The raiders immediately dropped their luggage and slipped into combat mode. Kent was a bit slower, momentarily amazed at how fast they reacted. Professional killers, indeed.
He glanced at the map inside his head. Sure enough, there were wolf tracks nearby — and an icon of a snarling wolf's head with the number 5 hovering almost exactly where they stood. He must have missed it earlier, too focused on checking stats and planning builds.
Tsk. Gotta make checking the map regularly a habit, Kent noted to himself.
"Beware, there are five of them!" he called out, sharing the newly found information.
"W-What… Direwolves? And five of them? How do you guys even know that?" Ruthard asked, trembling.
Oh, right. The monk.
Kent suddenly remembered. So that's what I forgot.
Loki and the others were already in full battle stance — backs to each other, eyes scanning the treeline. Loki answered for him, his voice steady.
"I can smell their stench. They're already here, waiting for a chance to pounce on us. Not sure about the number, but if Captain says five, then it's five."
Kent did a quick gear check. Good — the raiders had drawn axe, cleaver and knife. They were experienced enough to know hammers were not as effective against Direwolves. He pulled out his own cleaver, leaving only the monk standing awkwardly nearby, frozen in panic.
"Stop being useless, baldie!" Skarn barked, glaring at Ruthard like he was a walking insult.
Kent gave the poor monk something to cling to — quite literally.
"See that pitchfork? Pick it up and at least try to protect yourself!"
Before Ruthard could react, a massive shadow burst out of the forest and lunged straight at him.
Kent's body moved before his mind could catch up. As the black blur closed in on the helpless monk, Kent was already there, shoving Ruthard aside and stepping forward with an upward slash.
Squelch.
A tearing sensation, like slicing through wet cloth. Hot blood splattered across Kent's face, followed by a sharp, pained howl from the beast.
The Direwolf, realizing its ambush had failed, leapt back into the shadows. But its retreat was clumsy — slower, weaker. The wound had crippled it. That gave Kent a clear look at what he was dealing with.
It was enormous, larger than any wolf he'd ever seen in real life. Closer to the size of an ox, with fangs like knives and claws that could rip through leather. Its thick black fur looked dense enough to deflect weaker blows, but underneath its belly was bare skin — and now, a gaping wound. Blood poured freely, dark and steaming.
A faint interface flickered in Kent's vision — hovering above the wounded beast. A red health bar, nearly empty, blinked beside a list of status effects.
[Health: 8] [Bleeding]
Kent's eyes narrowed. So that's how it looks in real life, huh?
"One down," he said coldly. "Four left."
"H-how? It's still— it's still alive…" Ruthard stammered.
Before he could finish, the Direwolf collapsed with a final, hopeless growl.
Kent exhaled. Yeah, that counts as a kill.
His first kill in this brutal new world.
The other raiders didn't even react — no cheers, no surprise. They simply adjusted their stances, eyes scanning the shadows for movement.
That told Kent everything he needed to know. The old Keldrak had been this good. And for everyone else, this kind of feat was just business as usual.
Kent also reconfirmed one thing — he was completely fearless. Excited, even.
From the moment he had drawn his cleaver, his mind had become sharper than ever, his confidence soaring as if everything was already in his control.
Must be the effect of that Determined trait, Kent thought to himself.
The action just now had been too sudden for him to think, but now that it was over, he could look back and realize just how powerful he'd become — at least compared to the old nerd he used to be.
When the Direwolf leapt at the monk, everything had moved in slow motion. He could see it crystal clear — himself shoving Ruthard aside, sidestepping the beast's claws, and slashing upward with perfect precision. His cleaver had struck the unprotected belly like a guided blade, drawing the maximum amount of blood possible.
It was a strange feeling, but one Kent could definitely get used to.
With the death of the first Direwolf, the remaining four sensed their failed ambush and slunk out from the shadows. They began circling the group, low growls rumbling in their throats. Their hungry blue eyes glowed in the fading light, saliva dripping from their open jaws.
One death wasn't enough to scare these starving beasts away.
Perfect. Kent grinned. He didn't want them to run anyway.
"Aim for their bellies! I want their furs completely intact!" Kent shouted.
"Got it, Captain!" Loki was the only one who answered out loud. The other two raiders simply nodded, their attention locked on the wolves that were about to strike.
"And you, the pitchfork!"
Kent didn't even look at Ruthard when he said it. If the monk wanted to survive in this band, the least he could do was be ready to fight — whether he'd be of any use or not.
Before the Direwolves could make their first move, Kent rushed forward and the other three followed, each choosing a target for themselves. It was better to strike first than to wait for the wolves to take the initiative, especially with Ruthard being their obvious weak link.
Joltul met his opponent head-on, roaring like thunder as his axe came swinging down. The wolf ducked under the strike, snapping its jaws at his arm — only for Joltul to drive a knee into its snout with a crunch. He followed up with a savage cleave that carved into its shoulder, forcing it back with a pained yelp. The wolf might look huge to someone like Kent or Ruthard, but to the giant, it must have seemed like a playful pup. Joltul stepped forward again, giving it no chance to retreat.
Skarn had no trouble on his side either. Though Direwolves were larger and stronger than a man, they weren't particularly dangerous — not to someone with experience. Northerners had hunted Direwolves for generations, they were a common food source, not a legendary monster. These pack hunters were only dangerous when they outnumbered their prey. With a heavy bash from his shield, Skarn knocked the wolf onto its side, its belly exposed. And with a swift thrust of his cleaver, he plunged it in and twisted. The poor creature howled in agony, as if calling for help from its pack.
Not that it would've mattered, the others weren't doing any better.
Loki's fight was the most agile. His smaller frame worked to his advantage, the wolf's fangs missed him by inches every time. Each time it lunged, Loki sidestepped and countered with quick, precise strikes, his knife flashing like silver lightning. The Direwolf's side was soon striped with red, its movements growing sluggish and desperate.
And then there was Kent.
The first Direwolf had died so fast he hadn't even gotten the chance to "practice." This time, he took it slower. The poor beast might as well have been a mouse toyed with by a cat. Kent dodged its attacks with ease — attacks that, in game terms, would have had at least a 50% hit chance.
Unlike in games, though, nothing here forced him to take a hit every two attacks just because of probability. That was how it really worked in life — hit chance didn't decide outcomes, it only measured risk. A skilled fighter could dodge every so-called "50% hit chance attack" if he stayed focused and nothing distracted him.
That was good news. With proper training, they could dodge or block most blows and avoid unnecessary injuries. Kent knew that unlike in games, taking hits in real life was bad, very bad. Pain, blood loss, injuries... They didn't just tick down a number, instead they lingered, crippled, killed. Health, as he now understood, wasn't just a number. It reflected how "alive" a body still was. Someone with 10% Health left might as well be a walking corpse, barely capable of standing, let alone fighting.
Kent reminded himself not to let his gamer logic take over and make him careless.
Death howls echoed around the clearing as the other raiders finished off their wolves. Kent's opponent was the last one left — trembling, broken, its eyes filled with fear. It wanted to run, but instinct told it that showing its back would mean certain death.
"Alright," Kent said quietly. "This should be enough."
He decided his "practice session" was over. With one clean motion, he disabled the beast — the cleaver cutting deep, leaving it crippled but alive, writhing weakly in the dirt.
"Come here, bald preacher."
Ruthard, still clutching the pitchfork, hesitated. His eyes were locked on the dying Direwolf, his face pale. Slowly, he stepped closer.
"Finish it off," Kent said.
"H-huh?"
The monk looked at him, eyes wide in disbelief.
Kent met his gaze coldly, not giving him a chance to refuse.
"The first step to becoming a fighter is drawing blood yourself," he said. His voice was calm, almost teaching.
"...and remember, don't damage the fur!"