When Wolf spilled into the clearing, the scene that met him was quieter than he'd expected. The man group he'd targeted earlier had vanished like smoke—no frantic struggle, no bodies in the open.
Only hornmaw carcasses lay scattered like toppled scarecrows, gray and still in the cooling light.
A small, pleased sound escaped him, involuntary.
Damn. The man performed well.
The thought was a simple appraisal; admiration, swift and utilitarian. He let his face show it—just a twitch of the mouth—because why hide pleasure at a plan executing nicely?
"They're already gathered," he said, eyes skimming the field. "And the rest of the hornmaws are with me." His muscles tightened, with the readiness that prefaced a hunt. He felt the old, clean exhilaration that came from a scheme coming together.
The pieces had snapped into place while he'd been bent over his work. The notification:
the boss has aided you; her underlings are in your hand.
It had been a riddle at first. Now the meaning was obvious: the hornmaw packs in the field were no longer random beasts. They answered his call, or at least they answered whatever bond the boss had woven through their leader.
While he'd been reshaping horn into blade, packs had gathered and consolidated. All the hornmaw in this field—my underlings. The realization slid into him like a glove.
A grin spread. He raised the machete-blade with a crisp, decisive motion and pointed it forward.
No words. No flourish. The horde read the motion. The animals shifted as one, a low rumble vibrating through their mass, and surged forward—an unthinking, hungry tide aimed where he had shown.
Wolf didn't run with them at first. He let most of the horde pour past him and into the world ahead, then fell into their wake, running behind them where the air still smelled of dust and panic and the field's strange metallic tang. He moved like a conductor, precise and economical—push here, pull there—an invisible hand shaping the slaughter.
It didn't take long before the horde and he reached the target: another cluster of survivors, but this time the situation was different. The humans were organized. As the first hornmaws pressed in, something betrayed a new risk: the lead beasts pitched forward and then toppled. They fell not to blows but into a dark, sudden absence beneath their feet.
The pit.
The first of the horde vanished with a dull, collective thump. A chorus of animal cries answered, then silence. Where he'd expected chaos among the humans, Wolf felt the suspense of being outpaced.
Trap.
He stayed perfectly flat in the grass, expression controlled, breath measured.
Calm, he thought. Observe before you engage. He watched the field as more of his army ran in and dropped—the rim giving way, the ground swallowing the beasts one after another. The more that surged in, the more the pit accepted them.
The sound was not pleasant, but it was efficient. The trap didn't kill them instantly; it simply removed their momentum, their numbers and their advantage.
His mind flicked through numbers: how many had he gathered? No, if this continued, the horde would be halved, quartered, ruined. If the horde is gone, I won't be able to complete the quest.
The thought had an acid edge. He tightened his grip on the machete. Failure was a lesson he preferred to avoid.
He glanced up and took stock. The surviving human group had prepared a front; long spears were planted into the ground and braced with logs, creating a low, sturdy line. They'd dug beneath the pit rim in small, deliberate undermines—little wedges designed to collapse at the right pressure.
Whoever had set it had expected him.
Wolf's eyes narrowing on the line of defenders.
Each man braced his spear the same way—shoulders locked, feet angled to absorb recoil. Their formation breathed as one body, tense but disciplined.
Smarter than I gave them credit for. The assessment stung his plans more than his pride. He watched the defenders' faces now: young, hard, set with a practiced, terrible calm—like someone who'd seen enough to learn quick, and who had chosen to turn fear into preparation rather than flight.
He cataloged their posture: shoulders squared, feet braced, faces grim; a cluster of voices issuing curt commands, some calling cadence. A middle leader—brow furrowed, hair dark and practical—moved along the line and reassured, barked, and corrected. Their spears were thick and well-sharpened, the logs sturdy; their formation bent under the hornmaws' pressure, but it did not break.
They prepared to meet me. They feared leading the monsters to base more than they feared death?
Foolish.
Wolf's thoughts raced—alternatives and counters like chess moves. They could run and bring back more people. They could have ambushed the horde before I got them.
But they chose the pit.
Perhaps they expect me to lead them straight into it. His lips twitched with a calculating smile.
They predicted I'd shepherd the horde through. They predicted the rim collapse.
A sharp inhale. They even predicted my trick with the undercuts. He leaned his head back slightly, the weight of admiration a small, bitter thing.
They thought I'd let them collapse the rim further. That would be their victory if I played it openly.
He watched the battle front with hawk eyes, mapping the angles and the timing. The hornmaws that hadn't fallen yet surged again, jaws wide, horns stabbing. Men and women met them, spears braced, shields held. Splinters flew; the air filled with the metallic clang of wood meeting horn and the deeper yaw of the beasts' hunger.
The pit slowed the tide but didn't stop the assault. The ground around the rim trembled as more bodies hit the edges.
Too many variables to explode into chaotic heroics, he thought. Steady steps. He quieted the upward curl of bloodlust and narrowed his focus like a blade.
Wolf rose on silent feet and moved low, weaving between toppled hornmaw and churned earth. He used the carcasses and the dust as cover—gray mounds and scattered flourishes of soil churning in the breach—to conceal his approach. Each step was patient, each breath paced. The roar of battle filled the wedge of dusk, but in the hush behind his mask his thoughts were cool and precise.
Closer, second by second.
He measuring distance by heartbeats. Seize the point when their line slackens.
He edged forward, the world narrowing to the line of spears and the shifting, precarious rim of the pit. The stakes rose like the sun's last light—the clearer the danger, the keener his intent.
Wolf tightened his grip on the machete in his left hand, knuckles whitening as the raw, stitched leather and bone pressed firmly into his palm. The chaos of the field didn't rattle him—he had long since grown used to chaos, and now he is the center of it.
His gaze swept the front. Spears braced in logs, splintered earth, and the pit's cruel edge—it was a well-prepared line.
But preparation only delayed inevitability.
He dropped the machete in a quick, fluid motion, its edge flashing against the dying orange of the evening sun. In an instant, he swung through the immediate spears around him, severing all spearheads with a precise, practiced sweep.
Wood clattered across the ground, spinning and catching light, creating a storm of splinters and sharp arcs. His motion was mechanical yet balletic, a predator's flow.
Before the humans could recover, he spotted a hornmaw nearby. Muscles coiling, he grabbed it with right hand, hurling the creature into the air. It twisted, massive limbs flailing, and landed with a bone-jarring thud to the left of the fight line. Dust and blood erupted from the impact. He followed, rolling forward and leaping over the log barricade, ready to strike.
His target—one of the men, shaking with terror, hands slick with sweat from gripping a now-useless spear—was frozen mid-step. The man dropped his weapon and fell backward, eyes wide as his life dangled precariously. Wolf's machete swung upward, the tip glinting in the dusky light, poised to end it.
Then, a sharp whistle of wood cut the air.
thwack!
A spear plunged toward his chest. Instincts flared. Wolf twisted, yanking the shaft up and to the side, redirecting the attack to clip the man's head as he ducked aside, muscles coiled like steel springs.
The hornmaw he'd thrown moments ago twitched, then lay still—its gray blood soaking the earth. And then Wolf's attention shifted. A voice.
"T-t-thank you… Hyun-Woo."
The name hit him like a shockwave. His emotions, previously honed razor-sharp with anticipation and predation, shifted instantly. His head snapped up to see the man standing before him, spear in hand, dark hair plastered with sweat, clothes clinging from exertion.
A realization occurred in Wolf's mind.
"So… you're Hyun-Woo?" His voice was incredulous, cutting across the chaos.
"Who are you!?" Hyun-Woo shouted back, voice trembling, confusion etched in every line of his face.
The field seemed to shrink for a moment, the hornmaws' roars a distant buzz as Wolf's eyes tracked the figure with predatory focus.
Their exchange ended abruptly. A man on the right, sensing opportunity, lunged in a sneak attack. Spear aimed for Wolf's head. Wolf barely flinched, sliding an inch to the side, catching the spear mid-flight and yanking the attacker into an arc.
With a brutal right kick, he sent the man hurtling into the waiting jaws of the hornmaw horde. The chaos snapped back into the field with renewed intensity.
Wolf stole a glance at Hyun-Woo, recognition and surprise mingling in his chest, before plunging into the melee again. He moved low, shadowed by the dusky light and the chaos, targeting those who prepared trap and now rested: spear-carrying men wiping sweat, women leaning against logs, heads bowed, trying to catch their breath.
Each strike was methodical.
Decapitations.
Clean cuts through torsos, midsection.
Precise stabs into the skulls of the wary.
Wolf's blade was an extension of his will. Shouts, screams, begging:
"Please! Mercy!"
"Stop! I didn't do anything!"
"Someone… help us!"
None of it mattered. Wolf's mind was cold. Every pause is a liability. Every hesitation costs another.
Then, from nowhere, a middle-aged man emerged!
His spear aimed squarely at Wolf's stomach. Instinct flared. Wolf pivoted, slicing through the spearhead before it could pierce him, but the man didn't relent. He barreled into Wolf from the side, collision sending him skidding across the churned earth.
Pain flared in his shoulder.
Ah… my shoulder. That man's strength stat must be insane, Wolf noted clinically, teeth gritting through the ache.
"You saved my life… Alek!" a voice rang out, followed by cheers from the human line.
Alek…? That name… sounds familiar. Wolf's eyes narrowed.
Alek stepped forward like a weight dropped into the chaos—solid, deliberate. The din of the field folded around him for a single heartbeat.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused hand, then planted his feet shoulder‑width apart.
His face was carved from a different kind of weather—lines from too many long days, a mouth that rarely smiled, eyes that had learned to read danger before it spoke. He scanned Wolf once, a slow appraisal: the masked hunter, the crude machete, the way the beast‑cording around Wolf's wrists caught the sunset. There was no tremor in Alek's jaw; anger sat there, patient and cold.
He spoke then, voice low and controlled so that it cut through the clamor with the force of a struck bell.
"I don't know who you are," Alek said, teeth barely parting, "but for everything you caused… you will not leave here alive."
Wolf's head tilted. A laugh ripped through his throat, guttural and sharp, before he shifted into a deep, resonant howl.
The hornmaw horde erupted in response, surging forward like a tidal wave, tearing through even logs, splintering wood, bodies, everything in their path. The humans froze in terror; some collapsed, some fell to their knees in prayer.
A small, calm voice broke through, measured and deliberate:
"Let me go so I can stop the horde. We can talk this out… Alek."
Wolf's gaze locked onto Alek. Every hornmaw in the field seemed to sense the pause. Eyes flicked to Alek, then back to Wolf. Hyun-Woo and a few others at the front raised their wooden spears, wary, bracing. Wolf didn't flinch. He shrugged, a slight tilt of the shoulders, acknowledging them but showing nothing else.
Alek didn't respond verbally. He only look at him in disbelief before sighed, looking down then raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Wolf walked forward, machete raised high, letting the motion alone signal command. The horde, sensing the authority and the pause, eventually halted, waiting, tense and expectant, ears twitching, jaws snapping lightly in anticipation.
The field's air was thick with dust, sweat, and the coppery tang of blood, but the moment had frozen into a tableau: Wolf and his horde poised, Alek and the remaining humans tense, spears braced, and Hyun-Woo staring with wary respect and disbelief.
Wolf's eyes were sharp slits, cold and unbending. The horde understood—he had their will, their focus, their obedience. Every muscle in his body hummed with anticipation, ready to shape the chaos on his terms.
Wolf settled onto one of the logs, the rough bark biting slightly into his palms, while behind him the hornmaw horde pressed together like a living, heaving wall of fur, claws, and jagged rods. The setting sun bled through the thinning trees, casting long, spindly shadows across the field, flickering across the hornmaws' twisted, dense forms. Dust rose from the disturbed soil, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang of blood, and the occasional rustle of restless paws.
In front of him, three figures stood rigid: Hyung-Woo, Alek, and a young woman whose hand tightened instinctively around her spear. Wolf's gaze swept over them, slow and deliberate, like a predator surveying a cornered flock.
"So, you're the leader," he said, voice calm, almost gentle, yet cutting across the tension like a knife. He pointed a finger at Hyung-Woo, the gesture precise, controlled, unthreatening in appearance but heavy with insinuation.
Hyung-Woo froze, an internal flare of disbelief firing through his mind.
Dammit… how does he know it right away? His eyes narrowed, calculating, but the pause betrayed him.
"Yes, I'm the leader here. What do you want?" he asked, his tone firm, steady, carrying the weight of responsibility.
Wolf leaned back slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze cool and measured.
"I don't want anything," he said.
His words contradicted his appearance—the fresh blood, the sharpened horn-machete, the omnipresent chaos of the hornmaw horde surrounding him. He paused, letting the silence stretch. "I don't even want to kill you."
A ripple of tension ran through the three humans. Even the young woman's grip on her spear faltered for a fraction of a second. Wolf tilted his head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smirk brushing his features.
Paranoid, aren't you?
"But… I can't just let you go, can I?" His voice shifted subtly, the firmness now laced with inevitability. "You see, I have this quest. To drive all of you from this field… from the boss of this place, of course." He let the words hang, letting the reality of the situation sink in.
A ripple ran through the gathered crowd as his words hung in the air — a living thing, soft and hungry.
The whispers braided into a single current of speculation and fear, washing the group in restless light. Some leaned forward, hungry for the spectacle; others shuffled away.
The gossip bought him time and made his intentions heavier, like a banner unfurling before a march.
He leaned forward a fraction, the shadows playing across his face. "And for your wondering… yes, I could finish it easily, given my advantage. But…" He let the pause stretch, watching the subtle tension ripple across their shoulders.
"A human's greed… can't be satisfied that easily, right?"
Hyung-Woo's face paled slightly. "What do you want?" His voice wavered, betraying both caution and curiosity.
Wolf's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. "Let's see." He sat up straighter, the machete resting across his lap. "How many groups did you have before gathering together?"
"one hundred forty two groups," Hyung-Woo replied, a careful precision in his voice.
Wolf's mind calculated, shifted, analyzed the field of view, the remnants of hornmaws, the scattered debris of corpses and blood. one hundred forty two groups…
that's substantial. But compared to the hornmaws? At least ten thousand. Easily.
Ten thousand bodies, ten thousand deaths if I want… He exhaled softly, letting the thought settle before he added, his tone casual, almost conversational.
"Leave ten groups here. As for choosing… feel free to discuss it among yourselves. I'll wait."
Immediately, chaos erupted. The crowd murmured, split, voices rising, overlapping—arguments, protests, fearful murmurs, bargaining.
Alek's face twisted in disgust, trying—and failing—to hide it. He stepped forward, voice raising over the din. "Can't it be something else?"
Wolf dismissed him without a glance, a slight shake of his head. "Only that can satisfy my hunger. Ask anything else, and I'll raise the number." His words struck like hammers; Alek froze mid-step, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Hyung-Woo intervened, voice cutting through the tension. "Let's go, Alek. We have something else to deal with."
"I… don't think there is…" Alek's voice was lifeless, drained of fight.
"Of course there is," Hyung-Woo replied firmly, dragging Alek's arm to lead him away, moving with a steady, determined grip.
After a few moments, they returned, standing before Wolf once more. Neither Alek nor Hyung-Woo spoke a word; their shoulders stiff, faces set. Wolf tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, then raised his machete in a casual gesture.
"Those who aren't chosen… take your leave now."
Slowly, the humans began to disperse. Some ran, some walked, some paused, staring back at the field as if to imprint the scene into memory. Eventually, only ten groups remained, roughly one hundred individuals, most middle-aged, with a few teenagers scattered among them.
The remaining air felt heavier, a collective tension pressing against the evening haze.
Wolf reached up, peeling off the bloodied disguise, revealing his true form beneath, but none of the remaining humans flinched. They were spent, drained—physically and mentally—or simply desensitized to the horrors they had survived. A few stared blankly, some spaced out, lost in thought.
He scanned them quickly, taking mental notes. Age range… stamina… reflexes… likely strength… His gaze calculated. Then, sharp and commanding:
"Hey! Open your status window."
They obeyed without hesitation. Wolf examined each one slowly, deliberately, letting his mind parse through their stats one by one, matching posture, speed, and weapons to what the windows displayed. A subtle thrill ran through him—calculations, estimations, possibilities expanding.
A pop-up sounded in his head. Notifications blinked into view:
[You have completed the quest]
[For reward, you must go into the boss lair]
[The hornmaws will guide you there.]
Another notification blinked, but he dismissed it.
Hmm… so it seem like they realize I'm not their enemy, even though I could still turn them. The quest completion makes sense—they pose no threat, just as I have throughout the day.
The night pressed in, deepening the shadows, cooling the field. Wolf stretched, shoulders cracking softly in the quiet, a satisfying release.
"Follow me," he said to the remaining humans, voice calm, measured. He ran a hand along the chin of a nearby hornmaw, feeling the coarse fur and dense muscle beneath.
"Take me to your leader."
The hornmaw's low growl shifted into a series of howls, rising in pitch and tone, answered by the rest of the horde. They surged forward, powerful, synchronized, a living current through the field. The humans walked alongside, careful to keep pace, while a few injured hornmaws brought up the rear, limping slightly but keeping formation.
Eventually, they reached the entrance to the hornmaw lair. Wolf tilted his head, brow furrowed. "Uh… I think it's too small for a human to get in," he muttered under his breath, tone lightly frustrated.
He didn't need to enter. From the darkened tunnel, a single hornmaw emerged. It was smaller than the others, its horns a deep, vivid red, contrasting with the gray and brown of the rest. Its fur was fluffy, more voluminous than expected, giving it a slightly softer silhouette—but the gleam in its eyes betrayed cunning, a dangerous intelligence.
Wolf's expression remained measured, unreadable.
Not as big as the others… but looks like the boss. And that red horn…. Fluffy? Hmm…ok? I guess.
The night stretched wide and dark before them.
The lair's entrance a mouth waiting to reveal the next chapter of carnage and command.
A soft pop echoed in Wolf's mind, like the crack of a thin branch underfoot, and a notification screen flickered before him, breaking the tense silence of the field and the shadows of the hornmaw lair.
[Choose your reward]
Stat Boost: +3 Speed, +5 Agility
Passive Skill: Blessing of the Hornmaw
Fingerbone Talisman
Wolf's black pupils narrowed, the flicker of the screen reflected like molten silver in them. He exhaled slowly, a low rasp that carried both amusement and calculation.
"Stat boost… clearly can't be bad," he murmured under his breath, letting the thought linger, fingers flexing around the machete's wrapped grip, feeling the bone and leather press against his palm. The texture grounded him.
His gaze shifted downward, tracing the second option. Passive skill, huh? he mused, a slight frown knitting his brow. Could be perfect… could be a disaster. I don't know its effect.
Might not suit me at all… His lips pressed into a thin line.
Finally, his attention fell to the third choice. His eyes locked on it, unblinking, as if staring into a deep cave that promised secrets and risk in equal measure. Thoughts poured through his mind, rapid, analytical, weighing every angle.
Worth the risk, isn't it? Even if it's useless… or worse, I can still fool others with it. All the better for leverage.
Decision made, he nodded slightly, firm. "I'll take the third."
Almost immediately, the hornmaw boss retreated into the darkness of the cave and reemerged with the Fingerbone Talisman, its crimson-tinted claws holding the talisman delicately. Wolf extended his arm, gripping the object firmly, taking a deep, steadying breath.
Alright… let's see what you're made of later. He tucked it carefully into a pocket of his tattered gear.
Satisfied with the reward, Wolf turned to the humans, eyes sharp and calculating, the machete gleaming faintly in the fading firelight of dusk.
"Stay still," he said softly, almost playful, voice low but weighted with threat.
"If you run, I'll make sure to eat you next."
A collective shiver ran through the captives; their limbs froze, their eyes wide, paralyzed by the deadly calm in his tone and the carnage that surrounded them.
Wolf's gaze flicked back to the hornmaw boss, now sitting opposite him. Its small, red horned face, fluffy and oddly endearing, tilted with curious observation. Wolf mirrored its expression with a faint, almost imperceptible frown and a fuddle face of his own before looking away, sighing softly, the sound blending with the evening breeze.
He picked up his sharpening rock again, the familiar weight in his hand, and held it out. The hornmaw's eyes followed the motion, head tilting, before it snatched the rock with careful precision and returned to the cave.
Moments later, it emerged carrying a small pile of sticks, rocks, lemongrass, and mushrooms, placing them neatly nearby.
Wolf's expression hardened, unreadable, shadowed by the flickering light of the small bonfire he had started. He worked efficiently, methodical, preparing skewers and a larger rotisserie for grilling. He dissected the human body with precision: arms chopped to skewer-sized sections, heart, liver, kidney, and brain carefully mounted on the rotisserie. Each movement was deliberate, fluid, with no hesitation, as he rotated the skewers and monitored the fire.
The faint sizzle of cooking meat filled the lair, punctuated by the crackle of fire and the soft snapping of twigs. Smoke curled, carrying the iron-tinged scent of blood and the sweet, earthy aroma of mushrooms. Wolf's nostrils flared, inhaling deliberately.
Perfect… almost… balanced.
Finally, he began eating. The first bite of heart was firm yet tender, a slight resistance giving way under his teeth. The taste was iron-rich, pungent, the texture soft but with a subtle fibrous tension. He chewed slowly, savoring each nuance, letting the flavors fill his mouth. Rich… heavy… lingering.
He glanced across at the hornmaw boss, offering a small skewer of arm meat with a slight, almost teasing smirk. The hornmaw sniffed the meat, then gently took it, chewing with careful, deliberate bites, eyes half-closed in apparent enjoyment.
Wolf continued eating, alternating between skewers and rotating the rotisserie, checking the cook each time. He dissected and tasted with unflinching efficiency, listening to the crackle, the pop of fat hitting the fire, and the subtle tear of meat fibers as he cut through. Each sensory detail—a mixture of smell, sound, and texture—was noted internally, appreciated, cataloged.
As he ate, the remaining humans watched silently, a mixture of shock, fear, and disbelief etched across their faces. Some swallowed hard, others turned their gaze to the ground, trying to avoid witnessing the ritualistic display of power and dominance.
Wolf's eyes, however, were calm and occasionally flicking to the hornmaw boss who sat opposite him, enjoying the offering.
He let out a low, throaty chuckle, satisfied, sharing morsels where appropriate, maintaining a balance of dominance and odd camaraderie.
All while the human captives were forced to witness, immobilized by both fear and the quiet, magnetic authority Wolf radiated.
The night closing around them with the crackle of fire and distant echoes of hornmaw howls, punctuating the deadly ritual.