Success: 1-30

You track the beast through the woods all day, following deep paw prints in the damp earth, scanning the underbrush for signs of movement. But it is clever, more than any ordinary predator. Every time you think you are close, the trail vanishes, leading you in circles, deeper into the trees.

The sun dips low. You consider turning back, but as you glance around, your stomach tightens. The trees are unfamiliar. The landmarks you thought you knew have shifted, twisted by shadow and the dimming light.

You are lost.

A cold shiver runs down your spine as you press forward, heart pounding. The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, dark and unwelcoming beneath the full moon. It has been full for days now, strange, but you don’t have time to dwell on it.

Then, a sound.

A howl, long and deep, echoing through the trees like a ghost’s wail. It is close. Too close.

You freeze.

Then you see it.

A wolf, massive beyond reason, steps into the moonlight. Its fur is black as midnight, its eyes burning with unnatural intelligence. Saliva drips from its snarling maw, fangs gleaming in the pale light.

You barely have time to react before it lunges.

Instinct takes over. You draw the steel sword and swing. The blade bites, but barely. The wound is shallow, almost useless. It’s like the steel is… resisted. As if the beast’s flesh rejects it.

Pain blossoms across your side. The wolf's claws tear through you, hot and sudden. Blood sprays. You stumble, barely able to keep your footing.

But Farlen’s training kicks in. His voice echoes in your mind: footwork, timing, don’t panic. You grit your teeth. You pivot. You dodge. You swing again. The steel sings, slicing through fur and muscle. The beast howls in pain.

You fight like a madman. Not with grace, but with desperation: raw, furious survival. Your body, honed by years on the farm, pushes back against the monster’s strength. Blow after blow, you drive it back, bleeding from a dozen wounds.

With a final scream, you thrust the sword forward. The steel drives deep.

The wolf jerks, trembles… and collapses.

The beast is dead.

You stagger back to Dunford, dragging the wolf’s carcass behind you. Its sheer size makes the journey slow, but you refuse to leave it behind. You must prove what you have done.

When you finally reach the village square, the reaction is immediate.

Gasps. Cries of disbelief. Then, celebration.

The sheepherders and woodcutters, the ones who had lived in fear for weeks, cheer the loudest. They offer to buy you drinks, to sing your praises until dawn. The mayor himself raises a toast in your honor, declaring that Dunford will never forget this night.

Farlen watches in silence, then nods approvingly. He places a firm hand on your shoulder. “The sword’s yours now, lad,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

The celebrations continue late into the night. Then, an unexpected honor, word of your deed reaches Lord Addam. He does not visit, of course, but he sends a messenger bearing a small bag of silver. It is more wealth than you have ever held in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you are more than just a farm boy.

You are a hero.

"You have potential, lad," Farlen says that evening, as the fire crackles low. "You could be a duelist. A proper swordsman. You could win tourneys. Gold instead of silver."

You nod slowly, drawn to the idea. To win gold. Glory. A name. You offer Farlen a portion of the silver in exchange for his training.

He nods. "There'll be a tourney in six months’ time," he says. "Biggest in the region. If you win it, you’ll want for nothing again."

You begin training immediately. Every day, from dawn till dusk. You move into Farlen’s cottage to be closer to the lessons.

You train shirtless in the morning light, muscles glistening with sweat. Your body changes quickly, your arms thicken, your abs tighten, your back hardens. You look sculpted now. Carved by hard pain and persistence.

And the women notice.

Hilda, Farlen’s second wife, young, flirtatious, always laughing, watches you often, eyes gleaming as she brings you water, her fingers brushing your chest as if by accident.

Gilly, Farlen’s daughter, is harder to read. She watches you too, though never for long. She does not flirt. She does not laugh. But her gaze lingers. And sometimes, when she thinks you are not looking, you catch the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Despite being stepmother and stepdaughter, the two women are close in age. You feel their glances when you walk past. You hear it in the silence between them. There is tension in the house, but this time, it has nothing to do with the wolf.

You begin to wonder which of them you’re drawn to more.

Gilly or Hilda?