Not far from the city gates of Myr, the sounds of battle had already erupted. The clashing of steel and the fierce cries of killing rose and fell like crashing waves, echoing violently across the outer city. Smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the stench of sweat, blood, and dust.
The grey-white banner of the Wolf Pack still fluttered in the wind, stubborn and defiant. Gendry stood beside the fallen bodies of several Unsullied soldiers, the cruel shine of his rough iron mask reflecting the glow of firelight. His charcoal-black short hair clung to his forehead, drenched with sweat. Blood dripped down slowly from his heavy black mace. The Unsullied were courageous and disciplined, but even courage had limits when facing raw Northern strength.
"Attack their heads or hearts! Kill them in one blow!" Gendry shouted hoarsely. "If you strike anywhere else, they won't feel pain—and you'll waste your strength!"
Two Unsullied lay dead at his feet, their blood flowing like a dark red stream across the dirt.
Four more Unsullied advanced toward him, their steps uniform and expressionless faces as cold as bronze. Their helmets each bore a single iron spike, and their eyes showed neither fear nor hesitation. Their shields, spears, and short swords moved as one, a deadly rhythm they had repeated since childhood.
Gendry lifted his oak shield and took a step back, raising his warhammer with his free hand. Ordinary men could never hope to match his strength or his swift, almost feline agility. His footwork was light, like that of a Shadowcat leaping between treetops, and he shifted his stance to conserve what energy he had left.
Four long spears thrust forward in unison, aimed at his chest. The Unsullied had realized just how dangerous Gendry was—and they moved to eliminate him first.
"Clang!"
One spear struck his black scale armor. Though the Unsullied were fierce and well-trained, their weapons were not poisoned. Unlike the underhanded fighters of Myr, they fought honorably—straightforward killing, nothing more.
The spear failed to pierce his armor, but the force of the impact knocked him slightly off balance and sent a jolt of pain across his ribs. The Unsullied were light infantry, but their training made them strong and precise.
Gendry locked eyes with one of them—those eyes filled with pure, unwavering resolve.
"Ahhh!" He roared as he swung his mace downward. The brutal blow crashed into the Unsullied's faceplate, caving in metal and bone alike. The soldier collapsed instantly, lifeless.
The remaining three withdrew their spears, then thrust upward toward Gendry's throat, a maneuver practiced thousands of times.
Gendry darted backward with astonishing speed. His body moved like a wild deer weaving through dense forest, narrowly avoiding branches that threatened to snag its hide. His chest burned sharply from the earlier impact, but the pain only stoked the fire in his veins.
"Whoosh!"
A long arrow sliced through the air. Dick the Fletch's aim was true—his arrow pierced straight through an Unsullied's eye socket, dropping the soldier instantly.
Gendry charged forward with renewed fury.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
He hammered the shield of another Unsullied repeatedly. Each strike sent tremors up his own arm, and pain shot through his muscles, but he did not relent. The shield splintered, then shattered. The next blow crushed the soldier's faceplate and skull.
Near the left flank, the Handsome Man led the charge.
"Hurry!" he shouted—only to be met with a sudden ambush. A Myr mercenary fired a crossbow twice in rapid succession. The Handsome Man dodged the first bolt, but the second struck his left arm, spinning him slightly from the impact.
Dick's yew bow responded instantly. A single arrow flew and struck the mercenary cleanly in the throat. The Arrow Maker never wasted words—his arrows spoke for him.
"Thank you, Dick!" the Handsome Man groaned. His face had begun to pale.
"Save your breath," Dick muttered. "Seems my old bones have to keep escorting you a while longer."
But then he saw the wound. Blood dripped steadily from the Handsome Man's arm, darker than it should have been.
"It's nothing," the Handsome Man forced out. "We must leave Myr… first."
Gendry retrieved his hammer and abandoned any thought of capturing Unsullied soldiers. The Unsullied made excellent guards, but the chaos of battle left no time to take prisoners.
The Wolf Pack Company shifted from a spearhead formation to a retreating wedge. Even if they defeated the iron wall of Unsullied infantry, more waves would come. The best route was clear—the smuggler's secret tunnel.
"Hurry!" the Handsome Man ordered.
The Wolf Pack broke free from the Unsullied's engagement range and rushed toward the Myr mercenary forces. Unlike the Unsullied, the Myr mercenaries were a mix of hired blades, guards, and gladiators—chaotic, disorganized, unpredictable.
The Wolf Pack pushed forward with killing intent. Older mercenaries, veterans with failing bodies or severe wounds, remained on the outermost edge to shield their "head wolf" and their brothers. Northern blood flowed in every member of the Wolf Pack Company—sacrifice for kin was an honor.
In the North, when winter approached and the first snow fell, those too old or without heirs often left home so the rest of their families would have a better chance to survive until spring. That ancient tradition followed them even to the Disputed Lands.
Many old mercenaries lay dead in the alleys of Myr. Horses, their riders lost or filled with arrows, let out agonized neighs before collapsing.
Through the deep, narrow tunnel, the Handsome Man led the surviving members into the darkness. By the time the second morning light touched the sea, they boarded the ship of the Pirate King of Lys.
Blood-covered, exhausted, but alive—they climbed aboard. Greybeard was nowhere in sight. They already knew what that meant.
"Old friend! I thought you wouldn't return," said Sala En, the Pirate King of Lys. "But I'm glad you did."
"Thank you, Sala," the Handsome Man replied weakly.
"You look battered," Sala chuckled. "Seems Myr no longer welcomes you. Come back to Lys with me. Whether it's honest shipping or… less honest ventures… good fighters are always needed. I admire your company."
"We will consider it," the Handsome Man said. "May I borrow your cabin? The arrow wound…"
Qyburn stepped forward at once. He gently removed the Handsome Man's armor, revealing the wound. The flesh around it had turned a disturbing purplish-black.
Without wasting a second, Qyburn took him into the cabin. After a long while, he emerged and called for the survivors—Longspear, the Arrow Maker, Steel Fist, and Gendry.
The Handsome Man sat up and gestured to Qyburn.
"I am sorry," Qyburn said gravely, his wrinkles deepening. "The Myr arrows were poisoned. I managed to save his arm, but… he will lose most sensation. He can no longer wield a weapon."
The Handsome Man continued, his voice steady despite the pain.
"The head wolf is gone. He left me the head wolf ring. And now… this ring belongs to Gendry."
He removed the black-iron wolf head ring from his finger and placed it in Gendry's hands.
"The Wolf Pack needs a leader who can fight," he said. "I won't be called the crippled head wolf. If you choose to leave, I won't blame you."
"The responsibility is too great," Gendry whispered.
"Listen, boy," the Handsome Man said. "Our company needs the bravest and the wisest. You have strength and judgment—both essential in the chaos of the Disputed Lands."
Dick stepped forward. "We will obey the new head wolf. Until death."
The Handsome Man knelt on one knee.
One by one, the rest followed.
From that moment onward, Gendry became the head wolf—the commander of the Wolf Pack Company.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)