8.
Bellum
The afternoon air was brisk as Thorin stretched, rolling his shoulders before pulling on his cloak. He cast a glance at Vorn, who was curled up on a pile of tin ingots near the forge, the wyrm’s tail lazily flicking in his sleep. The mine had taken on a cave-like atmosphere, and Vorn had become strangely attached to it.
“You’re not coming?” Thorin asked.
Vorn barely cracked open an eye. “And leave my cave? Pass. You goto town on your own.”
Shaking his head, Thorin left the mine behind. As he made his way back to town, he couldn’t shake an eerie feeling. The usual morning birdcalls were absent, and even the underbrush seemed devoid of scurrying wildlife. He tightened his grip on his spear, scanning the trees as he walked, but nothing revealed itself.
Back in town at the inn, the innkeeper waved him over. “If you’re looking for work, the carpenter’s got a well-paying job.”
The carpenter, a burly man with calloused hands, nodded in approval when Thorin arrived. “You’re strong enough to fell a few old oaks.”
“From the large forest?” Thorin asked.
The carpenter frowned. “Yeah. Used to be loggers went in. Good wood, worth a fortune. But the forest dwellers… they didn’t take kindly to it.” He rubbed his chin. “Smoke should drive most of them off. You light enough fires; you should be fine.”
Thorin took the job, along with a dimensional ring—an expensive loan from the carpenter that would allow him to store large quantities of timber. After eating and cleaning up, he left the next morning, making the half-day journey to the old oak forest alone.
Arriving at the edge, he built several fires with wet wood, letting thick smoke drift into the woods. As expected, animals fled the haze—birds, rabbits, even a few startled deer. With the area clear, he set to work, felling five massive oak trees and processing them into long timber logs. The labor earned him a +0.40 Woodworking increase, and he was feeling good about the haul as he stored the logs in the ring.
Then he looked past the smoke.
Perched on the branches of the untouched trees beyond the haze, an army of squirrels glared down at him. Their tiny eyes burned with fury, and some had smeared war paint across their faces. A few held crude wooden weapons, little spears and clubs fashioned from twigs and bark.
Thorin’s blood ran cold.
“Oh, hell no.” He turned and bolted.
As he ran back toward the mine, he could hear furious chattering behind him—coordinated, rhythmic. The damn things were organizing.
By the time he reached the mine, he was panting, sweat dripping down his forehead. Vorn lifted his head from his pile of ingots, blinking lazily.
Thorin threw himself down on a crate. “Vorn, you are not going to believe this.”
Vorn stretched and yawned. “Oh, I believe many things. Just not your judgment.”
Thorin launched into his story, detailing everything from the eerie silence in the woods to the furious army of squirrels. Every few sentences, Vorn would interrupt.
“You set fires to push back the forest’s wildlife?”
“Yes.”
“And then you chopped down a bunch of their trees?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think, for even a moment, that there might be a reason no one’s harvested that forest in years?”
“…Look, how was I supposed to know they were watching?!”
Vorn burst into laughter, tail thumping against the stone. “You magnificent idiot! You went and started a war with squirrels!”
Thorin groaned, rubbing his face. “I didn’t start anything.”
“Oh no, you did,” Vorn snickered. “You burned their woods, stole their trees, and now they’re probably rallying like a tiny, fuzzy militia.”
Shaking his head, Thorin stood. “Let’s just turn in the timber and get some rest.”
The next morning, after delivering the lumber and collecting his payment, Thorin and Vorn returned to the mine. Despite Vorn’s constant jabs about “Thorin the Lumber Bandit,” the next few days settled into routine—mining in the morning, smelting ore in the afternoon, practicing rune crafting in the evening. His Mining, Crafting, and even Intelligence saw steady increases.
But something wasn’t right.
At first, it was little things. Weapons left outside the forge had tiny bite marks. The dirt around the mine showed strange disturbances, like something had been scurrying around at night. Then, on the fourth morning, Thorin found his supply crates ransacked, food stores gnawed through, and tiny footprints leading away.
He and Vorn stared at the tracks in silence.
Vorn finally spoke, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “…You know what this means, right?”
Thorin exhaled, gripping his spear. “Yeah.”
The squirrels weren’t just angry.
They were preparing for war.
Later that afternoon, Thorin set out to gather more firewood, stepping cautiously into the woods. He was halfway through chopping a fallen log when the air shifted. A rustling from above sent his instincts flaring, and he barely managed to dive aside as a volley of tiny, sharpened wooden spears rained down where he had just been standing.
“What the—?!”
Squeaky, high-pitched battle cries echoed from the treetops as a dozen squirrels, painted and armed, clung to branches, glaring down at him with murder in their beady eyes.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
Another volley came. Thorin ducked, shielding his face as the makeshift weapons clattered harmlessly against his cloak. The squirrels weren’t following him—they were testing him, seeing how he reacted.
With a growl, Thorin grabbed a thick branch from the ground and hurled it up into the trees. The squirrels scattered, but one got clipped and let out an indignant screech as it tumbled down, bouncing off a rock before scrambling away.
Breathing heavily, Thorin rubbed his arms—small scratches stung where the spears had nicked him.
Back at the mine, Vorn was practically rolling with laughter. “They got you! They actually got you!”
“They ambushed me!” Thorin snapped.
Vorn wiped a nonexistent tear from his snout. “Oh, this is rich. But listen, that wasn’t a random attack.” His tone turned serious. “These aren’t just angry woodland critters. They’re organized, and they remember.”
A system message flashed before Thorin’s eyes:
System Update: You have been marked as an enemy by the Squirrel Warband.
Expect increasing hostilities.
Thorin groaned. “Perfect.”
In the following days, the attacks escalated. The squirrels became bolder, their numbers growing. They didn’t just attack—now they scouted, observed, and harassed him at every opportunity. Thorin would spot them watching from the treetops as he mined, their beady eyes full of calculated malice.
The town wasn’t spared either. Travelers murmured about strange aggression from the local squirrels, with some reporting being chased off the roads.
Then came the sabotage. Tools went missing, crucial supplies were chewed beyond use. One morning, Thorin found his forge in disarray—wood splintered, his hammer stolen, and the anvil smeared with crushed berries in what he could only assume was some kind of war paint.
That’s when he saw him.
One squirrel stood atop a rock near the mine entrance, wearing a battered twig helmet, its fur marked with battle scars.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Recognition hit Thorin.
It was one of the original squirrels that attacked him.
The attack came at dusk.
It started with a distant, rhythmic chittering—thousands of voices rising in unison.
Then the battle cry a phrase in the squirrels barking language.
System message: New language learned Squirrel.
Polyglot +1
Then the first wave came, spilling from the tree line like a living tide. Squirrels, painted in war markings, wielding bone daggers and flint-tipped arrows. Some rode hawks that dove with lethal precision. Others rode badgers, their heavy forms smashing through bushes.
Thorin met the charge with spear in hand, sweeping through the first ranks like a scythe. He thrust forward, impaling one, then twisted to block a flurry of tiny blades. A squirrel lunged for his throat—he caught it midair, crushing it against his armored forearm before hurling it into its kin.
As the battle pushed into the mine entrance, Thorin was forced to abandon his spear. The confined tunnel turned into a desperate melee. The floor became slick with blood and fur, bodies piling up against the walls. He fought with dagger and short sword, hacking and thrusting in relentless rhythm. Every strike was met with snarling fury. His muscles screamed, his breath came in ragged gasps, but still they came.
The mine’s entrance became a bottleneck of death. The walls rang with the clash of steel on bone as Thorin carved through each wave, turning the tunnel into a killing ground. Hours passed, the battle a back-and-forth nightmare. Every time he gained ground; another surge of clawed warriors forced him back. He moved on instinct, parrying, dodging, countering—a brutal, ceaseless dance of survival. His stamina dwindled, arms trembling with exertion, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.
For hours, they fought.
Then the battlefield grew silent.
A hulking figure stepped forward.
The Squirrel Warlord.
Twice the size of its kin, it carried a sharpened dagger and wore a crude metal plate as armor. Its beady eyes locked onto Thorin, radiating pure hatred.
With a growl, Thorin tightened his grip.
The real fight had just begun.
The battle reached its climax as Thorin stepped out of the mine entrance, reequipping his spear. Across from him, standing atop a mound of fallen kin, was the Squirrel Warlord—an imposing figure, twice the size of his brethren, clad in scavenged metal and gripping a sharpened bone blade.
They locked eyes. The air between them crackled with raw animosity.
The warlord struck first, darting forward with inhuman agility. Thorin barely deflected the incoming blade, countering with a sweeping thrust. The warlord twisted mid-air, landing on Thorin’s shoulder before slashing downward. Thorin grunted as the blade scraped against his armor, twisting violently to throw the squirrel off.
They clashed again, the warlord a blur of motion, using the terrain expertly leaping from rocks, bouncing off supports, attacking from impossible angles. Thorin’s spear barely kept the enemy at bay, each strike met with a counter.
Thorin feinted, drawing the warlord in, then delivered a brutal kick. The warlord was sent flying, but as Thorin lunged to finish it, the squirrel rebounded, flipping over his spear and raking claws across his arm.
The back-and-forth continued, neither willing to yield. Thorin’s stamina waned. The warlord’s wounds slowed him. In a final gambit, Thorin let the warlord strike—turning at the last moment, catching the blade against his armor. He seized the opening and drove his spear forward, impaling the warlord clean through.
A few survivors, including the scarred chieftain with a tattered ear, disappeared into the tree line.
At the battlefield’s far edge, those survivors conferred in whispers.
No more open conflict. From the shadows, they would rise anew. Thus, was born their clandestine order: Rodentia.
Thorin stood amidst the fallen, breathing heavily. A system message appeared:
New Title: "The End of Squirrels"
+2 damage to rodent-family enemies. Rodent species now suffer automatic fear debuff and submission in proximity.
Battle Summary:
Enemies Defeated: 1,250 Squirrels
XP Gained: 62,500 XP
Final Level: 22 (2,850 XP to level 23)
Stat Increases:
Strength: +0.40 (New Total: 30.70)
Dexterity: +0.40 (New Total: 30.45)
Agility: +0.40 (New Total: 29.40)
Stamina: +0.40 (New Total: 30.70)
Skill Increases:
Throwing Skill: +12.50
Advanced Mobility: +12.50
Armor Piercing: +37.20
Spear Combat: +33.5
Short Sword: +39
Thorin stood amidst the battlefield, breathing heavily as his spear dripped with blood, the ground littered with fallen warriors—furred bodies clad in makeshift armor, their tiny weapons scattered like discarded twigs.
He bent down, prying a particularly well-crafted miniature sword from the grip of a fallen foe. The craftsmanship was surprisingly intricate honed from sharpened bone, with tiny leather wrappings for grip. Vorn slithered out of the mine, surveying the carnage with an amused flick of his tongue.
“Congratulations, Thorin,” Vorn drawled, tail curling lazily. “You just committed genocide against a bunch of tree rats. Shall I fetch a bard to immortalize your deeds?”
Thorin rolled his eyes, pulling a tattered banner from a squirrel war leader’s corpse. It was crudely painted, depicting what looked like an acorn encircled by tiny weapons. He held it up, shaking his head in disbelief. “They even had a flag…”
“Of course they did,” Vorn said smugly. “You don’t gather an army without a sense of unity. And now, thanks to you, they’re going to be talking about this for generations.”
Ignoring the wyrm’s amusement, Thorin got to work. Together, he and Vorn began gathering the fallen, storing their bodies in dimensional storage. Squirrel pelts were small, but they were still worth something. Besides, he’d be damned if he let their sacrifice go to waste. Their weapons, armor, and trinkets were collected proof of the sheer absurdity of what had transpired.
By the time the battlefield was cleared, the sun was dipping toward the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of churned earth and burnt wood. With a final glance toward the tree line, Thorin turned away. “Let’s go,” he muttered. “We need to let the town know.”
The guards at the town gate gave Thorin a curious look as he approached, Vorn coiled loosely beneath his cloak. His armor was still scuffed from battle, a few stray squirrel bites on his sleeves and gloves. One of the guards, a grizzled veteran named Harvin, narrowed his eyes.
“Looks like you’ve been in a scrap,” Harvin commented, adjusting his spear. “Bandits?”
Thorin hesitated. “...Not exactly.”
Vorn chuckled beneath the cloak, and Thorin shot him a glare before turning back to the guards. “It was squirrels.”
There was a moment of silence. Then another.
Harvin blinked. “Come again?”
Thorin sighed. “An army of squirrels. Armed. Organized. They attacked my mine. I fought them off.”
The younger guard beside Harvin coughed, covering his mouth. The corners of his lips twitched as he struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re… telling me you fought squirrels?”
Vorn finally lost it, his laughter vibrating against Thorin’s back. “Oh, it gets better! He didn’t just fight them—he waged war!”
Thorin groaned. “They started it.”
By now, Harvin was rubbing his temples. “You expect me to report this?”
“Look,” Thorin said, crossing his arms, “go check the forest yourself if you don’t believe me. You’ll find weapons, armor—hell, even a banner. I’m telling you; they were organized.”
Harvin exchanged a skeptical glance with his fellow guard before finally sighing. “Fine. I’ll send a few men to investigate.” He jabbed a finger toward Thorin. “But if this turns out to be some elaborate joke, I swear—”
“It’s not,” Thorin cut in. “And you’ll see soon enough.”
With that, he turned and made his way into town, already hearing hushed whispers among the guards behind him.
By the time he reached the tavern, the rumors had already begun to spread. Conversations hushed as he stepped inside, all eyes turning toward him. A few chuckles rippled through the room, while others gawked in disbelief.
A burly blacksmith leaned against the counter, smirking. “So, you’re the one who went on a squirrel-killing spree, huh?”
A woman across the room laughed. “I heard he burned down half the forest in a blind rage!”
Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what happened.”
“Oh?” The blacksmith grinned. “What did happen, then?”
Thorin exhaled slowly. “They attacked me. I fought back. End of story.”
Vorn slithered further out from beneath the cloak, his voice dripping with amusement. “End of the story? Oh no, my dear Thorin, this is only the beginning. I give it one week before this tale turns into ‘The Butcher of the Woodland Horde.’”
Laughter erupted across the room. Tankards were raised, jokes were thrown, and before the night was over, the entire town had christened Thorin with a new, ridiculous title:
“The Lunatic Who Waged War Against Squirrels.”
Despite the mockery, something undeniable lingered beneath the laughter. The sheer absurdity of what had happened didn’t overshadow one key fact—Thorin had survived.
The people of Oakhollow had heard rumors, but this cemented his place in local history. He wasn’t just another adventurer passing through. He was the kind of man who could turn a ridiculous fight into a legendary tale.
And legends had power.
As the days passed, more people sought him out. Some out of curiosity, others with genuine interest. A wandering merchant offered to buy the squirrel weapons as novelties. Even a local bard started composing a humorous ballad about the “mad warrior who fought the tiny horde.”
Vorn, of course, refused to let him live it down.
“You realize,” Vorn mused one evening, as Thorin sharpened his spear, “that you’ve now made an entire species nearly extinct.”
Thorin didn’t look up. “They attacked first.”
Vorn smirked. “Yes, and now their survivors will whisper your name in terror. The little ones will grow up fearing Thorin the Scourge.”
Thorin let out a long sigh. “Vorn.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
And so, even as the laughter continued, even as the people of Oakhollow spread his tale far and wide, one undeniable truth settled in Thorin’s mind—
He wasn’t just a wandering warrior anymore.
He was becoming something more.
End of Chapter Stats – Thorin Blackwood
Level: 22 (2,850 XP to level 23)
Coin: 6 Silver, 26 Copper, 5 Tin
Stats:
Constitution: 9.25 (462Health)
Strength: 30.70
Dexterity: 30.45
Agility: 29.40
Stamina: 30.70
Mana (MP): 283
Intelligence: 6.10
Skills & Abilities:
Inspect: 22.75
Imbue Fire: 4.25
Cure Minor Wounds: 2
Mining: 18
Crafting: 15
Advanced Mobility: 49.25
Armor Piercing: 39.20
Throwing Skill: 42.65
Spear Combat: 40
Appraisal: 4.50
Polyglot: 3
Gathered Materials:
Tin Ore: 192
Copper Ore: 64
Wolframite Ore: 64
