Ascension of the Outlander

The days following the raid passed in a grueling cycle of training, exhaustion, and quiet anticipation. Though Riverend had dealt a blow to the Blackfangs, Mira and the villagers knew the bandits would not take the attack lightly. Retaliation was inevitable.

But Alex couldn't afford to dwell on fear—not when he was still weak.

Mornings began with weapons drills. Mira was relentless in hammering the fundamentals into him, her patience thin but her instruction effective. Strikes, footwork, guard positions—each mistake was met with either a sharp correction or a bruising counterattack. If Alex failed to block a blow in time, Mira would make sure he felt it.

"You're thinking too much," she barked one morning as Alex hesitated mid-swing, his short sword held awkwardly in both hands. "Stop waiting for the perfect moment and just move!"

Alex gritted his teeth and attacked again, this time throwing his full weight into the strike. Mira sidestepped easily, his blade whistling through empty air.

"Better," she admitted. "But if that was a real fight, you'd be dead before your sword even connected."

Alex huffed, wiping sweat from his brow. "You could just say 'good job' once in a while, you know."

Mira smirked. "I could. But that wouldn't help you."

Afternoons were spent sparring, usually against Mira or one of the other guards. Alex lost every match. Badly.

Each defeat reinforced how untrained he was, how far he had to go. He was too slow, too reactive. His instincts were still those of someone unused to combat, someone who had spent his life avoiding conflict rather than embracing it.

But even as he struggled, he could feel the smallest improvements creeping into his movements. He was no longer just swinging blindly—he was beginning to understand his body, his weapon. He lasted longer in fights, recovered faster from mistakes. And while he still lost every match, each loss became less humiliating than the last.

At night, his body ached, and his mind was clouded with fatigue. But even in the moments when exhaustion threatened to consume him, he reminded himself why he was doing this.

He wasn't training to save Riverend.

He was training to survive.

The village's mood had changed in the days since the attack. At first, there was a sense of cautious relief—pride, even, that they had struck back at the Blackfangs. But as time passed without retaliation, that relief curdled into unease.

Mira and the others knew it was only a matter of time before the bandits regrouped. They weren't the type to let such an attack go unanswered.

Then, the first sign of consequences came.

It was mid-afternoon when the sound of galloping hooves tore through the quiet. The villagers rushed to the edge of town as a bloodied rider approached, barely staying upright in the saddle.

Mira was the first to reach him, catching him as he tumbled from his horse.

"Greystone..." the man gasped, blood trickling from his lips. "The Blackfangs… they attacked… the village is burning."

A cold silence fell over Riverend. The name Greystone sent a shiver down Alex's spine. It was the closest settlement to Riverend, another small village along the trade road.

"They… they knew," the messenger continued, voice weak. "They knew it was you. They… they took hostages. Said if Riverend doesn't pay for what we did, they'll do the same to you."

A murmur of dread rippled through the crowd.

Mira's expression darkened. "How many bandits?"

The man coughed, his body trembling from exhaustion. "More than before. Maybe thirty, maybe more. And their leader... he's different." His eyes flickered with something close to fear. "Not just a firecaster. Something worse."

Mira's fists clenched, her jaw tightening. "Damn it."

Alex felt the weight of the situation sink in. The Blackfangs weren't just coming back. They were making a statement.

And if Riverend didn't act soon, they would be next.

The village council convened that evening in the largest house in town—a simple, sturdy structure that doubled as a meeting hall. Alex stood to the side with Mira, listening as the village elders debated their next move.

"We have to fight," one of the younger guards, Tomas, argued. "If we don't, they'll come here and burn us to the ground!"

"And if we fight, we'll be wiped out," an older man countered, his face pale with worry. "We have farmers, hunters… but we aren't soldiers. Even with Mira and the guards, we can't take on a force that size!"

"We don't have a choice," Mira said sharply. "They're not going to leave us alone just because we surrender. If we let them take what they want now, they'll keep coming back until there's nothing left."

Silence settled over the room. The villagers knew she was right.

"We need reinforcements," another elder said. "We need the baron's help."

Mira let out a bitter laugh. "You think Baron Eldrin will send men to help us?" She shook her head. "He barely protects his own towns. He'll leave us to fend for ourselves, just like he always has."

"Then what do we do?" Tomas asked.

Mira exhaled slowly. "We don't fight them head-on. We don't have the numbers, and we don't have the weapons. But we know the land better than they do. We make it costly for them to come after us. We harass their supply lines, we strike from the shadows. We turn their size against them."

A few villagers nodded, but the fear in their eyes remained.

Alex, standing quietly at the back, clenched his fists. He had thought that sneaking into the Blackfang camp had been terrifying. But this? Knowing the enemy was coming, knowing they were prepared for bloodshed? It was something else entirely.

The elders continued to discuss, arguing over plans and risks. But Alex barely heard them.

He had come to this world weak. He had stumbled through battle after battle, relying on Mira and sheer luck to keep him alive.

But he knew one thing now.

He couldn't afford to stay weak any longer.

Whatever it took, he would get stronger. Because this world didn't care about people who couldn't fight.

And the Blackfangs were coming.

Whether he was ready or not.