clear the sword was the least of his concerns right now.

Eirik nodded, gaze fell to the magnificent longsword lying on the frozen ground where Leif had dropped it. He focused his will on the sword, pouring his mana towards the [Identify] ability. 

[CASTING: IDENTIFY]

[MANA: 1/5]

Blue text shimmered into existence before his eyes, superimposed over the visual reality of the sheathed sword: 

[ITEM: HOUSE FENRIR’S HEIRLOOM LONGSWORD]

[TYPE: LONGSWORD (MASTERWORK)]

[MATERIAL: PATTERN-WELDED ICE-STEEL CORE (PRIMARY), HIGH-CARBON STEEL (CLADDING), SILVER (POMMEL/GUARD]

[ENCHANTMENTS:]

[CHILLED EDGE (PASSIVE)]: Inflicts minor frost damage on successful strikes, allowing minor muscle reactions in the wound area. 

[REINFORCED STRUCTURE (PASSIVE)]: Resistant to shattering and deformation. Maintains edge exceptionally well. 

[HOUSE FENRIR BOND (PASSIVE)]: Attuned to the bloodline of House Fenrir. Grants minor proficiency bonus to wields of Fenrir lineage. 

[ENCHANTMENT TIER: FROST]

[ESTIMATED VALUE: 1,500 SILVER TALONS]

Magnificent. 

Eirik’s breath caught. The information was invaluable. Far beyond just knowing it was a good sword. The Chilled Edge passive explained the faint frost trails Cedric could summon — a weaker version, perhaps, inherent in the blade itself. It offered a tactical advantage, however small. The Reinforced Structure meant durability, essential in the harsh Wastes. The House Fenrir Bond was a minor irritation — a small bonus he couldn’t access — but irrelevant compared to the other perks. 

And the value… 1,500 Silver Talons! That was a significant chunk of the 10,000 Silver needed for the Warchest quest! Selling it is now a serious option if absolutely necessary. But holding onto a weapon of this quality was far more appealing for survival. Knowledge is power. 

This ability… is incredible. 

———

Pain screamed up Leif’s arm and legs, but it was a distant echo beneath the tsunami of humiliation crashing over him. Lost. Lost to HIM. The bastard. The creature everyone spat on. Two days ago, seeing Eirik sprawled in mud after Garrick tripped him was just… entertainment. Now… now he — Leif Fenrir — was the one dragged through filth before his peers. 

He’s ruined me.

He felt the nobles hauling him upright. He caught Garrick’s furious glare – not sympathy, but disgust at the inconvenience of his defeat. Leif’s vision swam, but not just from pain. He saw his mother’s tear-streaked face again, the day Brynn was dragged away. Brynn wasn't just his grandfather; Brynn had raised him after Leif’s own father died young in Cedric’s service. Brynn had been his rock, his mentor, the one smoothing his path within Stormkeep. And I promised Mother I’d save him. This duel was supposed to be his redemption, the proof of his strength. Now? Brynn would die in the mines. His mother would weep forever. And Leif… Leif was the noble heir who lost everything to a bastard.

Brynn had been negotiating a crucial betrothal for him – Lady Astrid of Deepwood, a prestigious match that would elevate House Fenrir significantly. Gone. All gone. He’d become a joke, forever marked as weaker than the stain on Cedric’s honor. 

Then he saw it. Eirik was turning away from him. Turning towards his sword. House Fenrir’s Heirloom. The symbol of their lineage, their honor, their loyalty to the Stormcrows. The beautiful blade forged by master smiths, the ice-steel core whispering of ancient frost, the silver wolf’s head pommel snarling defiance. His most prized possession. More than prized. It was part of him. Its weight, its balance, the subtle hum of mana when channeled through it — a promise of the great warrior he was destined to become. Leif watched as Eirik’s calm gaze shifting downwards towards the sword. 

Leif watched, numb horror freezing his blood, as Eirik’s hand descended towards the familiar leather-wrapped hilt – the hilt Leif’s own hands had polished a thousand times. He’s going to touch it. He’s going to take it. That filthy bastard’s hands are going to soil Great Grandfather’s blade. MY BLADE! He couldn’t let it end like this. He wouldn’t. There had to be something left.

“W-wait!” Leif’s voice cracked. 

He wrenched himself away from the nobles supporting him, staggering a step forward despite the agony in his arms and legs. All eyes snapped to him. Garrick’s glare was now a mixture of annoyance and impatience. Marshal Gunnar’s expression hardened into granite. Eirik paused, his hand hovering inches above the sword’s grip, eyes lifted to meet Leif’s.

Leif sucked in a desperate breath. “Stormcrow!” He rasped. “Duel me again!”

A stunned silence descended heavier than before. Even Garrick was taken aback. 

“Fenrir…” Gunnar’s voice was a low rumble of warning. 

Leif’s mind raced, fueled by panic. The betrothal is already hanging by a thread! If word spreads I lost my heirloom sword to the Bastard... Astrid’s father will formally withdraw. House Frostmantle won’t tie their daughter to a disgraced house led by a failure. He saw Garrick staring at him like he was mad. Let him stare! He doesn’t understand! My name, my future, Grandfather’s life... it’s all slipping away! He had to get the sword back.

“Listen!” Leif desperately announced. “The sword… it’s yours. But…” Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold, mingling with the grime from the ground. “I wager House Fenrir’s Skyfrost Cloak! Passed down from the founding! Woven with wyvern down, enchanted for warmth and lightness! Worth twice that sword! Fight me again! Right now! First blood! Real swords! You win, you take the cloak as well! I win…” His voice hitched. “I win, I take my sword back!”

The offer hung in the frigid air. The Skyfrost Cloak. Leif hadn’t even inherited it officially yet, but it was the next most significant heirloom of his house. The sheer audacity, the desperation of the gamble, was breathtaking. The nobles murmured, eyes wide. Garrick stared at Leif as if he’d lost his mind entirely.

Eirik straightened slowly. He hadn’t touched the sword yet. 

“No,” Eirik said. “The terms were clear. The duel is over.”

The rejection made Leif sway. He won’t duel. Coward! He steals my sword, my honor, my future… and just walks away? Like I’m nothing? 

“No, Fenrir!” Marshal Gunnar’s voice cracked like thunder, freezing Leif in place. The Marshal stepped close. “You will stop. You are injured. You are not thinking clearly. You dishonor yourself and your house with this display.” He looked past Leif at the nobles still holding him. “Take him. To the infirmary. Now. If he resists, restrain him.” He turned to Eirik. “Take your prize, Lord Eirik, and leave this yard. Report back for training tomorrow at dawn.” The ‘Lord’ held a distinct note of displeasure. 

Finish him. The thought crystallized in Eirik’s mind. Leif was a loose end, a noble son simmering with hatred and shame, backed by Garrick. Letting him leave meant that he would plan revenge against him and would at best become a constant nuisance or an actual formidable foe at worst. He wanted none of that. He needed to push Leif over that edge. Subtly. 

Eirik turned his back on Leif’s pleas and Gunnar’s scolding. Deliberately. Slowly. He focused entirely on the sword lying on the ground – Leif’s sword. He made his movements deliberate, unhurried. He crouched, making a show of examining the gleaming pommel. Look at it. Appreciate it. It’s already mine. 

He let his fingers hover over the leather grip for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Feel it, Leif. Feel me claiming what’s yours. Then, with deliberate, possessive slowness, his fingers closed around the familiar leather-wrapped hilt. He lifted it, the blade catching the weak sun. Look at it in my hand. Your family’s pride. Held by the bastard you despise.

Eirik kept his posture relaxed, seemingly oblivious to Leif’s agony. He projected utter indifference. Like you’re already irrelevant, Leif. Like your house doesn’t matter. 

Because it doesn’t. 

A raw, animalistic sound tore from Leif’s throat — a guttural scream of rage, pain, and utter despair. He threw himself forward with the last surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, wrenching himself violently from the grasp of the startled nobles holding him. The agony in his arm and legs was nothing now, consumed by the volcanic fury erupting within him. 

He didn’t strategize. There were no feints, no stances. There was only the overwhelming, blinding need to destroy the source of his ruin. His left hand, still clumsy from disuse and throbbing from Eirik’s earlier blow, shot towards the dagger sheathed at his belt. It wasn’t a noble dueling weapon. It was a dagger used for desperate moments like these. 

With a violent, convulsive wrench, he tore free from the stunned nobles holding him, and lunged forward like a rabid beast. A flicker of deep hued blue flashed at the dagger’s sharp point. 

Frostbite Edge. 

The recognition slammed into Eirik’s mind. Leif wasn’t lunging blindly. He was channeling mana, pouring all of his Rank Three core’s power into a spell designed to shatter bone and freeze blood. On cold steel. As frost visibly bloomed over the steel of Leif’s dagger, forming intricate, jagged patterns.

Eirik acted. 

Instead of trying to complete his own sword draw or dodge fully, he committed forward. His solution wasn’t clean nor elegant, but what the hell.

He dropped his center of gravity, bending his knees deeply. Simultaneously, he released the hilt of the Fenrir sword, letting it slide back into its sheath with a sharp Shink. His newly empowered strength propelled his now-free right hand not towards a weapon, but towards the ground. He scooped up a handful of the frost-slicked, grit-filled earth and pebbles where he’d been standing a second before. 

Leif’s dagger, now wreathed in shimmering cold vapor, began its descent — a savage arc aimed at Eirik’s head and shoulder. 

Eirik straightened from his crouch in a single explosive motion, using his powerful legs like springs. As he rose, his right arm whipped forward, hurling the dense clump of frozen mud, gravel, and half-melted snow directly into Leif Fenrir’s face. 

SPLAT! 

The impact was brutal and utterly unexpected. The heavy, gritty mass smashed into Leif’s eyes, nose, and open, snarling mouth. He choked, blinded instantly. The furious concentration needed to sustain Frostbite Edge wavered. The icy patterns on the dagger flickered wildly as his mana flow was violently interrupted by the shock and suffocating grit filling his mouth and nose. The dagger’s descent faltered, losing a bit of its lethal intent and momentum. 

Eirik didn’t pause. Capitalizing on Leif’s momentary blindness, he whipped the sheathed Fenrir sword upwards in a savage short arc. Leif, unable to see it, dove headlong into it.

CRACK-THUD!

The heavy pommel of the sheathed Fenrir sword — the snarling silver wolf head — slammed brutally into Leif’s forearm with bone-jarring force. Eirik felt a searing flash of cold erupt from the point of contact, while Leif screamed. The enchanted dagger flew from his spasming hand, clattering harmlessly onto the frozen earth several feet away. 

The whole sequence, from the lunge to the disarm, spanned less than ten breathes. 

Marshal Gunnar’s roar shattered the stillness. 

“FENRIR! YOU FLAYED IDIOT!”

He moved like an avalanche, covering the distance in a few strides. He didn’t offer help, but instead planted a heavy boot on Leif’s forearm, pinning it to the ground with crushing force. Leif screamed and struggled uselessly against the Marshal’s bulk and fury.

“You drew steel on a fellow trainee!” Gunnar thundered. “In MY yard! After a duel decided by the rules YOU demanded!” Spittle flew. “You spit on discipline! You spit on honor! You spit on House Fenrir’s name!”

Leif writhed, his face pale except for the livid bruise blossoming on his cheekbone from the fall. “He… he took it… my sword…!” He choked out, the words barely coherent. 

“He won it! Fairly! Under the rules YOU agreed to!” Gunnar leaned down, his face inches from Leif’s. “YOU drew steel outside the duel! YOU used a mana ability with intent to kill! YOU have violated every law of this yard, every code of honor!” He gestured violently at the guards nearby. “You two! Bind his hands! NOW! Take him directly to the Ice Cells! He will face the Baron’s judgment for attempting an assault with lethal intent!”

The two guards flinched and obeyed, roughly hauling Leif upright despite his pained cries and securing his wrists behind his back. He offered no resistance now, just shuddering sobs.

“Humph!” Gunnar grunted. “A fine mess. Fine mess indeed.” He looked around the silent, tense yard. “Dismissed! All of you! Training is over! Guards, clear the yard! NOW!”