The gale shrieked across the clifftop.
The crimson eyes of the Lycans and the cold steel of the guardians' weapons caught the weak moonlight, flickering like dying stars. Swirling snow choked the air, wrapping the entire battlefield in an oppressive, suffocating atmosphere of impending death.
At the edge of Starfall Cliff, both sides pulled back instinctively, as if by a silent, mutual pact. In the blink of an eye, the skirmish fractured into five independent circles of violence.
Rena tightened her grip on her spear, her voice low as she leaned toward Lunethia.
"Thea, retreat to the summit now. Once the real fighting starts, we might not be able to shield you."
Lunethia bit her lip, her gaze sweeping over her friends. Unease churned in her chest, but she understood the harsh reality—in a clash against these magical abominations, she was powerless. Staying behind would only make her a liability.
She gave the horse's neck a gentle, reassuring pat. Then, clutching the reins, she guided the stallion—and the still-slumbering Gerald—toward the rocky platform where they had first sought cover.
The blizzard slowly swallowed her silhouette.
But what none of the guardians noticed was that the moment her back vanished into the white veil, a blurred, obsidian shadow materialized from the gloom.
It followed her, silent as a ghost.
...
In the heart of the battlefield, the duel between Rhine and Number Two raged on.
The screech of clashing metal echoed incessantly against the peaks. Crimson flames roared along Rhine's blade, turning his immediate surroundings into the hottest point on the frozen cliffside.
Amidst the swirling snow, Number Two's movements were terrifyingly fast. Relying on its beast-like reflexes and years of honed combat experience, the creature had become little more than a flickering afterimage.
Advance. Retreat. Dodge. Slash.
Every strike was a calculated probe for a weakness, a constant pressure designed to crush Rhine's defenses.
Number Two broke into a jagged laugh. "Not bad, not bad at all!" It licked its fangs, its eyes dancing with malice. "This fire is quite a marvel. It's doing a fine job of warming me up."
Despite the mockery spilling from its mouth, the Lycan felt a seed of irritation taking root. Its brow furrowed slightly beneath its fur—this boy was proving far harder to kill than it had anticipated.
Rhine's movements were ruthlessly efficient.
Each strike was clean and decisive, devoid of any wasted motion or exploitable openings. But it wasn't just his skill that unsettled the Lycan—it was that oppressive, amber-hued flame. The searing heat had already caused the creature's black fur to curl and singe, filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt hair.
Rhine let out a cold snort. "Warm, is it?"
He swung his heavy blade in a violent horizontal sweep, the fire trailing a vivid crimson arc through the falling snow. "Wait until I've roasted you through—then you can stay warm for eternity!"
Despite the fury in his voice, his execution remained rock-solid. His blade met every one of Number Two's strikes with unerring precision. On the rare occasion he pivoted to the offensive, his counter-attacks were so ferocious they forced the monster into a desperate retreat.
In the heart of the blizzard, firelight and cold steel clashed incessantly.
During one such exchange, Number Two's footing suddenly faltered, leaving its midsection momentarily exposed. Rhine's eyes sharpened. Without a heartbeat's hesitation, he delivered a brutal front kick.
THUD!
The blow landed square in the creature's gut. Number Two was sent hurtling backward, tumbling through the thick snow for several yards before skidding to a halt.
Rhine didn't give it a chance to breathe. He charged through the drifts, his blade raised high and the flames roaring along the steel—preparing for the final, crushing blow.
But in that split second, the fallen Lycan grabbed a massive fistful of snow and hurled it directly at Rhine's face.
WHOOSH!
A cloud of white powder exploded between them, instantly blinding Rhine. A cold, predatory smirk spread across Number Two's muzzle. Its body coiled like a spring, and it lunged from the ground, its blade aimed straight for Rhine's throat.
However—
FWOOSH!
A blast of searing heat erupted from Rhine's mouth. It was his unique Flame Breath. The fire tore through the air, vaporizing the blinding snow into a thick curtain of steam.
In the next instant, the fire surged from his breath and climbed back onto his blade. The red light intensified with a blinding roar.
"Dammit..." Number Two hissed a curse.
The creature performed a frantic backflip to avoid the incandescent edge. But as it moved, its wrist flicked with practiced cruelty—and a streak of cold silver shot out.
A throwing knife tore through the steam, flying low and fast.
"Ngh!"
The blade buried itself deep into Rhine's thigh. Crimson blood sprayed out, instantly staining the pristine white snow.
Rhine's frame swayed for a fraction of a second, but not a single groan of pain escaped his lips. He grit his teeth, took a sharp, grounding breath, and reached down. With a brutal tug, he ripped the throwing knife from his thigh and tossed it into the snow as if it were a common pebble.
As he raised his flaming blade once more, the fury in his eyes had crystallized into a cold, lethal resolve.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the ridge...
Gareth was locked in a grim dance with Number Four. Unlike the explosive, fire-lit duel between Rhine and his opponent, this battlefield felt suffocatingly heavy.
Number Four loomed over Gareth, its physique far broader and more imposing. Every swing of its claws and every thundering footfall carried the raw, unbridled power of a beast.
Swish!
The jagged talons tore through the air. Gareth jerked his body to the side, the wind from the strike whistling past his chest with a bone-chilling cold. Before he could even regain his footing, the second blow was already upon him.
CRASH!
The snow exploded. Number Four's fist slammed into the frozen earth, sending shards of ice flying like shrapnel. Gareth was knocked back two steps by the shockwave, his face pale and strained.
Number Four advanced with a predatory sneer. "What happened, archer? I thought you were fast."
It pounced again. The strikes grew faster, more frantic. Claws, punches, kicks—a torrential downpour of violence rained down upon the young man. Gareth was forced into a desperate retreat, his breathing growing ragged as he dodged by the narrowest of margins. Once or twice, the talons came so close they seemed to graze his skin.
Number Four grew more manic with every swing. "Hahaha! Is this all you've got? All you can do is run?"
It unleashed a wide, savage arc with its claws. Gareth performed a clumsy, desperate roll across the snow. The talons caught his shoulder, shredding his tunic, and as he scrambled back to his feet, he stumbled.
Number Four let out a raucous, disappointed laugh. "Boring! I actually thought you had some talent!"
The Lycan accelerated, its silhouette lunging like a wolf going for the throat.
However—
In that very heartbeat, Number Four's brow furrowed.
Something... isn't right.
A chilling realization washed over the monster. From the start of the fight until now, it had launched dozens of attacks. Every single time, it felt like it was about to catch the archer.
Just a little closer. Just one more inch.
But every single time, it had missed by exactly that much.
Number Four skidded to a sudden, jarring halt.
Number Four's eyes grew dark and hollow.
The realization finally took root in its primitive mind. It wasn't the one playing with the archer. It was the other way around.
The boy had been meticulously leading it—strike after strike—to a position that was just out of reach. It was the feeling of chasing a wounded animal that always seemed half a step too slow, yet somehow remained untouchable.
Number Four threw its head back and roared at Gareth. "What is wrong with you?! Do you know nothing but how to skulk and dodge?!"
Its fingers splayed wide, transformed into jagged wolf-claws that tore through the air in a violent downward rake.
Gareth performed a tight, controlled roll to the side. An instant later—
BOOM!
The wolf-claws slammed into the earth. The impact was so colossal that the deep snow erupted like a geyser, shattered by a force equivalent to a titan's warhammer. The sheer weight of the strike was terrifying.
Gareth retreated several paces to steady himself, but this time, the strained look on his face had been replaced by a light, mocking smile.
"What about you?" He arched an eyebrow. "You've been at this for a while and haven't landed a single scratch. If you were actually capable of hitting me, this would have been over long ago."
The fury on Number Four's face boiled over, its lupine eyes glowing with a feral, murderous light.
"Fine then!" the creature snarled, its voice raspy with a twisted kind of excitement. "Since you're too much of a coward to fight like a man—keep running like a little girl! It only makes the hunt more exhilarating! Hahaha!"
"Who are you calling a girl?!"
Gareth roared back in a fit of rage. He lunged forward, drawing the dagger from his waist in one fluid motion. He kicked off the snow, his body soaring through the air—a flash of cold steel aimed directly for the Lycan's throat.
Number Four was ecstatic. This was the moment it had been waiting for.
"Finally! You showed your hand!"
The creature whipped a long blade from its belt, its bicep muscles bulging with tension. The steel hummed with a lethal, upward arc, swinging from the bottom left to the top right.
It was a strike designed to cleave both the boy and his dagger in two.
However—
In the heartbeat before the two streaks of cold steel collided, Gareth's eyes flashed. His movements shifted with predatory grace. Instead of completing the lunge, he slammed the flat of his dagger against the side of the Lycan's rising blade.
CLANG!
A shower of sparks vanished into the blizzard. Borrowing the kinetic force of the impact, Gareth performed a perfect backward somersault in mid-air. He landed lightly on the snow, his silhouette retreating into a position of elegant safety in a single fluid motion.
Number Four, assuming the boy was merely running away again, prepared to give chase—but then, its entire body froze. Its face contorted in sudden, paralyzing terror.
Its limbs... wouldn't move.
"What... what did you do?!" The monster looked down, the first note of genuine horror creeping into its raspy voice.
Embedded deep into the joints of its shoulders were two four-inch-long steel needles, driven precisely into the nerve clusters between muscle and bone. And around its ankles—hidden beneath the churned-up snow—dozens of thin, high-tension cords had been wound in complex layers, anchoring its feet firmly to the frozen earth.
Gareth slowly raised his longbow. He notched an arrow, the bowstring groaning as he drew it back to full tension. He watched the creature with the calm, detached gaze of a trapper observing a beast in a cage.
"It's a lucky thing you aren't a defensive-type monster," Gareth said evenly. "To maintain your speed and agility, you gave up scales and heavy hide. You don't have a single shred of magical protection on your body."
He tilted his head slightly, a peaceful, almost scholarly smile playing on his lips. "And you said it yourself—you were all assassins of the Shadow Unit once. If that's the case, your nerves, your tendons, your joints... they aren't all that different from a human's."
The arrow tip held steady, centered perfectly on Number Four's forehead. Snowflakes drifted lazily between the taut string and the lethal point.
"I'll let you die with the truth," Gareth's voice was slow and deliberate. "Even if your strength and speed far exceed mine... as long as you still think like a human..."
He let out a soft, dry chuckle. "To me, you're far easier to handle than a real beast."
Number Four's eyes bulged, its fangs gnashing in a fit of impotent fury. "You... you cowardly insect!"
The Lycan's feet were frozen in place. While its thick, matted fur protected it from flesh wounds, the coarse hide had also numbed its sense of touch to subtle changes. By the time its legs were fully bound by the high-tension cords, the trap had already reached its terminal stage.
As for the steel needles driven into its joints—they acted as physical locks, paralyzing the range of motion in its arms. This wasn't a contest of strength that could be escaped by brute force. It was a complete, calculated mechanical shutdown.
Gareth let out a soft, mocking chuckle at the creature's curse.
"Chasing an archer into a melee to carve him up, and yet I'm the cowardly one?"
He spoke with a calm detachment as he once again drew his bowstring tight. The bow bent into a perfect, lethal crescent. The arrowhead held steady, locked onto Number Four's brow.
The blizzard screamed between them, a bridge of ice and wind.
"And you—" Gareth narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper. "Why don't we see? Can you dodge this one?"
On the far side of the snow-covered plateau, another duel was reaching its boiling point.
Rena was locked in a fierce head-on collision with Number Three. The freezing wind kicked up massive clouds of white powder, swirling around the two combatants like a cyclonic veil. Spear and claw met in a rhythmic clash of steel and bone, their killing intent flashing like lightning through the storm.
Number Three licked its fangs, its advance slow and suffocating. A repulsive, predatory smirk danced in its lupine eyes.
"You can call me Number Three," it rasped with a nauseating playfulness. "Since you're a woman, I'll make sure you enjoy yourself before I send you on your way."
Rena furrowed her brow and let out a soft, weary sigh. "Tch."
She looked the creature up and down with a gaze filled with genuine disappointment.
"I actually thought your whole werewolf look was quite imposing..." She paused, her voice hardening. "Turns out, you're just a bottom-feeding scumbag."
She quickly regained her signature, breezy smile, but beneath that lighthearted exterior lay an unshakable, crystalline confidence.
"Don't look down on me too much," she said, giving her spear a playful twirl. The silver tip carved an elegant arc through the snow. "Besides Gerald, I haven't lost a fight to anyone."
Number Three's gaze turned glacial. A slow, savage leer pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"Hmph. Women with sharp tongues are always the most entertaining. We'll see if you can keep that smile once I'm through with you."
Before the words had even fully echoed, his silhouette vanished.
In the next heartbeat, a lupine shadow flickered close, fingers splaying into lethal claws that tore through the air with a high-pitched whistle, aimed directly for Rena's neck. Rena was ready. She sank her weight low, her boots gliding across the frozen crust as she swept her spear upward in a broad parry.
CLANG!
Talons met steel, and a spray of sparks erupted against the falling snow. Borrowing the momentum of the impact, Rena pirouetted. Her spear danced in harmony with her steps, its movement as relentless as the gale.
The silver spear-head blurred, weaving a layered screen of light that resembled a coiling, furious silver dragon—forcing Number Three to scramble back several paces.
Impatience finally flickered across the Lycan's face. "Tch!" he roared, his muscles bulging beneath his fur. "You think the strength of a mere woman can contest with mine?!"
He lunged forward with reckless abandon, reaching out with both hands to seize the shaft of the spear, intending to rip the weapon away by sheer brute force.
However—
The moment his claws clamped onto the wood, Rena's wrists snapped into a violent twist. She didn't resist his pull; instead, she guided the spear with the flow of his momentum, redirecting his own explosive strength against him.
In a fraction of a second, Number Three was hauled clean off the ground.
THUD!
His body was slammed mercilessly into the deep snow, sending a massive plume of white powder into the air.
"Gah!" Number Three let out a pained grunt, scrambling back to his feet in a disheveled mess. He stared at her, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"How is this possible?! My strength—fused with the essence of the wolf—bested by you?" He glared at Rena, his voice rising in an absurd, frantic howl. "What are you?! Did you fuse yourself with a silverback gorilla?!"
The air fell silent for a heartbeat.
The breezy smile on Rena's face slowly evaporated. Her brow twitched, and she planted the butt of her spear into the snow with a heavy thump. Her tone was no longer lighthearted; it was laced with a very distinct, very dangerous brand of irritation.
"...What did you just say?"
She stared coldly at Number Three. "I'm the gorilla? Your whole damn family are gorillas."
Rena tightened her grip, and the spear began to vibrate slightly in her palm, emitting a low, resonant hum. "This is called—the application of Chakra."
"If you don't understand, then shut your mouth," Rena said flatly.
She leveled her spear once more, the silver tip locking onto Number Three's throat with unwavering precision. Her breezy smile returned, but her eyes remained sharp, shimmering with a dangerous confidence.
"If this is the extent of your strength—" She gave the spear a slow, deliberate twist. "Then we can end this little farce right now."
On the far side of the snowy plateau...
Owen stood toe-to-toe with a titan of a Lycan. The creature was built like a mountain, with shoulders as broad as a draft horse and muscles that bulged like jagged river stones. Each heavy breath it exhaled billowed into a thick cloud of white steam, radiating a primal pressure that would have made a lesser man's knees buckle.
Owen, however, just grinned, looking as though he had stumbled upon a particularly interesting toy.
"So, are you the alpha of the pack?" he asked.
The Lycan let out a low, guttural snort. "I am Number Five," he replied, his voice a rumbling growl. "These numbers are mere labels; they do not dictate our rank." He tightened his fists, his knuckles letting out a series of sharp, rhythmic cracks.
"But—if we are speaking purely of raw power..." Number Five bared a row of forest-white fangs. "I am the strongest among us."
Having spoken, he squared his chest and dropped into a bestial brawling stance. His legs were anchored into the snow like iron pillars, and the tension in his arms suggested a force ready to detonate at any moment.
Owen let out a short, amused huff. He swung the massive warhammer off his shoulder with a casual flick.
THUD!
The heavy iron head slammed into the snow, sending a shockwave through the drifts. Owen shook out his arms and rolled his shoulders, mimicking the creature by dropping into an unarmed combat stance.
"Well, what a coincidence," he said, his grin widening. "I happen to be the strongest one on our side, too." He cracked his neck, his tone tinged with a touch of boisterous pride. "Even Gerald has to step aside when I start throwing weight around."
Instead of being angered, Number Five let out a booming laugh. "Excellent!"
A feral battle-lust ignited in his lupine eyes. "Then let us have it—a contest of pure, unadulterated strength!"
In the next heartbeat, both men unleashed a simultaneous roar.
"ROAAAR—!"
The snow beneath their feet erupted. Two juggernauts charged, hurtling toward the center of the clearing like two collapsing stars!
Shoulders collided!
Arms locked!
In mid-air, their hands clamped onto each other's wrists with a violent snap. Muscles bulged instantly under skin and fur as the contest of raw power exploded into life.
BOOM—!
The moment they made contact, a shockwave of invisible force rippled outward. The ground shuddered, and the surrounding snow was blasted into a chaotic dance by the sheer pressure.
Number Five's pupils contracted. He clearly hadn't expected this mere human to be capable of meeting his charge head-on, much less holding his ground. But his gaze remained murderous.
"Excellent..." he growled, his voice a low, guttural vibration. "I'm going to savor the sound of your bones snapping... one by one!"
Owen, however, only broke into a wider, more exhilarated grin—a look of pure, almost childlike delight.
"Haha!" He stared at the wolf-mask on Number Five's face, his eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "That mask of yours is incredible! It's so cool!"
Owen suddenly threw his full weight into his grip, his power surging. "After I beat you—that mask is mine!"
No clashing weapons. No intricate techniques. Just the most primal, direct collision of strength unfolding across the frozen wastes.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the battlefield...
The atmosphere was jarringly different.
Milia stood trembling in the snow, her hands clutched tightly against her chest. Before her stood Number Six. Compared to the explosive violence elsewhere, this corner of the plateau was eerily quiet.
The freezing wind sighed as snowflakes drifted lazily onto her shoulders. Milia kept her head down, her voice small and fragile, nearly swallowed by the gale.
"I... I'm actually not very good at fighting..."
She looked up tentatively, her voice barely a whisper. "Can we... can we just not do this?"
Number Six narrowed his eyes, studying the clearly terrified girl. He remained silent for a moment before letting out a sharp, impatient click of his tongue.
"Tch."
He lazily flexed his claws, his expression one of deep annoyance. "I thought facing a woman might provide some sport. But looking at you—"
Number Six's tone dropped into a sub-zero chill. "You're just making me bored."
He slowly unsheathed the heavy blade at his waist.
The steel reflected a single, lethal sliver of moonlight through the swirling snow. He advanced with a leisurely, scattered gait, his steps projecting a complete lack of respect for the opponent before him.
"Forget it," he said with a bored drawl. "Let's keep this quick."
He gave his blade a lazy flick through the air. "I'll give you a clean end, then I can go deal with your noisy little friends."
Milia's cheeks flushed a faint crimson, as if she were overwhelmed by sheer panic. She scrambled to pull two daggers from beneath her cloak, her small frame trembling visibly under the weight of her fear.
"D-don't... don't come any closer..."
Her voice was frail, a mere whisper that seemed ready to be swallowed by the blizzard. Yet, within that trembling tone, there was a faint, stubborn edge.
"I... I really will fight back..."
Looking at her, Number Six couldn't help but let out a derisive snort. "Boring."
He wasted no more words. He kicked off the ground, carving a deep crater into the frozen earth—and vanished into a forward lunge! The heavy blade tore through the freezing wind, descending with a sharp, whistling scream.
SHRING—!
However...
In the exact heartbeat the blade should have connected—the figure before him simply ceased to exist.
Number Six's pupils contracted into pinpricks. "What!?"
Before he could even process the disappearance, a violent, searing sensation ripped through his ankle.
Squelch—
He looked down. His right Achilles tendon had been severed with surgical precision. Crimson blood began to seep from the wound, drawing a thin, vivid line across the pristine white snow.
His knee buckled, and he collapsed heavily into the drifts.
"You... what are you...?"
Number Six forced his head up. For the first time, genuine, raw terror flickered in his eyes. "What kind of monster are you...?"
Milia was standing directly behind him, a dagger gripped in each hand. But she didn't look like she had just engaged in a life-or-death struggle. Instead, her posture suggested something far more haunting: a quiet, elegant dance.
Her steps were light and steady—so weightless that she had left almost no trace of her movement upon the snow.
At that moment, Milia raised her right arm, shielding the lower half of her face. Only a pair of eyes, faintly rimmed with a soft crimson hue, remained visible. Her voice was still small and fragile, yet it carried through the gale with chilling clarity.
"Don't... please don't look at me like that..."
She lowered her head slightly, as if she were genuinely overcome by a wave of bashfulness. "It makes me... feel so shy..."
Meanwhile, on the far edge of the battlefield...
Lunethia had finally managed to guide the horse back to the cluster of jagged rocks where they had first sought shelter. This area was a fair distance from the center of the conflict; the sound of clashing steel had faded, replaced by the increasing fury of the blizzard. The wind whipped up massive veils of snow, threatening to swallow the very earth.
Lunethia tried to carefully ease Gerald down from the saddle, but her movements were clumsy under the weight of her panic. With a sudden slip—the old knight slid from the horse's back.
"Ah!"
Lunethia gasped in terror. She dropped to her knees instantly, pulling him up and frantically checking for any new injuries. Only after confirming he was unharmed did she let out a shaky, shallow breath of relief.
She propped Gerald against a large rock, sheltering him from the worst of the wind. "It's alright..." she whispered to herself more than to him. "The others are holding the line... I... I can't be a burden."
Her face was a mask of worry and exhaustion. But the moment she allowed herself a single heartbeat of calm—a low, resonant voice drifted out from the depths of the white-out.
"Your Highness..."
Lunethia bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. She spun around toward the source of the sound.
Emerging from the swirling snow, a towering silhouette slowly materialized. It was another Lycan. He stood motionless in the drifts, looking as though he had been waiting there for an eternity.
Then, to Lunethia's utter shock, he offered her a slight, formal bow. His movements were precise, disciplined, and entirely controlled.
"I am Number Seven of the Shadow Unit," he stated. His voice was deep and unnervingly calm. "I have come by Her Majesty's decree—"
He raised his head, his lupine eyes gleaming like cold jewels amidst the storm. "—to escort you home to the Royal Palace."
His tone was impeccably polite, carrying a level of decorum that bordered on reverence. Yet, beneath the courtesy lay a crushing weight of authority—a command that felt as inevitable as the changing of the seasons.
"Please, do not resist," Number Seven added softly. "This is... the Queen's will."
The blizzard surged again, its icy fingers coiling around Lunethia. Her face turned a ghostly pale, and her fingers tightened around the horse's reins until her knuckles went white.