Note in hand, Sigurd followed the path past the eastern exit to Grimroost. The paper itself was the same parchment on which the bounty was written – the one with the crude drawing depicting the troll – but on it the Guildmaster had included more specific directions as to locations where sightings had occurred. Additionally, he had added a general hand-drawn map of the forest’s area, along with markers that would serve as waypoints and landmarks.
The first of such spots marked on the map was a watchtower, so Sigurd decided to head there immediately. ‘If I can get to a vantage point, I can get a better lay of the land,’ he thought.
Following the rough map the Guildmaster had sketched out proved to be both easier yet harder than anticipated; the map didn’t present the proper scale of the woods, thus the path to traverse would take a lot longer, but, at the same time, the forest itself had a pathway clearly carved into the ground from the number of people that had traveled it before him.
Joyce was no stranger to basic directions when it came to locating objectives in her former life – more often than not her missions contained very little intel on the surrounding areas, instead only informing her of the need-to-know basics. Radar and satellite imagery could only take one’s visualization so far, and thus she would need to improvise and adapt on the spot. It was what made her such an ace.
However, unlike the search for the girls when the bandits took them, there was nothing to go on other than people’s vague descriptions of where the Towering Troll was likely to appear; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Still, Sigurd moved a brisk pace and followed the forest’s winding path until he reached the first waypoint. He quickly climbed the stairs leading to the top and scoped out the forest. As far as the eye could see, trees stretched out into the horizon. There were a few dips where the treeline ended and other parts of the continent could be seen – notably Grimroost.
He stayed up there a few minutes, carefully observing the forest, scanning every tree, every minute movement, and every snapping of a branch or rustling of a bush in search of the foul beast. But the forest was motionless – or he was too far to perceive anything amiss – and so after those precious minutes had passed, he descended the tower and moved on.
‘You’d think with an official name like a Towering Troll that it would be easy to spot, but maybe it’s not that large after all,’ Sigurd pondered. ‘What even is a towering troll, anyway?’
Lost in his own musings as Sigurd kept trudging forth toward the next waypoint, what sounded like a scream snapped him out of it. Unsure of it – as the forest already had several peculiar sounds, from birds singing to other animals communicating their intent – he stopped in his tracks. Then, he heard it again; clear as day, a couple of shrill screams.
“Is that what I think it is? Fuck!” he cursed, stressed by his own speculation. “I’d better hurry!”
Turning in the direction of the screams, he ran off the beaten path and through the thicket. Bracing against the minor scrapes every stray branch would inflict on his arms and face, he rushed past dozens of trees, as the screams grew louder until he arrived at a small clearing. Then his fears were confirmed.
Baskets and herbs were scattered across the ground; at one end of the clearing, to his right, Sigurd spotted them. ‘Shit! I knew it. What are kids doing out here?!’ he thought, staring at a group of children that were huddled against a group of trees.
They were scared and whimpering, covering their eyes while also frozen in place. But before Sigurd could move over to console them or ask what was going on, his second fear was confirmed; from the bushes on the far side to his right, he heard it. A massive deep growl penetrated his ears as the massive beast known as the Towering Troll emerged.
Without a second thought, and in a split second, Sigurd rushed up to where the children were to shield them. “Go! Run and hide, and I’ll take care of this thing!” he instructed the kids in a panic.
His instincts kicked in and his main concern was making sure those random kids were safe, defeating the monster came second. From the slight glimpse he caught of them, none of the kids appeared to be hurt, they were only scared, but he knew he’d have to check on them afterward.
Standing at double Sigurd’s height, the troll was unlike anything he had ever seen – so far in the new world, or even in fiction. It had pale, sickly green skin, was almost bare from head to toe save for a thick loincloth firmly attached at the hip, and bore a small tree trunk as a club. Its face, though hideously shaped, was surprisingly clean; other than two massive canines poking out from its lower jaw, the creature had no blemishes, scars, or even a dribble of drool. Lastly, its mane was neatly organized into a ponytail, and around its neck, it wore a long necklace made of what appeared to be bones and appendages. The latter two were the most iconic features.
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“Damn, they don’t call him ‘Towering’ for nothing, huh?” Sigurd said aloud, briefly looking back to make sure the kids were clear of danger. Not sensing any of them, he faced the troll again and drew his sword, “Alright, let’s fucking go.”
He started the fight by rushing at the lumbering monster, unafraid of the club in its hand. Considering its size, Sigurd couldn’t employ any tactics suitable for regular opponents, so he thought of one thing that could change the die of battle: striking the troll’s limbs, but more specifically its tendons.
‘A wounded beast that can’t move is as good as dead!’ thought Joyce, as she effortlessly slid between the troll’s legs – narrowly dodging a ground bash from its trunk.
With swift and carefully calculated strikes, Sigurd broke no sweat in slashing at the monster’s Achilles’ Heels. Two slashes at each, and the monster howled in pain, but there was a setback. Its thick skin made it impervious to Sigurd’s blade. It was the equivalent of trying to defeat a fully armored knight with cat scratches.
The troll turned to swipe at Sigurd and grabbed him. As he felt the monster’s grip crushing his torso, he stabbed it in the wrist, as hard as possible, and it let him go. Sigurd took a few hops back, to catch his breath and widen the gap between them.
‘That was close,’ he thought, clutching at his chest. ‘I felt my entire rib cage crack there for a second. I’d better be careful not to let that happen again!’
Sigurd rushed in again, determined to try a different strategy. If simple slashes wouldn’t cut it, then he opted for pouncing on the troll. It was quick to counter his rush, swiping at the area in front of it with the club. The sheer size of the trunk and the wide, fan-like area the Towering Troll covered, made Sigurd stop in his tracks momentarily. The swipe created a gust from the force of it.
With his hair rustled, Sigurd recomposed and rushed in again. This time, he ran in from the outside, staying a wide margin away before closing the gap. His main advantage over his opponent was his smaller stature, and thus his speed. The troll couldn’t react in time when Sigurd was once again behind it.
Sticking to the strategy, Sigurd used the hilt of his sword to prong at its Popliteal Fossa. The beast staggered, stumbling forward a few steps while crying out in pain, but managed to maintain its balance. Again it turned to try to grab Sigurd, but he was more keen on its simple moves and swiftly dodged the swipe.
“So, physical attacks do hurt you!” he taunted loudly at the monster. With a grin, he added, “Now we’re getting somewhere!”
Again he put distance between him and the troll and backed away several meters. By that point, Sigurd had already formulated his plan for victory – it was a matter of implementing it. He rushed in as before. The troll performed another area-wide swipe with its makeshift club. And as before, Sigurd dodged it but miscalculated and tripped on a stray tree root.
The Towering Troll took advantage of Sigurd’s momentary collapse and swung down his log with force – at that speed, a lethal blow would be more than certain. However, Sigurd quickly reacted and stood back up, swinging his sword to parry the massive blow.
He used both hands – one on the hilt, holding the sword, and the other as a brace at the far edge of the blade’s dull side – to brace the impact. A force equivalent to being slammed into by a truck came down upon him, yet miraculously he was able to hold his own.
Sigurd’s feet sand into the dirt as the weight of the troll’s attack pushed him further. His muscles strained and trembling, and through ragged breaths, he managed to fend off the attack, but not before his precious sword snapped. With another quick swing of the club, the troll caught a distracted Sigurd and sent him flying across the clearing, all whilst shouting a monstrous victory roar.
Sliding across the rugged dirt, Sigurd recovered in a bounce, standing again. Bruises and scrapes covered his body, yet he felt energetic. In fact, despite the size difference, he wasn’t exhausted by the battle at all. The experiences he’d lived through and the levels he’d gained had proven beneficial; the troll was clearly lacking in levels.
“Compared to the bandit leader, you’re nothing!” he scoffed. He stared at his broken blade, figuring he could still use its jagged steel, and then stared the beast in its eyes, declaring, “Let’s end this!”
‘No creature is without a weak spot, so I have an idea!’ he thought.
As if sensing his murderous intent, the Towering Troll sluggishly ran at Sigurd, brandishing its club wildly. Unbeknownst to it, the monster was walking right into the Baron’s trap!
At the point both met – in the middle of the clearing – Sigurd dashed in, using his superior speed to gracefully evade the club’s massiveness, and locked into the troll’s shins. It was definitely a gamble, but it was one he would see through, assured it would bring him to victory; moments before the embrace, Sigurd pulled back his arm and readied his fist.
Combining his speed, burly body, level advantage, and overall tactical training, Sigurd delivered a single punch to the monster’s right shin. He heard a crack – unsure if it came from him or the beast, perhaps both – and it seemed to work. The troll let out a blood-curdling scream, dropping its weapon as it held its battered shin.
The balancing act it then did, of hopping on the other good foot while trying to soothe its fresh wound, provided Sigurd with the opportunity to enact the final part of his scheme. He dashed behind the beast, and, with a well-placed, sweeping kick to the back of the beast’s good foot, managed to send it toppling backward.
With a ground-shaking thud, the Towering Troll fell onto its back. And it was there, amid the creature’s confusion and pain, that Sigurd delivered the killing blow. He ran up to the monster, and, using its massive abdomen as a springboard, launched himself a few meters into the air. Once there, he pulled out his stubby, broken blade, and landed squarely on the beast’s neck, stabbing it with all the force he could muster.
The Towering Troll gurgled in failed attempts to catch its breath before succumbing to its grievous injury. As purple blood gushed from the wound and sprayed Sigurd, the man let out a victory howl. This was his first step in carving out his new path.
‘And I just took a bath after so long,’ he thought. ‘But none of that matters, because..!’
Sigurd lifted his arm in victory and brushed back his disheveled hair, laughing all the while. “Suck it, Jeremy!” he yelled madly.