The first battle

The wind whistled through the dry, cracked earth, kicking up a trail of dust that slowly circled the campfire.

He stood on the edge of his small encampment, watching the flames flicker and dance, its light casting shadows that stretched long and strange across the barren plain.

Seventeen years old. A boy in the eyes of most, too young to command respect, let alone lead men in battle. But Johann wasn't just any boy. He was the son of a once-prominent noble, a boy who had inherited a fortune not through merit, but birthright. The wealth of his family was vast, though marred by scandal and a reputation that his father had tainted over the years. Despite this, Johann had a plan, a vision that he was beginning to shape with his own hands.

The campfire crackled again, and Johann's fingers flexed unconsciously, his mind turning over the idea that had started as a fleeting thought but was now beginning to solidify into something real.

He could build a mercenary company.

Not a band of ragtag outcasts, but a professional force, one that would rival even the oldest, most respected warbands.

At first, the idea had seemed like a fantasy, something a noble like himself could never hope to accomplish. But the more Johann thought about it, the more it felt like his only option. He could build something powerful, something lasting, if he played his cards right.

But the first step, he knew, was slow. Nothing in this world could be rushed. Wealth, though useful, could only carry him so far.

He would need more than gold to succeed, he would need respect, trust, and a careful plan.

The first few days after he'd set his plan into motion had been filled with uncertainty. Johann had offered bounties and large sums to any mercenary willing to sign up with him, promising a steady paycheck and better conditions than the average warband could offer.

The response had been underwhelming at first. A few desperate souls had come, seeking what they could not find elsewhere: a chance at fortune, a place to belong.

But they were hesitant, questioning the boy who claimed to lead them.

To Johann's surprise, the men didn't care about his age as much as he had feared. What they cared about was money, how much, when, and where.

And Johann had money. His family's wealth had been a blessing in this respect. For now, it was enough to ensure they would follow him, even if it was only out of curiosity or greed. It was a start.

But Johann knew this was only temporary. The men would follow him for the promise of gold, but if he wanted to build a lasting company, he would have to prove himself. A few bags of coins wouldn't secure loyalty for long. It wasn't enough to just pay them well. He would need to lead them, to show them that he could command their respect on the battlefield.

The weight of this realization settled heavily on Johann's shoulders as he sat beside the fire. His father's name, while still known in some circles, had been stained by years of scandal and debauchery.

Johann had no desire to live in his shadow, to be known only as a spoiled, weak noble who hid behind his family's wealth. If he wanted to rise above that, he would need to take matters into his own hands. He could not afford to fail.

As the night grew colder, Johann's men began to settle into their tents, the camp gradually quieting. But sleep didn't come easily to him. The challenges ahead seemed enormous, each one larger than the last.

Johann knew that to truly separate his band from the countless other warbands across the continent, he needed to give them an identity.

A name. It had to be something that commanded respect, something that evoked power but also a sense of pride and history. It had to set his mercenaries apart from the rabble. Something that would be remembered.

"Sturmwächter," Johann muttered, his voice steady with certainty. The name meant "Storm Watchers" a group always on the lookout, a force of nature that could weather the fiercest of storms, both literal and metaphorical.

It was perfect. The name evoked a sense of watchfulness, of anticipation, of being prepared for anything. The mercenaries of the group would stand like sentinels, ready to strike when the time was right, unwavering and resilient in the face of danger.

Johann sat back against a nearby tree, a small smile curling on his lips as he allowed the name to settle in his mind. "Sturmwächter" would be the name of his group, a name that would soon be known far and wide, whispered with both fear and respect. It would be a name that stood for professionalism, for strength, for an indomitable will to succeed.

His first real test came after a few weeks of gathering his forces. A small band of raiders had been harassing nearby villages, plundering goods and killing those who resisted.

It was an opportunity too good to pass up. Johann gathered his men, a small but growing group, each one looking to him for direction, their doubts still visible in their eyes.

Johann had done his best to prepare. He had studied battle tactics, read countless scrolls on strategy, and had observed his father's old war advisors from the sidelines in his youth. But theory was different from practice.

His soldiers were experienced, many of them seasoned warriors with years of combat under their belts. They had no reason to believe a noble boy could lead them to victory. But Johann had to convince them otherwise. He had to show them his worth.

The night before the raid, Johann sat alone outside the campfire, his thoughts a swirl of plans and contingencies. He ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at the stars.

The men would be depending on him tomorrow. If he failed, they would lose faith in him, and the Sturmwächter group would dissolve before it even had a chance to grow.

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. This was the moment he had been waiting for. There was no turning back.

The next day, the battle was everything Johann had expected and more. The raiders were disorganized and overconfident, unaware that they were walking into a trap.

Johann had planned every step carefully, his men would attack from the north while he led a smaller group to flank them from the west. The ambush was swift, the raiders caught off guard by the coordinated attack.

Johann's heart raced as he watched his men fight. His soldiers moved with a precision that surprised him, his plans unfolding perfectly before his eyes. It was a hard-fought battle, but the raiders were no match for a mercenary band that had been led with care and forethought.

When the last raider fell, Johann surveyed the scene, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The men were silent at first, breathing heavily from the fight. Then, one by one, they turned to him. It was subtle at first, but the nods and approving glances spoke volumes. Johann had done it. He had led them to victory.