Every single Wolfen vanished.
No drama. No flash of light. No dramatic one-liner. Just dust—grey and fine, kicked up from where they had been standing, swirling in the cold air before settling on the snow. The clearing was empty.
Then Wolfen hit the ground.
He came down like a rocket, miles from where he'd been standing, carving a trench through the snow and dirt and rock. His ribs were scattered—pieces of bone loose in his chest, grinding against each other with every breath. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose, his ears.
He got up.
"So," he said, spitting red onto the white snow. "Which path did you take?"
A Wolfen landed in front of him. The one with the too-bright eyes. The one who had kicked Derek around. His hands were in his pockets. His smile was sharp.
"The one I should have taken long ago."
He kicked Wolfen in the stomach.
Wolfen flew backward, hit the ground, bounced, hit it again, bounced again, skidded to a stop. He pushed himself up, coughing blood.
Behind him, the burning Wolfen stood.
"The one I should have taken instead."
A beam of fire hit Wolfen in the back.
The sound was wet. The smell was worse. His skin was gone—burned away, the muscle beneath visible, red and raw and steaming. He could see his own spine if he twisted far enough.
He got up. Spit blood.
The Architect Wolfen hit him in the jaw. The impact snapped his head sideways, sent teeth flying, cracked bone.
"The one I should have taken in the first place."
Wolfen landed hard. Lay there. Stared at the grey sky.
"I get it," he said slowly. "So you let the pain get to you. You let the voices win. You let the suffering win."
He leaned forward. Charged.
The Architect Wolfen saw the punch coming. He raised his arm to block.
He didn't see the other hand—the one that pressed against his chest, flat and firm, fingers spread.
BOOM.
The Architect Wolfen flew backward, tumbling through the snow, disappearing into the trees. The others watched him go.
Wolfen straightened. He was cataloging them now—sorting them into categories. The zombie. The one who looked like him. The faceless one. The fire one. Those four were stronger. The rest—the Architect, the crying one, the laughing one, the scarred one, the still one—were the same as the one he'd killed before.
He took a deep breath.
Pulse amplification.
The one who looked like him appeared at his side. His fist was raised, ready to strike. His smile was twisted.
Wolfen's fire erupted around him—not the red of before, not the orange, but something deeper. His eyes changed. His hair shifted. The flames around him turned to solar lava.
The other Wolfen's eyes widened. "You haven't chosen the path yet."
"He's a strange one," the Architect Wolfen said, emerging from the trees, brushing snow from his shoulders.
"He'll choose the path," someone said. "Same as us. He'll come to his senses."
Wolfen punched the one who looked like him away.
They circled him now, walking slowly, their voices overlapping, accusing.
No one loves us. No one ever has.
They only see us as a monster.
A weapon of mass destruction.
A murderer.
A manipulator.
An anomaly.
A failure. Failed to protect his best friend. Failed to save his sister. Failed to save his mother.
Wolfen's jaw tightened. "All of it's true. But I have a reason to kill you all."
"What could that be? Don't tell me you love someone."
"I know who he loves," the Architect Wolfen said. "Zoey."
"Hmm. That woman. I remember her. She died burning."
"Who are we talking about?"
The zombie snarled—a wet, guttural sound, like rocks grinding together.
"Ah, well." The one who looked like him smiled. "I'll kill you. And your little lover."
Wolfen's flames raged higher. "Touch her." His voice was quiet. Almost calm. "Touch her, and I'll burn your whole planets. Besides—" He leaned forward. "You've gotta kill me first."
He charged.
They charged with him.
He punched the zombie away—one hit, straight to its chest, sending it tumbling through the snow. The Architect Wolfen punched him in the gut, doubling him over, but Wolfen swung his arm and caught the Architect in the temple, sending him spinning.
The one who looked like him came at Wolfen with everything he had—pulse amplification pushed to its limit, his fist aimed at Wolfen's heart.
Wolfen saw it coming.
He twisted.
The fist went through his stomach instead. Wolfen's blood sprayed across the snow, hot and dark. He grabbed the other Wolfen's arm, twisted it, pulled it free, and jumped back.
Nine fire beams came at him from all sides.
He vanished.
The beams met in the middle, exploding, melting the snow, cratering the earth.
Wolfen appeared behind one of the weaker ones—the crying Wolfen, the one with frozen tears on its cheeks. His arm went through its back, through its ribs, through its heart.
He ripped.
The crying Wolfen came apart in his hands—torso splitting, ribs cracking, spine snapping. Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the snow red. The heart, still beating, fell at Wolfen's feet. The lungs followed. The intestines spilled out in a wet, steaming pile.
Wolfen stood in the gore, breathing hard, his arm wet to the elbow.
The one who looked like him whistled. Low. Appreciative.
Wolfen's eyes were monstrous. His fire raged.
"This is only just beginning," he said.
The Wolfens circled. The snow fell. The blood steamed.