"I don't know what you intend to do, but don't underestimate us, monster! Take this, Flying Slash Blade!!" Fritz shouted, his voice cutting through the charged air.
"I offer my power to bind my enemies! Earth Jail!!"
"O flames of the underworld, consume all who oppose me! Hellfire!!"
"O ice and snow, trap and freeze them! Blizzard!!"
"O wind that cuts through all, become my blade! Wind Blade!!"
The other adjutant, Garde, held his breath, his body tense as he watched Fritz and the others launch their attacks. His role was to protect the recovering comrade, but he dared not interfere with Fritz's assault. All he could do was observe the monster wolf—and then, the impossible happened.
The wolf wagged its tail, almost playfully, as it absorbed every attack.
Fritz's Flying Slash Blade was a technique feared by all who faced him. Spiritual energy from four elements—earth, fire, wind, and ice—was combined into a single, lethal strike. Its purpose was to tear even the most resilient enemy apart at range. Only someone attuned to all four elemental spirits could wield it with such fluidity, and Fritz had done so flawlessly. The slash followed its target with unerring precision, ignoring distance entirely.
Yet, the wolf stood there. Calm. Its black fur crackled with golden lightning, dispersing every attack as though they were nothing.
The Earth Jail, designed to immobilize even the fastest monsters, proved useless—the wolf didn't need to move to render it meaningless. Hellfire, meant to burn even regenerating enemies from the inside out, barely made the fur shimmer. Blizzard and Wind Blade, intended to halt or finish off the target, were absorbed, blocked, and rendered ineffective.
The paladins' attacks had no effect. None.
A nightmare unfolded before them. Even an upper-tier A Rank monster would have been crippled by such a combination. But this wolf
remained untouched, calm, almost amused.
"Wha…"
"What…what is that monstrosity?" murmured one paladin, disbelief etched across his face.
Garde's jaw tightened. Even he could not hide his astonishment.
The wolf simply stood, tail flicking, its golden lightning dancing across its black fur. No sign of damage. No flicker of pain.
"You… you! What in the world are you?!" Fritz yelled, veins bulging in his neck. "There shouldn't be a unique, powerful creature like you among the Fang Wolves, not even among upper-tier species!"
The golden lightning pulsed around the wolf as if it had heard him, yet it remained composed, radiating an aura of dominance and quiet amusement. Its gaze swept over the squad, measuring, calculating—not out of malice, but with an authority that left no doubt: this was a being beyond comprehension.
Fritz gritted his teeth. "We are not weak! We will strike you down, no matter how impossible you seem!"
The wolf's tail swished lazily, golden sparks crackling with every movement. Atem's presence was there, even if not physically seen—strategic, deliberate, and overwhelming. Every attack Fritz had meticulously planned and every elemental spirit he had summoned had been accounted for, and yet, the wolf had endured.
It was no longer just a battle. It was a test, a challenge against a force so absolute that it made even the most experienced paladins question everything they knew.
As a captain leading a squad of paladins, Fritz had faced countless monsters in his life. He had even clashed with an upper-tier Fang Wolf in his youth. But the wolf now before him defied all comprehension. Its presence, its aura, radiated power on par with a demon lord. It was the kind of being that could easily be worshipped as a guardian deity of a region, or revered as a king among magic beasts that spread ruin wherever it roamed.
And yet, they—paladins sworn to protect the world—had never even heard of it.
"Hmm… O humans, my name is Ranga," the wolf's voice rumbled, deep and commanding, vibrating through the ground and into their bellies. "That name was granted to me by the great Atem-sama. I will allow you to speak it as well. My species name is Star Wolf. But I am no ordinary Star Wolf. I am Ranga. Fenrir, the Star-Destroying Wolf King, and I will crush and annihilate any enemy who dares oppose Atem-sama with my fangs!"
The declaration was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a direct threat. Opposing this creature meant instant death. Fritz froze, cold sweat running down his temples, struggling to think rationally in the face of such absolute power.
He realized the only conceivable way to counter this monster would be to seal it within a Holy Field and chip away at its strength. But with the wolf's speed—beyond anything a paladin had ever witnessed—attempting to set up such a barrier was suicidal. Each of them moving individually would only ensure their swift demise. They would be checkmated the instant they acted.
Fritz's mind raced, thoughts accelerated by the support magic he had at his disposal, desperately searching for a strategy to recover the situation. Every possible plan ran into the same dead end: the wolf's overwhelming speed and raw power left no margin for error.
Then, without warning, a blinding flash cut across the battlefield, followed by a roar that shook the very air.
The adjutant Garde had attempted the slightest movement—and immediately, plasma erupted from the wolf, scorching the ground beneath him. The heat was so intense that the earth beneath Garde's feet began to melt. He froze, paralyzed by the overwhelming energy and the sheer weight of the wolf's presence.
All paladins were struck dumb. They could feel the oppressive force, the suffocating aura of a being far beyond anything they had ever encountered. Their spiritual armaments, usually sufficient to withstand lethal attacks, were utterly inadequate against the plasma strike alone.
Despair washed over the squad. For the first time in their lives, they understood they were facing a foe whose strength dwarfed everything they had ever trained for. Nothing they had done could prepare them for this.
Fritz's eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, as he forced himself to think. "We… we cannot fight him head-on. We must survive. We must… find a way to turn this."
Even as he spoke, the golden lightning along Ranga's black fur crackled ominously. Every movement, every flick of the tail, radiated a confidence and power that mocked their efforts. Atem's influence was clear in the wolf's measured aggression and strategic precision—it was no mindless beast. This was a guardian, a soldier, a living weapon honed to perfection.
And the paladins realized, in the quiet terror that followed the plasma strike: nothing they had ever learned could measure up to this.
Furthermore, even seasoned paladins—veterans trained to react to the fastest of threats—could not hope to match the speed of lightning that Ranga displayed. Every strike, every movement of the wolf was faster than their eyes could follow. There was no option left but to trust in the defensive barriers they had painstakingly erected at the start and in their spiritual armaments. Survival depended solely on endurance, willpower, and discipline.
Even if it meant meeting a heroic death, yielding to this monster was unthinkable. Every paladin's heart burned with resolve—they would not allow themselves to be defeated, not here, not by a creature so impossibly powerful, not in the presence of Atem's will manifest in this guardian wolf.