The wolves lunged. Znozor raised his sword. Branoc extended his claws.
But Znozor's movements were slower than before. The deep gashes on his chest from the previous battle burned with every motion, the wounds still fresh beneath his torn coat.
He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain, but his strikes were weaker, his blocks more desperate. Blood seeped through his clothes, staining the fabric dark red.
His mind raced with worry—how could he protect Branoc like this? He could barely stand, let alone fight.
If more cursed wolves came, if he fell, the boy would be alone. He couldn't let that happen. Not after everything they'd survived.
And then the fog parted like a curtain.
It had been thick and suffocating moments before, swirling around their ankles like ghostly fingers.
But now, it seemed to react to something—a presence that commanded respect. The mist parted and bowed, clearing a path as if recognizing a master walking through.
A figure emerged from the mist—tall, powerfully built, moving with a calmness that defied the chaos around him.
His fur was pure white, stark against the gray of the withered forest, gleaming faintly in the dim light like freshly fallen snow.
He was a werewolf, unmistakably—but unlike the cursed beasts surrounding them, his form was controlled, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
He wore a worn brown leather jacket, its surface scarred with the marks of countless battles, the stitching frayed in places where claws had raked across it.
Strapped across his back was a massive blade—a Buster Sword, thick and heavy, its edge gleaming with a faint, ominous light that seemed to pulse with ancient power.
His eyes were calm. Peaceful, even. They held no fear, no anger.
Only a cold, ancient certainty that spoke of countless battles and untold victories. He walked through the mist as if he owned it, as if the forest itself recognized him and parted to let him pass.
One of the cursed wolves turned and lunged at him.
The white werewolf didn't flinch. He didn't rush.
He stopped walking and took a slow, measured breath—a single, calm inhale that seemed to center his entire being.
His eyes closed for just a moment, and when they opened, they held the same peaceful certainty.
In one fluid motion, he drew his sword—a movement so clean, so economical, that it seemed almost lazy.
The blade arced through the air like water flowing downhill, effortless and inevitable.
Before the cursed wolf could even register the attack, a deep cut opened across its chest.
Blood sprayed across the cracked earth. The cursed wolf howled in agony, stumbling backward, its claws scraping uselessly against the ground.
But the white werewolf didn't press the attack. He stopped. Stood still. Waiting.
His sword held loosely at his side, dripping with the beast's blood.
Then, with a single sharp jerk, he swung the blade toward the ground.
The blood flew off in a clean arc, splattering against the cracked earth. The edge gleamed pure and pristine.
Znozor's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he clutched his wounded chest.
"Wow... what just happened?"
The white werewolf slowly sheathed his sword back into the brown leather cover on his back.
The wounded cursed wolf staggered, blood pouring from its wound, but it didn't fall.
It stood there, growling, its eyes burning with rage and pain.
The white werewolf watched it calmly. Waiting.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he drew Homura from its sheath once more.
His gaze remained fixed on the wounded cursed wolf. His lips moved, his voice calm and steady—serious, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"Blaze beyond limits... Homura!"
The sword erupted into flame.
Fire danced along the massive blade, licking at the air with hungry tongues of orange and gold.
The flames were so intense, so searing, that droplets of fire fell to the ground like liquid gold, igniting patches of cracked earth where they landed.
The air shimmered with heat, and even from a distance, Znozor could feel the warmth on his face.
The blade—Homura—hummed with power, its edge now glowing white-hot, radiating heat that made the fog retreat.
The wounded cursed wolf howled and lunged again, desperation fueling its attack.
The white werewolf planted his feet, his massive blade swinging in a wide, horizontal arc.
The sword—Homura—caught the cursed wolf across the chest, sending it stumbling back with a deep, burning gash.
The hiss of seared flesh echoed through the trees.
He followed with an overhead strike that cleaved through the cursed wolf's shoulder, the shing of the blade cutting through bone sharp and clean.
Then a spinning slash—a complete revolution of his powerful body—carved through the cursed wolf's midsection.
His blade traced a brutal pattern through the air—one slash, then another, then another.
Each cut was precise, surgical, landing with devastating accuracy.
Arms separated from shoulders. Legs fell away from torsos.
The cursed wolf's body disintegrated piece by piece, its flesh burning from the inside out as the flames consumed it.
The creature's screams echoed through the forest, a sound of pure agony that made even the other cursed wolves hesitate.
Then, in an instant, the cursed wolf turned to ash—a cloud of gray dust that scattered in the wind and disappeared into the fog.
The white werewolf stood motionless, his flaming sword held firmly in his grip.
His eyes surveyed the remaining cursed wolves with that same calm, peaceful certainty.
He did not sheathe his sword. He kept it drawn, the flames still dancing along its edge, ready for the next attack.
The cursed pack snarled, their rage burning even brighter.
They circled him, teeth bared, claws scraping against the cracked earth.
But the white werewolf didn't move. He waited.
Znozor's mind raced. He saw the pattern.
He understood, despite the searing pain in his chest.
"Branoc!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the growls. "We don't have to kill them. We just have to slow them down! Give him openings!"
Branoc nodded, his fangs still bared, his claws still extended.
"I understand!"
He focused his vampire speed, pushing through his fear.
He darted forward, a blur of motion, weaving between the cursed wolves.
He dodged a massive claw by inches, his body twisting unnaturally as he ducked under another cursed wolf's snapping jaws.
He moved like a shadow, baiting them, drawing their attention.
He slapped one cursed wolf across the face with his claws—not enough to hurt, just enough to enrage it.
It turned to chase him, and he led it straight toward the white werewolf.
Znozor lunged forward, his blade slashing across a cursed wolf's leg—not deep enough to kill, but enough to stagger it.
He grunted in pain as the movement pulled at his wounds, fresh blood soaking through his coat.
The beast stumbled, its momentum broken.
In an instant, the white werewolf was there, Homura's flaming edge cleaving through its chest.
The hiss of burning flesh filled the air as the cursed wolf burned and turned to ash.
"Branoc! The one on your left!" Znozor shouted, his voice strained.
Branoc scrambled, his claws raking across another cursed wolf's face, blinding it with deep gashes.
It howled in confusion, swiping blindly, and the white werewolf's blade descended, ending its cursed existence in a burst of flame and ash.
The shing of each cut was precise, clean, followed by the wet sizzle of burning flesh.
The three of them moved together—Branoc's speed creating chaos, Znozor creating openings despite his wounds, and the white werewolf finishing the job.
But Znozor was slowing down.
Each movement cost him, his breath ragged, his vision swimming with pain.
He stumbled as he dodged a claw, his hand pressing against his bleeding chest.
The white werewolf's blade carved through another cursed wolf—a powerful overhead strike that split the beast from skull to chest.
The flames on Homura flared brighter, and the cursed wolf crumbled to ash instantly.
The ground beneath the white werewolf's feet was now scattered with small patches of burning earth, the flames from Homura having fallen and taken root.
Branoc dodged a claw, stumbling backward.
The white werewolf stepped in, his flaming blade carving through the air like a scythe.
Another cursed wolf fell. Another turned to ash.
A massive cursed wolf charged at Znozor from the side.
He barely had time to raise his sword before the white werewolf appeared between them, Homura swinging in a wide, devastating arc.
The cursed wolf's head separated from its body, both pieces burning before they hit the ground.
The last cursed wolf lunged at Branoc, its jaws snapping inches from his face.
Branoc screamed, stumbling backward and falling to the ground.
The white werewolf moved like lightning—a single, precise strike that pierced the cursed wolf's chest.
The beast convulsed, screamed, and turned to ash, scattering into the mist like forgotten dust.
Then, silence.
The battlefield was still. The fog swirled lazily around them.
The only sounds were the heavy, ragged breathing of Znozor and Branoc, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Znozor stood with his hands on his knees, gasping for air, his body trembling from exhaustion and pain.
One hand pressed tightly against his wounded chest, blood seeping between his fingers.
Branoc lay on the cracked earth, his chest heaving, his pale face slick with sweat.
The white werewolf stood motionless, calm as ever.
His flaming sword—Homura—still burned in his grip, the flames casting flickering shadows across the fog.
The patches of fire on the ground still burned around him, small golden flames dancing on the cracked earth.
He took a slow, deep breath, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm.
And then, the flames on the sword began to die.
They flickered once, twice, then faded completely, leaving only the pristine, gleaming edge of the massive blade.
As the flames vanished from Homura, the burning patches on the ground also extinguished, winking out as if they had never existed.
Not a single drop of blood remained on its surface—the flames had burned it all away.
The white werewolf slowly sheathed the sword with a soft click, sliding it back into the brown leather cover on his back.
He stood there, his hands resting loosely at his sides, his white fur barely ruffled by the battle.
His breathing was steady, even.
His calm, peaceful eyes surveyed the ash scattered across the ground, then slowly lifted to look at Znozor and Branoc.
No pride. No satisfaction.
Just a quiet, serious stillness that seemed to hold the weight of countless battles.
Znozor straightened slowly, his chest still heaving, his hand still pressed against his wound.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
He just stared at the white werewolf, his mind racing with questions.
Branoc remained on the ground, his breathing still labored.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the white werewolf.
"Znozor," he gasped, his voice weak and shaky. "Who... who is that?"
Znozor shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the white werewolf.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
The white werewolf gave them a calm, steady stare—serious, unblinking.
His eyes met Znozor's, then shifted to Branoc.
He said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting, as if giving them time to catch their breath.
Znozor took a shaky step forward, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds.
Branoc pushed himself up onto his elbows, his body trembling with the effort.
Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the silence.
The white werewolf stood still, his gaze unwavering.
Calm. Peaceful. But deadly serious.
The three of them remained there—Znozor standing, gasping for air, clutching his bleeding chest; Branoc on the ground, struggling to rise; and the white werewolf standing tall, his white fur gleaming in the dim light, his calm eyes watching them both.
The fog swirled around them, the ash settled on the ground, and the withered forest held its breath.