The Wolf’s Melody

I collapsed onto the cobblestones, my arms trembling from my undignified brawl with a chicken. Feathers clung to my sweat-drenched tunic, and my pride lay in ruins somewhere between the wagon wreckage and Gerald's booming laughter. 

But as I lifted my head, the world snapped back into focus. 

The Forest King—a monster that had shrugged off knights like flies—was *retreating*. Its massive paws dug furrows into the road as it backpedaled from Gerald, who now stood with his sword held flat against his chest in a stance I'd never seen before. 

The air *crackled*. 

The three purple-and-white knights, who had been holding their ground with disciplined precision, froze mid-combat. Even the coal wolves whimpered, their smoldering pelts flattening in submission. 

Gerald's voice cut through the silence like a blade: 

**"Sword Technique: Wolf's Melody."** 

A single slash. 

His sword moved faster than my eyes could track, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened. 

Then— 

A *purple arc* split the air, humming like a struck harp string. It fractured mid-flight, splitting into six spectral wolves—translucent, razor-edged, howling with the weight of a thousand battles. 

The Forest King *screamed*. 

The wolves struck. 

One severed its front leg. Another tore through its throat. The rest carved through muscle, bone, and sinew with surgical precision. The beast's roar choked into a wet gurgle as its body *split apart*, collapsing into six perfectly butchered chunks. 

Silence. 

Even the meth poultry corpses seemed to gape. 

Gerald exhaled, sheathing his sword with a *click*. The purple light faded from his blade, and he turned to me, grinning like a man who had just remembered why he loved a good fight. 

*"Hah! Kid, for making this old relic laugh harder than he has in a decade—figured I'd show you something proper."* 

My jaw hung slack. 

This wasn't just some retired swordsman. The way he moved, the *weight* behind that technique—this was a man who had once stood at the pinnacle of an era. 

The three purple knights exchanged glances. One of them whispered, *"That's the Wolf's Melody. The Grand Marshal's signature strike."* 

Before I could process it, the lacquered carriage door creaked open. 

A gloved hand gripped the frame, followed by the sharp click of heeled boots on stone. The crowd *parted* as the Countess stepped into view. 

She was younger than I expected—mid-twenties, with dark hair coiled into an elaborate braid, her violet eyes sharp enough to flay a man's pride. Her gown was battle-stained at the hem, but she carried herself like royalty regardless. 

*"Gerald Vessarion,"* she said, her voice cool and measured. *"Former Grand Marshal of the Eclipse Order. Slayer of the Purple Lightning Wyrm. One of the Heroes of the Second Generation. And one of the last two hundred Imperial Knights still breathing."* Her lips curled slightly. *"And yet here you are, escorting a boy who fights chickens like a street brawler."* 

Gerald scratched his beard, unfazed. *"Retirement's been kind, Your Ladyship. Though I'm surprised you recognized me—last time we met, you were still in pigtails."* 

The Countess's eye twitched, but she ignored the jab. Instead, her gaze slid to me. *"And you. What is an unawakened boy doing in the middle of a Grand-class ambush?"* 

I opened my mouth—then closed it. What *was* I doing here? Following a legendary knight's whims? Chasing a dream bigger than myself? 

*"I… want to be strong enough to stand my ground,"* I said finally. 

Her lips curled—not quite a smile, but something calculating. *"How quaint."* She reached into her sleeve and produced a pendant—a silver disc etched with twin narwhals. *"Show this to the guards at the Temple of Dawn. They'll grant you an audience with the High Diviner."* 

I blinked. *"Why?"* 

*"Because I'm curious what he'll make of you,"* she said simply. Then, with a glance at Gerald: *"I assume you're traveling to the capital for the Grand Tourney? The Imperial Court *did* request your presence as a judge, after all."* 

Gerald's grin didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—something guarded. *"Aye. Just doing my civic duty."* 

*"Of course,"* she said dryly. *"How… patriotic of you."* 

With that, she turned and vanished into her carriage. The knights fell into formation, and the battered caravan lurched forward, leaving me clutching the pendant like a stolen secret. 

Gerald clapped my shoulder. *"Well, pup. Ready to see the capital?"* 

I stared at the city gates, where two million souls—and whatever shadows Gerald was hiding from—awaited. 

*"Yeah,"* I said, pocketing the pendant. *"Let's go."* 

The merchant's carriage creaked as we traveled toward the capital, its worn wooden frame barely cushioning us from the rough road. I studied the old man sitting across from me - Gerald, former Grand Marshal of a first-class knight order. Even the weakest Grand Marshal would be a monster by normal standards.

I wracked my brain trying to remember the swordsman rankings from the novels I'd read. Let me think... Swordsman, Great Swordsman, Grand Swordsman, then Swordmasters who could project slashes by coating their blades with aura. And beyond them, Grandmasters who could expel aura from their bodies entirely - which this old coot could clearly do.

*BAM!*

"Ow! What was that for?" I rubbed my stinging forehead.

"Little punk, your thoughts give you away," Gerald chuckled, lowering his flicking finger. "But since you're so curious, yes, I was a Grandmaster. Now shut up and stop gawking."

I scowled, but my mind kept racing through the three titles the Countess had mentioned. First: "Slayer of the Purple Lightning Wyrm" - meaning he'd killed a lesser dragon stronger than wyverns or drakes. Second: "Second Generation Hero" - in the novel's timeline, the protagonist would awaken five years from now at the start of the Fourth Era. And most intriguing: "One of 200 remaining Imperial Knights."

In this world, an Empire wasn't like Earth's historical empires - it meant a coalition of kingdoms. From what I'd glimpsed in novel spoilers, these knights were relics from a war-torn generation, the last survivors who served some mysterious purpose beyond just being symbols.

"Hey geezer-"

*BAM!*

"OW! Master! I mean, Master!" I corrected quickly as he raised his hand again.

"Better," he grunted. "Now what?"

"So... what are you really doing in the capital?" I ventured.

*BAM!*

"OW! Damn it!"

"Mind your business, kid," Gerald said, echoing what the Countess had told Mia. Then he added casually, "Anyway, you'll awaken in about a month. See you then."

"Wait, wha-"

*Swoosh.* He vanished from the moving carriage.

I stared at the empty seat. "...DAMN YOU, YOU OLD BASTARD!"

**Three Weeks of Training (New Content)**

The "Laughing Boar" inn was everything I needed - cheap, discreet, and most importantly, possessing a small training yard out back. The owner, a retired mercenary missing two fingers, took one look at my sword and nodded.

"Five coppers a night, ten if you break anything," he'd said, then left me to my business.

Each morning began before dawn with basic conditioning:

- 100 push-ups on the dew-slick grass

- 50 squats while balancing a water bucket on my head

- Sprinting laps around the yard until my lungs burned

After breakfast (usually stale bread and questionable sausage), I moved to sword drills. Without Gerald's guidance, I relied on the fragments of knowledge I'd picked up:

1. The Eight Fundamental Cuts - practiced until my shoulders screamed

2. Footwork patterns - shuffling through mud and sand to build stability

3. Breathing exercises - syncing each motion with sharp exhales

By the second week, blisters had hardened into calluses. The wooden practice sword felt like an extension of my arm. I started incorporating:

- Target practice - hanging fruits from the old oak tree

- Reaction training - dodging pebbles thrown by the innkeeper's kids

- Endurance tests - maintaining stance under a weighted sack

The evenings were spent studying the pendant's intricate narwhal engravings and reviewing everything Gerald had ever said, searching for hidden meanings in his insults. Occasionally, I'd overhear tavern talk about "some old legend" spotted in the capital, but never got confirmation.

On the 18th night, a breakthrough came. During moonlit sparring against a straw dummy, I felt something strange - a faint warmth in my palms, like sunlight on steel. The sensation vanished when I focused on it, but returned during exhaustion.

The final days blurred together in a cycle of repetition and refinement. My body hardened, my movements sharpened, and that elusive warmth appeared more frequently. When the month's end came, I packed my few belongings, paid the innkeeper extra for the broken practice dummies, and set out for the Temple of Dawn.

Gerald's last words echoed in my mind: *"You'll awaken in a month."* Well, the month was up. Time to see what that really meant.