First, Sare releases his spirit power, forcing his body beyond its natural limits. His muscles strain and blood rushes in his ears as he draws every last ounce of strength. With a fierce roar, he hurls his prized, special-grade weapon, Evil Slayer (Demon Slayer), straight at the grinning demon before him.
The blade tears through the air, blazing with sacred light—yet it is meaningless.
The attack is casually brushed aside, its radiance scattering like sparks into the void.
Sare grits his teeth, rage and despair crashing over him.
"Dammit! The sword really is useless!" He clenches his fists, panic rising. His eyes dart to his side. "Glenda! Buy me a little time! I'll cast Holy Magic! It's the only way—"
He has no choice. His only chance of survival is to unleash the strongest spell he knows. But he can't risk standing still—unless Glenda covers for him.
Yet silence greets him.
Instead, a mocking voice cuts through the smoke.
"If that was meant for your female companion," the demon sneers, "she just ran away at full speed."
Sare's mind goes blank. "…What?"
He turns his head, desperate to deny the words. But his eyes confirm the truth. Glenda is gone. No trace of her remains, no support, no loyalty—nothing but empty space where she had stood.
"God dammit—!" Sare bellows, his voice raw with fury. He wants to scream at her betrayal, to curse her name. But there is no time. He is still staring into the merciless grin of his enemy.
He exhales sharply, forcing his rage into resolve. I'll fight, then! I'll fight the damn fight! I just have to hold on until Grigori gets back!
Yes. Grigori had gone to town to lure the demon out. Now that it had appeared, it was only a matter of time before Grigori returned. Sare clung to that hope like a drowning man to driftwood.
Summoning his courage, Sare ignites his spirit once more and charges headlong into the hopeless battle.
But while he fights desperately, another of the Three Martial Sages—Grigori—finds himself in a dire situation of his own.
Galloping through the battlefield, his warhorse carrying him at full speed, Grigori suddenly veers back as the sky itself crashes down before him. The shockwave almost crushes him, forcing him to dismount immediately.
The battlefield around the town gates is chaos. Mercenaries hired by Youm clash with the enemy vanguard, their formation tight enough to hold the line. They fight well, but Grigori pays them no mind.
They are not his prey.
He doesn't care for Farmus's civil war, nor the fate of its rulers. His only goal is the demon—the murderer of Archbishop Reyhiem. The reports were clear: the demon was here, moving through the city. Grigori had come to eliminate it himself.
"If I don't fight now, there won't be another chance," he tells himself, steadying his halberd.
But instead of the demon, something else blocks his way.
A massive wolf.
It lands before him with earth-shaking force, its golden eyes glowing with predatory joy.
Grigori curses under his breath, leaping from his horse and gripping his weapon tightly. His instincts scream that this beast is no ordinary monster.
The wolf wags its tail, muscles coiled with excitement. Then it leaps, soaring upward—its paws never touching the ground.
Grigori's eyes widen. "That can't be…!"
The beast runs through the air itself, light as a feather, bounding higher and higher. Its steps weave through the sky, defying gravity.
A rare and formidable ability.
"Shuttle Fly…" Grigori whispers in disbelief.
Only a handful of the most extraordinary beast monsters ever acquire such a skill.
And yet this wolf had gained it naturally.
This was no ordinary beast—this was Ranga, the terrifying storm-fang.
Grigori's hunt for the demon would now begin with surviving the jaws of the wolf.
But to Ranga, none of this mattered.
The battlefield, the soldiers' fear, the knights' prayers—it was all meaningless. What he cared about was the feeling of freedom as the storm coursed through his veins. His every step in the sky was like a dance, the sheer rush of power igniting his instincts.
His dark, fur-covered limbs crackled with golden lightning, each spark tearing through the air and leaving trails of light. He made no effort to restrain the aura spilling from him; instead, he let it surge outward, electrifying the very atmosphere. The battlefield itself trembled under his presence.
Upon his forehead, the curved horn gleamed with blinding radiance, glowing like a crown forged from thunder. He wielded it like a weapon, bending the storm to his will.
The furs along his body stood on end, charged with magicules, cloaking him in what seemed like a mantle of darkness woven with golden streaks of lightning. To those below, it was a terrifying sight—an omen, a declaration. This was not simply a monster. This was the Wolven King.
With a single bound, Ranga streaked through the sky at supersonic speed, effortlessly spotting the human formations Diablo had pointed out. In the blink of an eye, he descended, his claws gouging the earth as he landed before Grigori and his company.
The sudden impact sent dust and debris surging outward like an explosion.
Grigori narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his halberd. Around him, the soldiers of the Pope's Imperial Guard shifted nervously, their morale already strained thin.
Behind them, five thousand Farmus Knights—supposed reinforcements sent by King Edward—stood in formation. But even at a glance, Grigori knew the truth: they were broken men.
"Uh… Grigori-sama, what should we do?"
The noble general, Caston, stepped forward, his face pale.
How should I know, you fool? Grigori cursed inwardly. These were not warriors—they were scraps. The true veterans had already perished in earlier battles. What remained were crooked soldiers, second-rate fighters who could barely swing a blade straight. And yet this general dared to look to him for answers, as if salvation could be handed down like bread at a feast.
Grigori spat to the side and barked his reply.
"General Caston, take your troops and reinforce the incoming lines. Both the ground and the air, you understand? Handle it."
Caston blinked, realization dawning now that the order was spelled out. "I—I see. But what about you, Grigori-sama…?"
Grigori smirked coldly, rolling his shoulders as he raised his halberd. "Me? What do you think? Of course, I'll be having some fun with that beast over there. Paisen, Carusia—you protect General Cast—"
His words were cut off.
A black whirlwind tore past him, violent and merciless.
"—UHH!"
By the time Grigori turned his head, it was too late. Ranga had already broken formation, ripping into the troops under General Caston. His speed was incomprehensible, a blur of dark fur and golden lightning carving through flesh and steel.
"Shit! You filthy dog!" Grigori roared, his fury boiling.
He lunged, stabbing his halberd with enough force to split boulders. But Ranga didn't even take him seriously. The wolf swayed aside with fluid ease, the blade whistling past harmlessly.
Then came the rampage.
Ranga leapt and bounded as though he were a playful pup discovering snow for the first time. Yet with each joyous pounce came death. Soldiers were trampled, torn, flung aside like rag dolls. Their screams filled the air, cut short by the sound of bones breaking and armor shattering.
Paisen and Carusia, two of the Pope's Imperial Guard who had tried to shield their general, were flattened beneath the stormfang's claws before they could even cry out. One swing of his tail sent a cluster of armored men tumbling through the air like leaves in a gale.
Blood splattered across the soil, sizzling where the lightning touched it.
"Bastard…!" Grigori snarled, but his words meant nothing. Ranga wasn't listening.
At last, the Wolven King turned his glowing eyes back toward him. With a guttural snarl, Ranga launched himself, the ground cracking beneath the force of his leap.
"Come then!" Grigori bellowed, bracing himself.
But before their clash could begin, other voices cut in.
"Ranga-san, you're running too fast…!"
"Right! We won't even get a chance to fight if you hog everything!"
"Brother, quit whining and keep up already!"
The sounds of hurried pursuit echoed across the battlefield. Gobta, Gabil, and Souka were in hot chase, their respective squads struggling to keep pace.
As usual, Gabil and Souka's bickering rang out even in the heat of battle, the two trading insults with the familiarity of siblings, even as chaos unfolded around them. To anyone else, it was absurd—to them, it was simply routine.
Gobta, however, wasted no time. "Let's get going then!" he barked, activating Shadow Step. In a flicker, he vanished, the Goblin Riders—one hundred strong—rushing to follow.
Above, Gabil's Hiryuu cavalry spread their wings, soaring alongside him, while Souka split off to deliver a report to Hakurou, the battlefield commander.
Gobta arrived first. His eyes widened at the carnage laid before him. The ground was littered with bodies, blood soaking into the soil. Dozens of knights groaned in agony, their armor dented, their weapons scattered.
Those who still stood were pale and trembling, surrounding the wolf at a distance. None dared advance.
These were not ordinary foot soldiers—many of them had been the Pope's most skilled knights.
Yet even they had been swatted aside like insects, their sacrifice meaningless before Ranga's storm.
The great wolf pawed at the ground, his eyes flashing. He didn't kill them outright; instead, he trampled and tossed them away, scattering them like broken toys. That mercy, if it could even be called that, was far more terrifying. It showed Ranga's utter dominance—that he could crush them at will and chose not to.
The knights who remained alive clung to hope, praying that Grigori could stand against this beast.
But hope was fading.
At first, their shouts had rung with conviction, cheering for their commander, their faith unshaken.
Now, silence consumed them.
Because they had seen it.
They had seen that no matter how many blades were raised, no matter how many veterans stood against him, this monster—this Wolven King—was untouchable.
And in their silence, despair began to root itself deep.