Chapter 15: The Berserker from the North

The underground arena of The Nest had seen countless warriors fight and die, but Bjorn "The Berserker" Ironside was different.

Unlike the wild, reckless image one would expect from a man of his reputation, he fought with precision but brutal.

Bjorn stood calmly, feet planted, shoulders squared—his body language showing no hesitation, no wasted movement.

His opponent, a Crow assassin armed with twin daggers, circled him warily.

Bjorn remained still. Watching. Waiting.

The assassin struck first, lunging with a swift, fluid motion, aiming for Bjorn's ribs.

But the Viking warrior didn't step back.

Instead, he turned into the attack, twisting just enough that the dagger scraped his side rather than piercing him.

Before the assassin could pull back, Bjorn grabbed his wrist in an iron grip.

A sharp snap echoed through the arena as Bjorn broke the man's arm.

The assassin barely had time to scream before Bjorn slammed his forehead into his face, shattering his nose.

The assassin collapsed, motionless.

Bjorn exhaled slowly, shaking the blood off his knuckles.

The Crow assassins watching from above erupted in cheers and gasps, some whispering among themselves.

"Did he even try?" one murmured.

"No wasted movement. That wasn't just brute force… that was skill."

Hensley, watching from his balcony, smirked in amusement.

He raised a hand. "That's enough."

Hensley Ends the Fight – A Leader's Advice

As the arena gates opened, Bjorn didn't even glance at the unconscious assassin.

He simply walked back toward the waiting area, completely unfazed.

Henry, standing nearby, exhaled sharply.

He had seen many warriors in his time—but Bjorn was different.

Not because of his brute strength.

Not because of his berserker legend.

But because he was controlled. Calculated. Dangerous.

Hensley turned to Henry. "Walk with me."

Hensley's Words – A Warrior Without a Purpose

They stepped into a quieter part of The Nest, away from the loud cheers of the assassins.

Hensley looked at Henry with a knowing smirk.

"You're not just some wandering warrior, Henry. You were a leader once."

Henry stiffened.

"You have warriors with you," Hensley continued. "But you lack a purpose."

Henry remained silent.

"Are you a group? Or just survivors traveling in the same direction?" Hensley pressed. "Because if you don't decide soon, you'll fall apart."

For the first time since the fall of Guards' Post, Henry began to truly question himself.

Leaving Rouge Town – A Journey to Yore

The next morning, the group saddled their horses and rode out of Rouge Town.

They didn't look back.

Instead of heading directly to Yore, they took the longer route through New Yore, a smaller district outside the capital.

It was safer, and Henry needed time to think.

Henry's Reflection – The Weight of a Captain

As they rode across the open plains, Henry's mind drifted back to the past.

He remembered his first battle as a Royal Guard, the honor of defending Yore, the pride of being called Captain.

Now?

Now, he was a man stripped of his authority, leading a group that wasn't truly his.

Hensley's words stuck with him.

Was he still a leader? Or just a man clinging to a title that no longer mattered?

Arrival at New Yore – A Temporary Rest

New Yore was a quiet town, much smaller than the capital.

The streets were lined with wooden buildings, a few market stalls, and a single large tavern—the only place worth staying in.

The group secured rooms, their first real rest since leaving Rouge Town.

But the tension between them remained unspoken.

Midnight Discussion – Defining Their Purpose

That night, they gathered in one of the rooms.

Kaiser leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "So… what now?"

Espada looked to Henry. "You said we'd report to Yore. That's the plan, right?"

Henry was silent for a moment.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"We go to Yore. I report to Commander Enzo."

Elric nodded. "And after that?"

Henry hesitated.

"We'll see."

Espada narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

For now, that was enough.

Morning Conflict – The Revolution's Reach

As they stepped outside the tavern the next morning, a heated argument caught their attention.

A group of townsfolk had gathered in the market square, voices raised in anger.

"The revolutionaries are fighting for us!" one man shouted. "The nobles have been bleeding us dry for years!"

"You're a fool," another snapped. "The revolution isn't about us—it's about power. They'll burn everything, and we'll be the ones who suffer!"

The tension in the air was thick.

Henry watched, jaw tightening.

The revolution was no longer just in the Squatters District.

It was spreading.

And if it wasn't stopped soon… Woodsaw would burn.

Reaching Yore – Reporting to the Royal Guard HQ

The group rode into Yore's Royal Guard Headquarters, the familiar sight of soldiers and banners bringing back memories for Henry.

The moment he dismounted, the guards at the entrance stiffened.

"Captain Guhn?" one of them asked, eyes wide.

Henry nodded. "I need to speak with Commander Enzo. Now."

Minutes later, they stood in Enzo's office.

Henry gave his full report.

The fall of Guards' Post.

The sheer numbers of the revolutionaries.

The brutality of Daniel Gustav.

The severity of the situation.

Enzo listened.

His expression darkened with every word.

Enzo's Judgment – Henry's Disgrace

When Henry finished, Enzo was silent.

Then, he exhaled sharply.

"You were entrusted with one of our most important defenses… and you let it fall."

Henry stood firm. "We were outnumbered five to one. We had no chance."

"Then you should have died holding the fort!" Enzo snapped.

Henry gritted his teeth. "Would that have changed anything?"

Enzo's glare hardened.

"It would have shown you had the resolve to command."

Silence.

Then, Enzo sighed, rubbing his temple.

"I'm removing you from your position, Henry."

Henry stiffened. "What?"

"You're no longer Captain of the Royal Guard."

Henry felt something inside him crack.

But he said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

Aftermath – A Leader Without a Title

As the group left the HQ, Kaiser, Elric, and Espada watched Henry carefully.

None of them said a word.

Because Henry's face said everything.

He had lost more than a title.

He had lost his purpose.

The revolution was growing.

The kingdom was crumbling.

And Henry Guhn… was now just another warrior without a cause.

The tavern was dimly lit, its wooden walls creaking as the wind howled outside. The scent of ale and roasted meat filled the air, yet none of them were drinking.

Henry sat at the head of the table, his eyes distant, hands clasped together in thought. Kaiser was unusually quiet, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the table's surface. Elric leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as if waiting for someone to speak first. Bjorn sat at the far end, his large frame casting a long shadow across the candlelit room.

The weight of failure, of uncertainty, loomed over them all.

Then, Espada broke the silence.

"Damn, this is depressing."

She kicked her feet up onto the table, stretching her arms behind her head. "We look like a bunch of beggars trying to figure out how to live the rest of our miserable lives."

Elric's brow twitched. "Espada."

"What? It's true." She smirked, but the usual sharpness in her voice was dulled.

Elric narrowed his eyes. "You damn—"

Before he could finish, Espada waved him off. "Relax, I'm not here to piss you off. Not this time." Her smirk faded slightly. "I've been thinking about something. Elric and I… we were already planning on forming a group. Not a mercenary band, not some noble cause, but something with at least a damn purpose. We don't know what yet—but anything is better than wandering with no direction."

Henry finally lifted his gaze. The idea hung in the air for a moment. A group with purpose.

Kaiser, who had been watching Henry carefully, finally spoke. "Henry, I know this wasn't what you wanted. But you're not a lost cause."

Henry remained still.

Then, with a slow exhale, he stood.

"No," he said. "I'm done waiting for orders. I will act on my own terms now."

Elric gave a firm nod. "Then consider us allies."

Kaiser grinned, sensing the shift in the room. "That's more like it."

Henry's eyes swept over the faces around him. He could see it—the willingness, the unspoken agreement. If they were going to move forward, they needed something more than an idea.

"We need a name," Espada said, as if reading his mind. "If we're going to be something, we need to call ourselves something."

Henry thought for a moment. Then, his voice cut through the quiet.

"Grimknights."

Elric raised a brow. "Grimknights?"

Henry's gaze was firm. "It sounds both terrifying and noble."

Espada tilted her head. "I like it."

Kaiser grinned. "Has a nice ring to it."

Elric exhaled, nodding in approval. "Fine. Grimknights it is."

Bjorn remained silent, but after a moment, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.

The next question came naturally.

"Alright," Kaiser leaned back, smirking. "Who's leading this merry band of misfits?"

They exchanged glances. Then, without hesitation, Bjorn raised a hand and pointed at Henry.

Henry blinked in surprise.

Elric nodded. "It's obvious, isn't it? You're the one who brought us together."

Espada smirked. "And let's be honest—who else here looks like a commander?"

Kaiser laughed. "Alright, Captain Grimknight, lead the way!"

Henry exhaled but didn't object. He straightened his back and gave them all a firm nod. "Then let's make it official."

Espada tapped her fingers against the table. "We need an insignia. Something that represents us."

Elric thought for a moment. "Something that represents both power and mystery."

Kaiser snapped his fingers. "How about a knight's helm… with a dark hood?"

Henry smirked. "A knight hidden in the shadows."

Espada grinned. "I like it."

The group raised their mugs, drinking to the birth of the Grimknights.

Meanwhile, beyond the tavern walls, the world was already shifting toward chaos.

In the depths of the revolutionaries' headquarters, another meeting was taking place. Carous Gelheim stood before his commanders, his hands resting on a large wooden table.

"We need a name for our cause," he said.

Silence settled over the room. Then, one of the commanders spoke. "What about The Children of Woodsaw?"

Carous smirked, rolling the name over his tongue. "The Children of Woodsaw…"

He nodded. "From this day forward, that is who we are."

The revolution now had a name. A face. And soon, a war.

Carous leaned over a large map, his fingers tapping against the parchment. "We will take the capital."

The room grew tense, but no one objected.

"First, we assess our forces. Then, we strike."

The war was no longer a distant dream—it was coming. And Yore was their next target.

Across the city, within the Woodsaw Government Hall, another meeting was happening.

Jeffrey Maxim sat at the head of the war council, his gaze heavy. Before him stood his three commanders—Jack McCaw, Ion Damboldour, and Enzo—as well as the elder advisors of Yore.

"The revolutionaries are moving," Enzo reported. "They've taken key areas of Woodsaw."

Jeffrey clenched his fists. "Then we must act."

One of the elders hesitated. "We must reassess our forces. See what territories we still control."

Enzo nodded. "I have already requested assistance from King Fredrik Dimas."

The room fell silent.

If King Fredrik intervened, the war would escalate beyond anything Woodsaw had seen before.

Jeffrey Maxim exhaled, his mind heavy with the weight of his kingdom's fate. "Then we must hold Yore at all costs."

The pieces were in place.

On one side, the Grimknights—newly formed yet searching for purpose.

On the other, the Children of Woodsaw—ready to bring down the kingdom.

Between them, the city of Yore—a battleground waiting for war.

Woodsaw was once a prosperous nation, known for its dense forests and rich natural resources. Founded over three hundred years ago, the kingdom thrived under early rulers who promoted trade and agriculture.

But as time passed, corruption seeped in. The government became more centralized, wealth pooled into the hands of the elite, and commoners suffered under heavy taxation.

By the time Jeffrey Maxim inherited the leadership, Woodsaw was already in decline. He was a ruler bound by honor, but honor alone could not save a starving people.

Now, the revolution threatened to tear the kingdom apart completely.

The war was no longer just a rebellion—it was the battle for the very soul of Woodsaw.

The Grimknights had been born.

The Children of Woodsaw had risen.

And Woodsaw itself stood on the brink of destruction.

Their paths would soon collide.

And when they did—Mezolith would never be the same.

Morning broke over Yore, but the air felt heavier than ever. The people moved through the streets with an unshakable sense of urgency, eyes wary, whispers carrying the tension of looming war. Henry stood near the tavern window, arms crossed, watching the city shift before his eyes.

Rumors had spread like wildfire—the revolutionaries were moving, their forces rallying beyond the capital. Some citizens were already packing their belongings, ready to flee before the worst arrived. Others gathered in hushed corners, debating whether to stand and fight or welcome the revolution with open arms.

Jeffrey Maxim wasted no time. By midday, a public gathering was held in the city square, banners of Woodsaw hanging behind a raised platform. Soldiers stood in formation, their polished armor reflecting the daylight. The crowd grew restless as the ruler of Woodsaw himself stepped forward.

Jeffrey Maxim was a man of firm resolve, his aging face hardened by years of leadership. He surveyed the people, his voice steady as he spoke.

"Woodsaw is on the edge of war," he announced. "There are those among us who seek to tear this city apart, to burn what generations before us have built. But we will not crumble. We will not surrender to chaos."

Some in the crowd cheered, others remained silent. Some exchanged glances, their loyalties uncertain.

"The time for neutrality is over," Maxim continued. "We stand together, or we fall divided. Those who aid the revolutionaries will be treated as traitors. We will root them out. Woodsaw will endure."

Henry, Kaiser, Elric, Espada, and Bjorn stood among the spectators, watching the reactions of the people.

"Some look relieved," Kaiser muttered. "Others... not so much."

Espada scoffed. "They've already lost the city. They just don't know it yet."

While Maxim strengthened his hold over Yore, the revolutionaries were already moving in the shadows. Deep within the slums, a secret meeting took place. Dim candlelight flickered against stone walls as men and women gathered in a hidden chamber.

At the center of the room stood Gideon Strafe, a seasoned assassin with sharp, calculating eyes.

"The government is tightening its grip, which means we push harder," Gideon said, addressing the gathered revolutionaries. "Maxim wants to hunt us down? Let him try. But before Carous' army arrives, we make our move from within."

He unfurled a crude map of Yore, pointing at key locations.

"Tonight, we strike. Supply routes, watchtowers, barracks—we cut them down before the siege even begins. We make Yore bleed before the army even arrives."

Back at the tavern, the Grimknights sat around their table, debating their next move.

"So, what now?" Kaiser leaned forward.

"We side with the ideals of the government," Henry said finally. "But we act on our own terms. We're not bound to them. We're not their soldiers. We're warriors who will fight for what's right, but we make our own path."

Elric nodded in approval. "Then we should start making our presence known."

"Agreed," Espada said, resting her chin on her knuckles. "That means picking where to strike first."

Their answer came sooner than expected.

That night, chaos erupted in Yore.

A Woodsaw supply caravan rolled through the eastern district, its cargo guarded by soldiers. The streets were quiet—too quiet. Then, without warning, shadowy figures moved from the rooftops, daggers gleaming in the moonlight.

The first guards fell before they even had time to react.

The revolutionaries had begun their attack.

By chance, the Grimknights were nearby, walking through the district when the commotion started. The sounds of clashing steel and dying screams filled the air.

Henry's instincts kicked in immediately. "We can't ignore this."

Kaiser drew his daggers, nodding. "Then let's even the odds."

The Grimknights rushed in.

The battle was fast and brutal. Revolutionaries clashed with Woodsaw guards in a vicious ambush. Espada engaged a masked assassin wielding dual short swords, their blades flashing as they exchanged rapid blows.

Kaiser vanished for a moment, reappearing behind an enemy using his Phantom Step—only to stagger slightly, the stamina cost weighing on him. He still lacked control, but for now, it was enough.

Bjorn fought with sheer ferocity, blocking attacks with his arms and countering with bone-breaking blows. He grabbed one enemy by the throat and slammed him into the ground, his raw combat ability overwhelming the assassins around him.

Then, Henry saw him.

Gideon Strafe moved like a phantom through the battlefield, cutting down a Woodsaw soldier with swift precision. His daggers barely made a sound as they carved through armor and flesh.

Henry locked eyes with him.

Gideon smirked. "Captain Guhn. I was wondering when we'd meet."

Henry barely had time to react before Gideon lunged. The assassin's speed was incredible, but Henry was a wall.

He raised his tower shield, deflecting the first strike, the sound of metal scraping against reinforced steel ringing out.

Gideon danced around him, trying to find an opening, but Henry was patient. He waited, blocking every strike with his shield, forcing Gideon into close range.

Then, Henry countered.

He swung his gauntleted fist forward, aiming for Gideon's chest. The assassin barely twisted away in time, but even so, the force of the strike sent him skidding backward.

"You're good," Gideon admitted, flexing his fingers around his daggers. "But you fight like a soldier. Predictable."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "And you fight like a rat."

Gideon chuckled. "Rats survive."

The assassin darted in again, feinting to the left before striking from the right. Henry angled his shield, deflecting the blow, then slammed it forward. The sheer impact sent Gideon stumbling back.

Before Henry could press the attack, Gideon flipped backward onto a rooftop.

"We'll continue this later," he called out, sheathing his daggers. "War has already begun, Henry. Whether you accept it or not."

With that, he vanished into the darkness.

The remaining revolutionaries retreated, leaving behind bodies and blood.

The attack sent ripples through the city. By morning, the government had tightened its hold. Enzo ordered a citywide crackdown, soldiers storming homes and executing suspected revolutionaries in the streets. Fear spread, and Yore grew even more divided.

The Grimknights regrouped at the tavern.

"We need more intelligence," Henry said.

Espada leaned against the wall. "Agreed. We need to get inside the revolution's ranks."

Kaiser nodded. "I know someone. An old contact who might have ties to the revolution."

Henry considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. We're going to the Squatters District instead."

Elric frowned. "Why?"

Henry exhaled. "Because that's where it all started. That's where the revolution grew its roots. If we want to understand our enemy, we need to start there."

The Grimknights made their decision.

Meanwhile, miles away from Yore, Carous Gelheim stood before his army.

He held a single letter in his hands—confirmation that the revolutionaries inside the capital had already begun their work.

He turned to his commanders.

"March," he ordered.

The Children of Woodsaw moved forward.

And war was no longer just a distant threat.

It was here.