Stronric groaned as he slung his axe into its holster, the weight of the weapon feeling heavier than ever. Mounds of the dead lay scattered over the field like leaves in the fall, their lifeless forms twisted and broken beneath the dawn’s first light. The dead trolls, their massive bodies piled up like a dam against the tide of gnoll corpses, loomed over the battlefield as grim sentinels to the brutal carnage.
Stronric took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. Hunger gnawed at his stomach like a burrowing insect, and his head swam every time he moved. Stronric licked at his cracked, bloodied lips, but his tongue was as dry as old parchment. Cuts, bruises, and wounds peppered his body, each one a dull, throbbing reminder of his ordeal. Despite it all, he raised his head to the rising sun, feeling its warmth slowly spreading over his battle-worn frame. A weary but genuine smile broke across his face.
“My Thane!” a voice broke the stillness.
Stronric turned to see his kin—Rugiel, Bauru, and Gromli—kneeling before him with their fists pressed over their hearts. His clansmen, battered and bloodied from the same battle, gazed up at him with unwavering loyalty. A rare, stinging sensation welled up in his eyes, and he hastily rubbed away a stray tear, unwilling to let it fall.
“Rise, my kinsmen,” Stronric commanded, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. “I have completed my trial. Is the clan satisfied? Have I bled enough to wash away my shame?” His voice was stern, laced with the weight of duty even now.
The three exchanged glances and whispered amongst themselves. Rugiel and Bauru were the first to rise, running to him without hesitation. They embraced him fiercely, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“You idiot,” Rugiel whispered, her voice choked with emotion. She clung to him tightly, heedless of the blood and grime staining her face. Stronric winced as Bauru’s grip tightened on one of his wounds, drawing a pained groan from him. But Stronric returned the sibling’s embrace, letting their warmth and presence ground him in this moment of shared relief. Rugiel was crying freely, her tears mingling with the dirt and blood on her cheeks. Bauru’s one good eye was reddened, and he pretended to adjust his eye patch, as if to disguise his own emotions. Stronric looked over them and saw Gromli standing a few paces away, watching the group with an unreadable expression. The cook finally stepped forward, shaking his head.
“Thane, I think you’re a fool,” Gromli said plainly. He paused, as if searching for the right words, before adding, “But I’m happy to see you alive.”
Stronric stepped forward and clasped Gromli’s forearm in a firm grip. “Ye will learn in time, Beardling,” he replied, his voice low but resolute. “If we are not held responsible for our actions, how can I trust ye to hold the shield wall in war?”
Gromli’s brow furrowed in thought, but he nodded solemnly, recognizing the lesson buried beneath Stronric’s words. The cook’s grip tightened slightly, a silent promise of his understanding.
As the first light of dawn bathed them in a golden glow, the bond between Stronric and his kin grew stronger. They stood together amidst the wreckage of battle, united not just by blood, but by loyalty, trust, and the unyielding resolve to honor the oaths they had taken.
The silence after Stronric’s words was broken by the soft clinking of weapons, a hesitant, almost tentative sound that quickly grew louder. The humans, still dazed from the battle, slowly began to realize they had won. One by one, they began to rise from their positions around the encampment, their eyes fixed on Stronric and the dwarves. A murmur spread through their ranks, words of awe and relief passing like wildfire.
It started with a single cheer, a voice from the back of the gathered villagers that cut through the quiet. A young militiaman, face smeared with soot and blood, raised his sword to the sky and let out a jubilant cry. The sound rippled through the ranks like the rolling thunder of an approaching storm. One by one, others joined in, raising their weapons high and shouting with newfound energy. The villagers began slamming their swords against their shields, the rhythmic clang of steel-on-steel rising to a deafening crescendo. Those who wielded axes thumped them against the ground in unison, creating a steady beat like the pounding of a war drum. The few with spears hammered their weapons’ shafts against the dirt, their cheers becoming a chant that echoed across the blood-stained field.
“Stronric! Stronric! Stronric!” they chanted, their voices growing louder with each repetition. Stronric’s name echoed through the morning air, the villagers reclaiming it as a symbol of pride and victory. They looked to him now, not just as a foreign dwarf who led them in battle, but as a leader who had earned their respect through blood and steel.
Stronric stood among them, his expression a mixture of fatigue and something deeper, something almost akin to gratitude. He had been prepared to face whatever judgment awaited him, to accept his fate with the stoic resolve of his ancestors. But now, surrounded by the sound of steel and the roars of men and women who fought beside him, he felt the weight of his burdens lessen.
Rugiel and Bauru looked around, their eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and pride at the reaction from the villagers. Even Gromli couldn’t hide a grin as he listened to the human’s cheer, his hand resting on the handle of his enormous ladle as if it were a trusted weapon.
Stronric, ever the stoic, tried to hide the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The humans had chosen to embrace him in their own way, acknowledging her leadership and her sacrifice.
Bauru leaned in slightly and muttered, “Not bad for a bunch o’ manlings, eh?” He chuckled, his voice heavy with emotion, though he still tried to appear unaffected.
Rugiel smiled at the small army with pride and awe in her eyes. She turned back to Stronric when the chants began to change. A human stepped out and began to beat his hand on his chest. The thunderous cheer altered, and another name began to stand out. “Rugiel, warrior maiden. Rugiel, warrior maiden.” The humans faced Rugiel in as one and all mirror the first man. They showed her the respect of the king’s general who lead her mismatched army to victory. Rugiel began to cry again as her surprise, gratitude and happiness shone brightly.
Stronric nodded slowly, acknowledging the humans’ cheers with a simple, respectful incline of his head. He joined in to cheer, beating rhythmically on his chest for the Warrior Maiden who fought, taught and turned the tide to victory. Rugiel turned to face them all and dipped into a graceful bow. Stronric turned back to the humans and raised his arm, gesturing for silence. The villagers gradually quieted, their weapons lowering but their eyes locked back on him. The silence that followed was not one of apprehension, but of anticipation, waiting for their leader to speak.
The moment felt surreal, as if the world itself were holding its breath in reverence for this battered dwarf who had fought so fiercely to protect them. Stronric took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he was about to say.
“Quiet!” Stronric roared, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. The villagers fell silent, their eyes fixed on the weary dwarf standing at the heart of their encampment.
“I should be cheering for ye,” Stronric continued, his voice now carrying a rough edge that reverberated through the crowd. “Ye are the ones who held the line. Yer blood kept my kin safe. Some of us have paid the ultimate sacrifice for our friends and our families. And while our blood feeds this ground, we can only hope it feeds the roots of a future yet to come.”
He paused, letting his words hang heavy in the air, and took in the faces of the villagers before him. He saw not just exhaustion and fear, but something deeper, a resilience forged through hardship.
“I know ye are farmers, millers, carpenters,” Stronric said, his voice growing more intense with every word, “but now I see warriors! Warriors forged in the heat of battle and quenched in blood. Ye have given more than I could ever ask. If ye wish, ye can leave—go home, put away yer weapons, and forget this ever happened. Ye have done enough. But!” He raised a finger to his lips, his expression fierce.
“Ye hear that?” he asked, his tone dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that forced the villagers to strain their ears. “The beasts are in the woods, the wolves at our gates, they’re still out there, waiting like the cowards they are. They’ll wait for ye to put down those weapons and reach for the plow. Unless we drive them back and force them from this land, they’ll keep waiting.”
He let the words settle, watching the expressions on the villagers’ faces shift from uncertainty to resolve. Stronric’s eyes narrowed, his voice rising once more as he addressed them directly. “Manlings?! No Warriors! Do ye wish to let the beast claw at yer gates? Or will ye protect yer village again?!”
The villagers drank in every word, their faces reflecting the horrors they had endured. Their hands tightened on their weapons, and slowly, a defiant shout began to rise among them. They screamed and yelled, a cry of raw defiance and fury, rejecting the role of prey and embracing their new identity as protectors.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Stronric’s heart swelled with pride, and he pulled his axe free from its holster, raising it high above his head. The dawn’s light gleamed off its edge, and for a moment, it seemed to burn with a white flame, a sign of Thoranthana’s flame, or perhaps just a trick of the light.
“Prepare yerselves,” he declared, his voice carrying over the din. “For we march on the portal at tomorrow’s light!”
The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices rising like a tide. They were no longer a band of scared villagers, they were warriors, ready to reclaim their land and their future.
Later that day
Stronric rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked around the small tent Gromli had set up for him. He was naked except for a loincloth, and almost every inch of his body was covered in bandages. A steaming bowl of Gromli’s “Soldier’s Blood” sat on a side table next to him. Stronric had eaten six bowls of soup, and drank ten tankards of beer before he had laid down to recover. He reached over and quickly ate the bowl. Setting down it back down and stiffly he laid back down on the cot.
Stronric closed his eyes and just enjoyed being alive when he saw the notifications he had been ignoring the last three days. With a sigh Stronric opened them and looked over what was so important.
Age:73
Race: Dwarf (E)
Class: Herald Of the Ancestors
Level:37
Strength: 28.7
Dexterity: 13
Agility: 16
Vitality: 24
Endurance: 27.6
Wisdom: 13
Intelligence: 10
Charisma: 11
Allocatable points: 132
Conditions:
Blessing of the Hearth (Minor)
Dwarven resistance (race)
Grudge Bearer (clan)
Titles:
Avenging son
Troll slayer
Gifts
Seeker of the gods.
World walker
Student of the Gods.
Butcher.
One against all
Stronric sucked in a breath when he saw that he had gained over ten levels. The surprise didn’t end there. His base stats had grown, and he gained two new titles: Butcher and One Against All. Stronric was overwhelmed with it all and decided he would just take it one at a time. Starting at the titles since they shouldn’t be more than a simple read. He focused on the first title butcher
Title: Butcher, Awarded for slaying over 500 enemies above your level within a week.
Description: Bestowed upon those who wade into battle with relentless ferocity, cleaving through their foes with grim precision and unyielding resolve. The title of "Butcher" marks a warrior whose mere presence turns the tide, their ruthlessness and mastery of combat leaving none to stand in their wake. Those who bear this title are feared for their savage prowess and revered for their tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds.
Stat Bonuses:
Strength +4
Endurance +3
Vitality +2
Charisma +1
Stronric was shocked when he read the description. Did I really slay that many beasts? Stronric pulled on his beard and thought back to the nights. They were a blur of pain, hunger and thirst. It was hard for him to separate the days from each other. They had bled into each other, using the times he meditated as fixed point in time. Shaking his head he read the next trait.
Title: One Against All. Awarded for standing against over 250 enemies while alone.
Description: Granted to those who have stood alone against overwhelming hordes, holding their ground with unbreakable will and relentless determination. The title of "One Against All" signifies a warrior's unmatched resilience and ferocity, embodying the strength of a single soul against the tide of legions. It bestows the power to face insurmountable odds and emerge victorious, unbowed and unbroken. Stat Bonuses:
Endurance +5
Vitality +4
Strength +3
Wisdom +2
That's why my stats jumped so much. These titles give whole point bonuses. Rugiel said titles were a big deal.
Rugiel had taught Stronric that titles were heavily sought after, and how they increased your stats without needing to level. She never talked about titles giving whole points increases though. Stronric smiled as he thought of how Bauru and Rugiel would react when he told them. Stronric knew he had high stats when he first met the siblings but now, he was starting to become a different beast all together. He had noticed the higher his vitality was the faster he healed. He would probably be fully healed by the night, and for certain by the next morning.
Next Stronric turned to the other notifications.
Axe mastery: level 23.
Stronric just snorted at that and shook his head.
Meditation: level 12
Stronric raised an eyebrow at that. What is that? Focusing on the skill to bring up the information panel.
Skill: Meditation
Description: Mastery of the mind and spirit, allowing one to enter a state of deep focus and inner tranquility. Through disciplined breathing and mental fortitude, practitioners of Meditation can temporarily clear their thoughts, reconnect with their inner strength, and harness their latent energies. This skill not only restores mental and physical stamina but also sharpens awareness and heightens the practitioner's ability to sense the flow of energy within and around them. As mastery grows, the user can enter deeper states of meditation, unlocking hidden potential, attuning to the natural world, and gaining insights that transcend the conscious mind.
All the time spent working on his Soul Forge must have caused Stronric to level up rapidly. Sitting up, he closed his eyes and entered a meditative state, feeling the familiar calm wash over him. In his mind’s eye, he could see the chaotic energy swirling around, like winds carrying distinct scents, each with its own presence. Focusing, he began to separate them, letting his senses differentiate the tangled strands of energy. The Ruhna slowly responded, gathering around him in a more orderly flow. Stronric drew a steady breath, letting the energy coalesce and build. He held it for a moment before releasing it with a slow exhale. Opening his eyes, he noted the change, the energy had come to him much faster this time, and he felt a newfound control over its ebb and flow. It was as if the Forge within him was now more closely in sync with his spirit.
As he examined the gains and growth within himself, Stronric couldn’t help but feel a measure of satisfaction. He hadn’t sought out these new traits or actively worked to level them up, but their emergence felt like a validation of his efforts. Yet, a shadow of doubt lingered in the back of his mind. Was the trial truly an act of selflessness, or had it been selfish after all? He had needed to cleanse the shame from himself, to seek redemption in the eyes of his kin, but now, looking over the changes in his character sheet, a conflicting thought gnawed at him. Would it have been a more fitting penance to let others gain strength while he bore the weight of his transgression in silence? Stronric clenched his fists, pondering the choices that lay ahead.
Stronric looked over his character sheet trying to decide where to spend his points. He had a ton of them and was a little overwhelmed by the ordeal. The massive jump in stats made him wonder if there was even a limit to how much one could improve their stats. Was there a limit or was the ceiling endless? If he kept pumping all his stats in his body base stats would that leave him a dumb fool? He sat upright and mediated hoping clarity would come to him.
Gromli came into the tent with another bowl of steaming soul and replacement tankard. He looked at Stronric sitting with his eyes closed and quietly removed the empty bowl and tankard. One of Stronric eyes cracked up, Gromli smiled “Keep eating Stronric you need to regain your strength.”
Stronric moved to grab the bowl, “Gromli, yer a cook, right?”
Gromli nodded to him, “yeah?”
“What stats do you use for yer class?” Stronric asked.
Gromli looked surprised by the question, no one had ever asked him before. Who would want to know or care what a cook used to get more “powerful”.
“Well, mainly its intelligence, wisdom and vitality.” Gromli said putting down the dirty dishes and taking a seat on an empty chair in the tent.
Stronric tugged thoughtfully at his beard, considering the nature of Intelligence and Wisdom. Gromli, always eager to explain, chimed in, “Well, ye see, Thane, Intelligence is important when ye cook for a crowd. Most folk don’t realize it, but cooking’s a lot closer to alchemy than they'd care to admit. We mix all sorts of unknown plants, materials, and liquids to grant different benefits. Anyone can roast a chicken, sure, but few can make that chicken boost a party’s ability to fight.”
Stronric leaned in, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “And it’s not just throwin’ ingredients together. There’s math in it too. Proportions, measurements, temperatures, ye must know what ye’re doin’. Wisdom helps, too. I swear I’ve developed a sixth sense for when things’ll explode, spoil, or burn just by sniffing the air. It’s like I can see the world simmerin’ in front of me, just waitin’ to boil over.”
Gromli rubbed his chin, thinking back. “Even out there in the battlefield, I’d get this feelin’ like a pot about to overflow. I’d duck, and next thing I knew, a blade was swingin’ over my head. Don’t know any other classed cooks, but since increasin’ my Wisdom, that sense has only gotten sharper.”
Stronric raised an eyebrow, listening intently as Gromli continued. “And then there’s Vitality,” he added with a chuckle. “We eat the unknown, Thane. There’s always a chance a dish might poison us or blow up in our faces. Can’t have a cook droppin’ dead after every new recipe, can we?” He gave a hearty laugh. “For my class to gain levels, it’s not just about cookin’ and fightin’. We have to explore, experiment, and deepen our knowledge of the culinary unknown.”
Stronric nodded, “Thank ye Gromli, I think ye might have helped me with my problem.”
Gromli looked at him surprise, “Oh? Well glad I could be of help. Just so you know they are almost done stripping the battlefield like you asked. The sun is going to set soon, and the others are getting ready to prepare for the night. Just thought you would want to know.”
Gromli left Stronric and Stronric opened his stat screen and spent his points.
Age:73
Race: Dwarf (E)
Class: Herald Of the Ancestors
Level:37
Strength: 30.1
Dexterity: 16
Agility: 16
Vitality: 24
Endurance: 27.6
Wisdom: 18
Intelligence: 15
Charisma: 13
Allocatable points: 0
Spending all his points mainly in mental stats and charisma he hoped on Thoranthana’s beard he made the right choice.