The raiding bell echoed through Valda-Ashdock, its somber toll cutting through the early morning mist. I’d heard it countless times before, and while it always sent a chill down my spine, this time felt different. There was a heaviness in the air, a tension that even the villagers couldn’t hide.
“Wolfhart, stay inside,” Mother said firmly, pulling me away from the window where I’d been watching the guards rush to their positions along the lake’s edge. Her hands trembled, betraying the calm she was trying to maintain.
“Yes, Mother,” I replied, obediently retreating to my usual spot in the corner of the room.
The sounds outside painted a vivid picture in my mind: shouts of commands, the rhythmic stomp of boots on wooden planks, the eerie cries of the approaching Merlocks. Even without Hexa’s enhancements, I could imagine the grotesque creatures swarming the edges of the village, their bulbous eyes gleaming with malice.
“This raid is larger than usual,” Hexa noted, its voice a steady counterpoint to the chaos outside.
“How much worse are we talking?” I thought back.
“Significantly. The number of entities exceeds previous patterns, and their mana signatures suggest a higher average level.”
I didn’t need Hexa’s analysis to know this wasn’t an ordinary raid. I could feel it in the panicked footsteps outside, in the way my mother clutched her shawl, muttering prayers under her breath.
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The battle raged for what felt like hours. Father’s voice cut through the cacophony, barking orders to the guards as the sounds of clashing weapons and monstrous screeches grew louder.
“They’re pushing closer up the walls,” Hexa informed me. “The guard’s defenses are weakening.”
I gritted my teeth, helplessness washing over me. All I could do was sit and wait, listening as the village I called home fought for its survival.
Then, suddenly, the sounds shifted. The clash of steel gave way to shouts of pain and desperation.
“Hexa, what’s happening?”
“There are casualties among the town guard,” Hexa replied, its tone unusually grim. “Several members have fallen.”
The weight of those words settled over me like a lead blanket. The guards were Valda-Ashdock’s first and only line of defense. If they were falling, what chance did the rest of us have?
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Hours later, the bell tolled again—this time signaling the end of the raid. I crept to the window despite Mother’s protests, peering out at the aftermath.
The lake’s edge was littered with the bodies of Merlocks, their twisted forms a grotesque reminder of the danger they posed. But what caught my attention was the line of villagers carrying stretchers, their faces pale and solemn.
The stretchers bore the fallen guards.
I spotted Father among the survivors, his armor scorched and bloodied. Relief flooded me, but it was quickly overshadowed by the grim reality of what I was seeing.
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“They didn’t make it,” Hexa said quietly. “Seven members of the guard have been confirmed deceased.”
Seven. I scanned the faces of the survivors, recognizing some but not all. The absence of familiar faces struck me harder than I expected. These weren’t just nameless defenders—they were people I saw every day, people who had laughed and shared stories at the market, people who had made Valda-Ashdock feel safe.
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The next day, the village was somber. The fallen guards were honored in a simple ceremony at the town square. Father stood at the front, his face etched with grief as he spoke of their bravery and sacrifice.
“They gave their lives to protect this village,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “We will honor their memory by continuing to stand strong, as they would have wanted.”
The villagers murmured their agreement, but the weight of the losses was evident in their eyes.
As the ceremony concluded, my attention shifted to a small group of older children standing off to the side. They were barely teenagers, their faces pale but resolute.
“What’s going on with them?” I asked Hexa.
“They are preparing to join the town guard,” Hexa replied. “It is customary for those who reach the age of thirteen or fourteen to assume such roles when necessary.”
I frowned, watching as one of the older boys—Halrik’s friend Eran—stepped forward to speak with Father. His voice was steady, but his hands shook as he gripped a wooden training sword.
“I’m ready,” Eran said. “I’ll take my place with the guard.”
Father placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, nodding solemnly. “You’ve grown strong, Eran. Your courage will serve this village well.”
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Over the next few days, the older children began training with the surviving guards. They moved with awkward determination, their inexperience evident but their resolve unshakable. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, torn between admiration and dread.
“Hexa,” I asked one evening as I watched them practice, “how can they expect children to fight?”
“This society operates under necessity,” Hexa explained. “The survival of the village depends on every able-bodied individual contributing to its defense. Adolescents are considered ready to assume such roles due to their physical development and the first evolution of their profiles.”
I clenched my fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “They’re just kids.”
“You are also a child,” Hexa pointed out. “In time, you will face similar expectations.”
The thought sent a chill down my spine. This isn't right on earth we knew that.
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Father began including Halrik and me in more of his lessons, though the focus was still on building discipline rather than actual combat. Halrik, at Elven, was eager to prove himself, swinging his wooden sword with reckless abandon. I, on the other hand, found myself distracted, my mind replaying the scenes of the raid and the faces of the fallen guards.
“You’re thinking too much, Wolfhart,” Father said one evening as I hesitated before loosing an arrow at a target.
“I can’t help it,” I admitted. “What if I’m not ready when the time comes?”
Father crouched beside me, his expression softening. “No one ever feels ready, Wolfhart. But that’s why we train. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to be willing to stand when it matters.”
I nodded, gripping the bow tighter. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he said, ruffling my hair before standing.
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As the days passed, the village slowly returned to its routine. But the scars of the raid lingered. The new recruits worked tirelessly to fill the gaps left by the fallen, and the older guards carried a weariness that hadn’t been there before.
I threw myself into my training, determined to live up to the expectations I knew would one day fall on me. My stats were still abysmally low, but every run, every swing of a wooden weapon, felt like a step toward something greater.
“Hexa,” I thought one night as I lay in bed, “what do you think my potential is?”
“Your potential is vast,” Hexa replied. “But potential alone is meaningless without action. Continue to train, to learn, and to adapt. Only then will you understand what you are capable of.”
I closed my eyes, Hexa’s words echoing in my mind. The weight of the village’s survival pressed down on all of us, but for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope.
I wasn’t ready yet, but I would be.