Wolf moved like a shadow, breathing slow, careful, a predator who had learned the art of patience. The field was like a sunlit ocean of heads bobbing like dark buoys; the pack had swelled—ten, twelve, then twenty—an ungainly, terrible tide following the scent he bled across the grass.
He kept his distance, a long arc of pace between him and the lead beasts, slipping between tufts of grass and hollows, guiding their hunger with nothing but scent and the faintest of signals: a dropped scrap of fabric here, a noise that sounded like a small animal there.
"It's easy to think," he murmured to himself, voice a dry rasp under the thrum of insects, "hard to execute." The chuckle that followed was low and private, amusement folded around hunger.
Not only that, I also have to keep track of myself and the surroundings… ten, maybe twenty more groups should do the job.
His mind ticked like a clock: bodies eaten equal fear seeded; fear begets chaos; chaos makes easier prey.
The more dead, the more scared they'll be. Eventually they break. What will they do when no one volunteers?
He could already taste it—the sickly sweetness of control—and his chest warmed with contentment.
He led them on through nightfall's slow progress. The monsters moved like a single blunt organism, muscles rippling beneath bristled coats, horns on their foreheads glinting with sundown radiance. When they hit a group—a tangle of men and women slashing with wooden spears and screaming—Wolf watched from the dark and felt only the clinical thrill of observation as the pack did its work. Bodies collapsed, a chaos of snapping wood and splintered screams.
He moved away before the end.
After three more groups fell and the creatures' number swelled to twenty, he found himself with the luxury of distance.
He didn't need to strike anymore. He only needed to whisper direction, then watch the feast.
Easy, he thought. So easy to steer a herd when you understand the taste of its fear.
It was after the five of these that he saw him. A figure standing apart from the clustered survivors—head held in a way that cut through the smoke and shouting. Black hair cropped in a low taper fade, a silhouette narrower than most, a little taller than Wolf, lean and poised. He wore a black sweater and long trousers, simple but neat; in his hands a wooden sword—gripped not like a toy, but like something that had already given him rhythm.
For the first time that day Wolf felt his body betray him with a tremor.
It was a twitch at the base of his spine, small but undeniable.
What the hell…? he thought, scanning every detail before he exhaled, mind speed-jumping through possibilities.
Am I looking at some prodigy? A natural fighter? He couldn't read this figure like the others; there was a quiet that suggested training, and an alertness that was less animal and more deliberate.
His grin thinned into a half-smile edged with a new hunger. Am I facing someone super talented, or what? The thought amused him even as it set his pulse to a keener beat. He admired talent—if only as a new spice for his experiment. There's something in him. I can feel it.
Wolf eased the pack closer to the man's group, angling the beasts' path like a shepherd guiding sheep toward a cliff. His body moved lower, pressed flat into the long grass, every inch of him reduced to skin and breath.
He was almost a part of the earth itself: limbs tucked, breath timed to the wind, eyes narrowing until the world became the sweep of blades and the flash of horns.
As the pack crept nearer the survivors, the man turned. Not at the beasts—he turned to the right, exactly where Wolf and the growing pack lay in wait. For a split second Wolf's brain went slack with surprise; then action overrode reflex.
He dropped.
He flung himself flat to the ground, molding his body to the terrain, chest pressed into cold soil and blades of grass licking the back of his neck. The monsters surged forward, horns cutting low half-light shimmer as they hunched in pursuit. Wolf's heart hammered a wild, eager rhythm, every sense flaring.
Earlier, after the monsters had torn Old man Ian apart, the creatures had rushed past him first—an oddity he'd noted and filed away. They had stopped at his scent; they hadn't attacked him.
He'd not felt the usual prick of danger that drove most men to flee. Instead, he'd stood, watching the way they smelled the air, the way their heads angled like listening satyrs.
Either they accept me as one of them—because I never attacked them but only the humans they see as threats—or they're smarter than I thought and realize I'm not their enemy.
Either way, it suited Wolf fine. As long as mortality ran high and the calculation stayed in his favor, he didn't care how temporary the arrangement. Methods were tools; he'd use any.
He let the grin spread wide and quiet across his face, the laugh bubbling up from somewhere cold and bright. "Hahaha," he breathed, low and delighted, the sound swallowed by grasses. "I'll be Hannibal Barca for today."
Wolf pressed himself low against the soil, chest heaving with slow, measured rhythm, his eyes narrow slits of dark light. The air was cooling—sun dipped low, the world draped in a bruised orange veil that stretched across the horizon, bleeding through the treetops.
The insects had begun their evening chorus, a thin drone of life over the stench of blood, sweat, and beast musk. The pack he had shepherded tore into the black-haired man's group, horns glinting like savage lances, jaws snapping in chorus. Screams rattled through the dusk, the sound of shields clashing and scraping, wood splintering under pressure.
Wolf's lips tightened, the curve of his grin warring with a creeping sense of unease.
They're holding out… He adjusted, shifted, his gaze sharpening, calculating.
What he saw struck him: the group wasn't just another herd of panicked prey. They moved with shields locking and strikes measured, the men and women inside that line young—emerging adulthood, vigor in their stance, terror balanced with raw muscle. Their formation bent under pressure but didn't break.
Shock flickered across his features, a shadow crawling through his eyes.
If the pack fails here… if they're erased… then I've wasted the tide I built. It will be failure.
His mind lit up like lightning, flashing one possibility after another, burning through contingencies, slicing through panic with calculation. His nostrils flared, chest rising sharper now. No. I won't let it unravel.
He rolled sideways, muscles coiled like a whip, and slid into motion. Grass blades slicked across his body as he crawled low, then rose, then sprinted. His feet dug into the soft soil, silent but swift, the forest breathing around him as he angled toward the new arrivals.
They were still clustered near the entrance, farthest from the fray. A ripe fruit, unbitten, waiting.
When he was close enough, he broke cover. No sneaking. No whisper. A flare of sudden violence.
His arm snapped forward—the wooden spear whistled once through the dying light, a streak of rough splintered death. It pierced the air, spinning once, then buried itself into the chest of a man at the edge of the group. The sound was wet, abrupt, and final. The victim's body jerked, wood protruding obscenely as his mouth opened without sound.
The others flinched. Shock seized them, then tightened into raw urgency. Wooden spears lifted. Shields angled. Their mouths spat curses, orders, panic trying to structure itself into something useful.
"Fuck! They're here already!" someone yelled, voice high, cutting.
"No—hold! It's just one—watch the pack, the monsters are weaker here!" another barked back, breathing hard.
"Then fight! Hold your stance, don't panic—we can take them if we land clean!" a younger man shouted, gripping his makeshift spear until his knuckles shone white.
Another voice, shaking but desperate, cut in: "Did you see that? The monsters aren't pushing as hard—they're slowing!"
"Then don't waste it!" a middle-aged woman shrieked suddenly, fury bursting through fear. Her voice cracked like wood on stone. She jabbed her spear outward, eyes searching the dusk. "Who the fuck are you?! Show yourself, you monster!"
Silence broke for a beat. Then, a voice—steady, low, curling like smoke—answered her demand.
"I'm here."
They tilted their heads up instinctively at the sound.
Wolf fell upon them from above.
His body twisted through the air, descending with a hunter's grace, his heel whipping out with bone-snapping force. The kick smashed square into the woman's face—the impact crunched, wet and final, and her body spun before collapsing, stunned into the dirt.
Before the others could react, he landed fluidly, crouched low, eyes gleaming. His arm whipped up—the threaded horn he had in his hand now an extension of his intent. With one brutal thrust, he buried it into her skull. A single strike. She spasmed, then stilled.
Gasps tore through the group. Fury bled into fear.
"What—what the hell is he—"
"He's with the monsters! He—!"
"No… no, he's worse! He's one of them!"
They didn't understand. They'll never understand.
Because as Wolf had thrown his first spear, he had sprinted to the pack—straight into the maw of beasts no human should dare to enter. One had lunged at him, horn glinting—but its charge faltered, confusion flickering in its eyeless face.
He had caught it, gripped it, hands curling tight against its skull. The others, too, froze a heartbeat—snouts turning, sniffing, confused but indifferent. They didn't rip him apart. They turned away, focusing instead on the humans.
Wolf's laughter trembled up from his chest, silent at first, then breaking into a mad, delighted hiss through his teeth. Yes. Yes! This is it. He laid his palm against the horn protruding from the creature's forehead, fingers spread, and felt the strange thrum inside it, as though the horn pulsed with something older than flesh.
He stripped his sleeves, baring his forearm, and wound the torn fabric tight around his left hand. His breath came harsh, steady, anticipation burning in his throat. Then—without hesitation—he began to pull.
The beast let out a noise, an unholy shriek like metal grinding on bone. Its legs thrashed, claws digging trenches in the soil, gray spittle flying. Still, Wolf pulled. Muscles bunched across his back, veins corded on his neck, teeth gritted in a grimace of pure mania. His eyes widened, fever-bright.
And then—release.
The horn tore free with a sickening wrench, a wet pop followed by a stream of gray blood spurting down the beast's head, painting his arm in filth. The creature collapsed, spasming once, then lay still.
Wolf stared at the jagged horn in his hand, chest hammering. His grin spread, wide, dangerous, blood-masked teeth showing. He trembled, not with fear, but exhilaration.
This… this is what I seek.
The others didn't see that moment—they saw only the aftermath.
They saw him kill their friends.
They saw him move with the feral certainty of predator, overwhelming them one by one.
His strikes were fast, cruel, unrelenting. Paired with the pressure of the confused yet relentless monsters, their line crumbled like brittle wood.
They screamed, fought, begged—but within moments, ten were gone. Annihilated, eaten, broken.
The dusk turned darker still, streaked with red, painted with despair.
Wolf exhaled, staring at the horn in his hand, dripping, jagged, cruel. His expression softened—almost contemplative. "It doesn't suit as a weapon," he muttered, voice calm, analytical, as though discussing a tool. "It's crude and unbalanced."
His eyes flicked toward the horizon. "Perhaps I should reshape it… after I return."
And then—
Pop.
The sound cracked inside his skull, sharp and hollow, like a stone tossed into a deep well.
A screen blinked into existence across his vision, translucent, burning faint against the evening sky.
[The boss of the field has recognized you.]
[The boss has accepted you as an ally and sends you her quest.]
Wolf's breathing hitched. His eyes narrowed, then widened with delight as he read.
Quest: Repel those who invade the territory.
Description:
The invaders tread where they do not belong. The horn in your hand is proof of kinship. The leader recognizes you as its claw. Tear apart the intruders who swarm this place, and return balance through slaughter.
Requirement: Evilness ≥ 10, Possess [Horn of Hornmaw].
Condition: drive out all intruding groups.
Reward: ???
The sun had nearly kissed the horizon now, painting the field in bands of blood-red and shadow. Wolf's grin widened as the last words seared themselves into his vision.
And he stood there—horn dripping, monsters restless, eyes gleaming with a predator's ecstasy.
Wolf's grin braided with a new purpose as the acceptance banner blinked and gone. The horn felt heavy and warm in his palm, slick with the gray blood that smeared across his fingers like varnish.
So they're called Hornmaw, he thought, tasting the name. Ally. Good words for a good tool.
The question of requirements floated up and sank when another notification split the air
[if you wish to accept the quest then howl]
He blinked—half amused, half incredulous—and let the field swallow the sound he let out. The howl climbed and cracked against the dusk, a raw note that felt right in his throat.
A second later the screen confirmed it:
[The boss had aided you]
[All her underlings is in your hand.]
His hands shook now with a different tremor: with anticipation.
The day was giving way to night, and the sky was a canvas of deep, dying orange and bruised purple, the final, dramatic act of the evening sun.
A cool, patient breeze swept across the ground, carrying the faint, unsettling scent of blood and sweat.
Wolf took a deep, steadying breath, the cool air sharp in his lungs, and positioned the object of his focus. The monstrous horn, already sharpened in several brutal sessions, lay on a cleared patch of ground.
"Alright then," he grunted, the sound a low, resonant vibration in the vast silence of the field. His shoulders rolled, easing the tension as he gripped his sharpen rock, his chosen tool—his hammer and anvil both. "Let's finish reshaping this horn first."
He held the wicked, curved blade steady with his left hand, planting the tip into the hard earth. The sharpening rock rose in his right, catching a final, fleeting spark of sunset.
Clang. Chink. Clang.
Clang. Chink. Clang.
It wasn't the dull roar of a forge.
It was a clear, ringing sound, stark against the field.
Wolf's body moved with the rhythmic, deep-seated muscle memory of a hammering white-hot steel, but here, there was no heat, only friction and force. He leveled the rock, focusing the kinetic energy with savage precision, chipping away at the dense keratin and bone. Sweat, cold on his skin now, beaded along his brow and jawline, his expression a mask of severe concentration.
Patience, his inner voice cautioned, a deep, guttural murmur that only he could hear.
The ingredients is here, but the cooking tool isn't ready. I must teach this horn to be a proper killer.
He rotated the blade, tilting his head to catch the angle of the fading light, watching how it flowed across the newly revealed bone surface. He was sculpting its very geometry, gradually thinning the heavy base and coaxing the natural curve into the more streamlined, terrifyingly efficient profile of a blade—the thin, hooked silhouette of a machete, yet more slender, more predatory. His knuckles were white, his movements precise, relentless.
After several agonizing moments—a small eternity carved out of the twilight—he finally stopped.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, the sound loud in the deepening dusk. He held the blade up. Its edges were now uniform, clean, catching the final light like liquid silver. The horn-blade was a proper weapon, balanced and lethal.
This will do better than anything earlier. The balance is off by a fraction, but I can live with that.
He concluded, the thought chillingly devoid of remorse. But first, it needs a hand that won't bleed.
He carefully set the blade aside and rose, his shadow stretching impossibly long and thin across the flat field in the last vestiges of light.
Where a less daring man might have searched for factory parts or traded for a manufactured haft, Wolf used what the world had left on its floor.
He moved among the bodies with a calm that felt ritualistic, selecting the materials he needed as if choosing a suit. His eyes, cold and analytic, turned to the four corpses laid out under the vast, uncaring sky—four adults, two men and two women, still draped in the clothes of their passing, their lifeblood seeping into the dry soil.
He began his selection, analyzing the bodies with the detached efficiency of a butcher preparing meat. He chose the sections based on quality: the broadest, smoothest plains of skin and the strongest, densest cores of bone.
He reached for his machete. With a clinical precision that spoke volumes of his repeated, gruesome craft, he started cutting the human flesh. His blade separated the skin with practiced ease, harvesting strips from the back, abdomen, and thighs—the areas providing the desired large, flat, unblemished sections suitable for the final grip wrap. The sound was soft, wet, and utterly sickening, muted only by the growing roar of the evening wind.
After setting aside the strips of skin, he plunged deeper, working through the muscle and sinew to reach the core. He methodically extracted the thigh bone and the shin bone, the thick, heavy bones that would form the handle's scales. He used the machete's newly sharpened tip to scrape away as much of the visible tissue and marrow as possible from the bone, creating small, precise holes at the ends of the long bones to ensure any lingering grease would leach out later in the degreasing bath.
He gathered his materials: four large, flat strips of human skin—enough to be meticulously stitched together—and the heavy, dense bone sections.
the act had a necessary, clinical cruelty about it that he had long since learned not to flinch at. This was utility and symbol in one.
The construction was an exercise in old, practical craft.
With delicateness and carefulness that stood in horrifying contrast to the raw brutality of his setting, he began the final assembly. He took the strips of skin, already prepared with a crude tanning agent, and began to stitch them into a seamless sheath.
For his needles and thread, he used bone fragments he had patiently filed and honed—tiny, sharp slivers acting as stitches and small, flattened bone nails serving as rivets. He wrapped the handle with the stitched leather strip, pressing and smoothing the seam until it held snug against his palm. For a final touch he used bone rivets and thin nails to pin the wrap in place, tapping them flush and grinding away any ragged edges so the new grip would not shred his hands or betray him in a scuffle.
The skin was supple, molding perfectly to the tang. The bone fragments disappeared into the flesh, creating a horrifying, self-contained bond. The soft, disturbing texture of the human leather was now the buffer between the wielder's hand and the deadly bone blade.
The grip is secure—bone core for heft, leather to stop the slip. Practical.
Beautiful.
He imagined the way it would swing, the sound the blade would make through the air, the feel of a shoulder that knew how to deliver decisive force.
He flexed his fingers around the newly wrapped grip, feeling the bone and leather press into his palm. The seam sat snug beneath his thumb; the balance was finally right.
the blade's weight against his hip, the quiet certainty that comes with a tool tuned to the hand.
A soft pop sounded—another notification. A translucent window flickered up, words forming and then dissolving into his peripheral vision.
He ignored it, flicked it away with a thought. The world was a dozen small signals; only some deserved his focus.
When he turned, the field was a living shadow. The hornmaw pack waited as if they knew their master's cadence, bodies hunkered and low, horns glinting like staves in the failing light.
I'll lead you to the slaughter soon, he thought, a cold grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.
Very soon.
His mind ran through the checklist: the tide, the targets and timing. Everything clicked into place.
There was one last thing to do.
He needed disguise, not only to hide his face but to hide the truth of the hand that pulled the strings.
He moved through the fallen, working fast and quiet. Where before his hands had been clinical, they were now businesslike—ripping, tearing, wrenching free garments and fabric, knotting and layering them into a crude shroud. He soaked swathes of cloth in whatever fluids he had at hand. he dragged a length of hide over his shoulders and wrapped it tight, fashioning a mask that hid the plane of his face and the angle of his jaw. He didn't revel in it; it was method, camouflage: smell, sight, and shape.
The smell of the field thickened around him: blood, sweat, disturbed earth. He pressed mud into the cloth, stained the mask until only shadow showed where his eyes should be. He worked with quick, practiced motions—tucking, knotting, pulling—until his outline read less like a single man and more like some malformed thing the beasts would accept.
The disguise wasn't elegant. It didn't have to be. It only needed to be convincing long enough.
He paused, feeling the fabric rasp against his skin and the weight of the horn at his side.
It's unfortunate there aren't many choices left, he thought, but the lack of options steeled him more than it bothered him. He took the last strip and bound it across his throat where the mask met the jawline, closing the seam until only his pupils glinted through a slit.
He stepped back and regarded himself for a breath. In the dying light he was more anonymous than he had ever been. The field's scent and sight were now part of him; whatever distinction made him human had been blurred, like charcoal smeared into the night sky. He let out a small, satisfied sound—a rough exhale that was almost a laugh.
Behind him the horde shifted, a living tide that smelled his motion and read it as signal. No longer a mere pack.
He raised his face to the dimming heavens as if addressing some patient army. The darkness pressed back; the earth seemed to lean in to listen. Then he screamed—raw, high, and full of iron-cold joy.
"This is it, boys! The time has come! Let go and devour every one of them!"
His shout split the field. He sprang forward, a black shape running ahead of the horde, the horn glinting at his belt, the crude mask hiding the smile that showed in his eyes.
The beasts answered with a chorus of earth-rumbling cries and surged, and Wolf ran, leading the Hornmaw horde to the slaughter.