Fenric’s words hit the hall like a spark in a powder magazine.
Armor rang. Boots scraped. Officers and guards surged to their feet, glaring daggers and shouting for his head. Even the usually composed General Shaw—Commander of the Nameless Imperial Guard—showed a flash of anger. Fenric hadn’t insulted him directly, true—but calling his officers "trash" reflected on the General all the same.
"So," Shaw said, gaze hard, "Your Excellency is very confident in your strength."
He turned slightly. "He wishes to see your skill. Show it—properly. Do not allow yourselves to be looked down on."
If it had been anyone else, Fenric would have been clapped in irons already. Only the report that he’d single‑handedly butchered seven taotie bought him courtesy.
The challenge had barely left the General’s mouth before hands shot up.
"General, allow this subordinate to take the field!" boomed Commander Wu of the Tiger Army.
"Permit me to instruct this... visitor," said Commander Chen of the Eagle Army, bow half‑drawn on reflex.
"General, the Deer Army cannot stand idle!" added antler‑helmed Commander Ding.
Only Lin Mei of the Crane Army and the scholarly Strategist
Five specialty corps made up the wall’s elite:
Deer Army – long spear / pike formations.
Eagle Army – precision archers.
Tiger Army – heavy Sword shock troops.
Crane Army – aerial zipline / vertical assault (entirely women).
Bear Army – heavy melee infantry, personal command of Shaw.
Together they were the finest force under the Song banner.
General Shaw faced Fenric. "I hear you can hunt taotie. Which general do you wish to test?"
Fenric shrugged. "No need to pick. They can come together."
The hall erupted again.
"Presumptuous!"
"Arrogant brat!"
"Seeking death!"
"Noisy." Fenric’s single bark cut through the din. He lifted his right leg and stamped.
Boom!
Stone buckled. Slab flooring cratered beneath his heel, fractures spider‑webbing outward in a circle. Dust jumped. Silence followed.
A collective hiss rippled through the hall.
One kick. That much force.
The loudest officers shut their mouths. Even General Shaw’s brows rose. Lin Mei’s eyes widened; the Captain who had reported Fenric’s "god of war" strength suddenly seemed a lot less fanciful.
"Your Excellency," the General said evenly, "impressive."
He glanced across his commanders. "Well? Still eager?"
Faces flushed, but none backed down. These men had stood atop the Wall against taotie; fear was not a habit they cultivated.
"Very well," General Shaw said. "Go together. Let this warrior offer instruction."
"By your command!" the three answered in unison.
They knew now that single combat would be pointless; three‑on‑one gave them at least a chance to probe his limits.
Weapons came out—
Commander Ding set his feet with a supple snake‑spear.
Commander Wu hefted a broad heavy saber fit to cleave men in half.
Commander Chen strung his war bow, an arrow already nocked.
The hall cleared. Space opened.
"Begin!" barked General Shaw.
Commander Ding struck first—fast, straight, controlled. The spearhead flashed for Fenric’s shoulder: a test thrust, not a kill shot. Even in challenge, they weren’t here to butcher an ally candidate.
But Fenric’s agility—nearly five times that of a normal man—made the attack look slow. He slid aside and caught the haft mid‑lunge.
That was the cue.
A shadow vaulted over Commander Ding’s back—Commander Wu, airborne, saber raised high, chopping down in a cleaving arc.
At the same instant, Commander Chen’s bowstring twanged.
"Whsst!"
The arrow streaked in from the flank, timed to seal Fenric’s retreat. Textbook three‑point kill box: spear to fix, Sword to finish, arrow to punish evasion.
If Fenric dodged the saber, he’d take the shaft in the shoulder.
That was how any normal fighter would read the field.
But Fenric didn’t dodge.
[TL/n: Here’s who’s who;
Commander Lin Mae: Blue
Commander Chen: Purple
Commander Wu: Red
Commander Ding: Gold
The man in the middle is the General.]