The guards stood their ground, hesitating as they watched Fenrir dispatch their comrades one after another.
His movements were too sharp, too clean—nothing like the usual adventurers or troublemakers they were used to dealing with.
The sword in his hand radiated a pressure none of them could ignore, yet it wasn't marked by any known smith or guild. And the man wielding it… they had no record of him.
"Who is this guy?"
One of the soldiers whispered.
"No idea. But stay back. Don't get too close. He's not normal."
Another replied, eyes narrowed.
Fenrir caught the whisper and couldn't help but chuckle.
"Too late for caution now."
He said, his voice calm under the hood. Then, before they could react, he closed the distance.
A blur. That was all the soldiers saw before Fenrir appeared in front of them.
His sword moved with ruthless precision—disarming one, knocking another to the ground, and cutting clean through a third's armor without so much as a pause.
