It began as a blur.
A streak of silver tore across the battlefield—so fast it seemed less like movement and more like something being cut from one place to another.
For a heartbeat, no one understood what they were seeing.
Then instinct answered.
The human soldiers felt it first.
A rush of wind. A pressure in their chests. A cold, ancestral terror that did not need a name.
Something was coming.
Something that hunted.
"It's him—!"
"The Leader!"
The cry spread among the demi-human ranks like wildfire.
Their voices rose—wild, exultant, unrestrained.
Hope for one side.
Doom for the other.
Alfred felt it tighten around his heart.
A hand.
Cold.
Invisible.
Closing.
He saw the figure now.
Charging straight toward him.
No hesitation.
No deviation.
Just intent.
Men tried to stop it.
They stepped forward—slashed, thrust, blocked—
And were passed.
Not broken.
Not even struck.
Just… irrelevant.
The white wolf moved like something unreal.
It slipped through gaps that shouldn't exist. It twisted between blades as if the world bent to let it pass. At times it leapt, clearing bodies and steel alike, landing perfectly in spaces that hadn't existed a moment before.
Never slowing.
Never faltering.
And on its back—
Colin.
Still.
Centered.
Untouched by the chaos beneath him.
His eyes never left Alfred.
For the first time—
fear took shape.
Run.
The thought appeared.
Sharp.
Urgent.
Correct.
And was crushed.
Alfred straightened in the saddle.
His jaw tightened.
His pride—his blood—refused.
"I am Raymond," he breathed.
Not a plea.
A command to himself.
"Come, then!"
He kicked his horse forward.
Steel answered.
The charge met the charge.
Alfred's sword rose—perfect form, perfect timing, honed by years of training and discipline. The arc of his strike was flawless, descending with all the weight and speed of a mounted knight at full gallop.
A killing blow.
Clean.
Certain.
It missed.
Not by much.
By almost nothing.
Colin moved.
Just enough.
A slight lean.
A subtle shift.
And beneath him—
the wolf twisted.
A movement that should not have been possible.
A sudden stop. A turn mid-stride. A defiance of momentum itself.
The blade cut air.
Close enough for Colin to feel its breath.
Close enough to stir his hair.
But not enough.
Alfred's eyes widened.
Too fast.
Too wrong.
He tried to recover.
Instinct took over—his wrist turned, converting the failed strike into a sweeping cut.
Desperate.
Fast.
Still deadly.
Colin did not retreat.
Did not block.
He touched the blade.
A single, precise contact.
Steel met steel with a soft, controlled sound.
Not force.
Not power.
Just… direction.
Alfred's sword dipped.
Barely.
A fraction.
Enough.
The second strike passed harmlessly by.
Two blows.
Two failures.
Something inside Alfred broke.
Not his body.
Not yet.
Something deeper.
He saw it then.
The truth.
Every movement he made—
had already been answered.
Before it even happened.
Colin moved.
No flourish.
No buildup.
No wasted motion.
His sword slipped forward—
like a thought.
A quiet, patient thing finally reaching its conclusion.
The target—
not armor.
Not strength.
A gap.
Small.
Ignored.
Fatal.
The blade entered.
Softly.
A sound like breath leaving the body.
Alfred froze.
The world slowed.
Stretched.
Thinned.
He looked down.
Slowly.
The tip of a sword protruded from his neck.
His blood—his own blood—ran along it, warm, vivid, alive for a moment longer than he was.
Impossible.
No pain.
Not yet.
Only cold.
Spreading.
Stealing.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Air.
Blood.
A broken, useless sound.
He looked at Colin.
At those eyes.
Nothing there.
No hatred.
No triumph.
No recognition.
Just… absence.
As if he had never mattered.
The blade withdrew.
Warmth followed.
Then nothing.
His sword slipped from his hand.
His grip failed.
His body followed.
He fell.
The impact was dull.
Heavy.
Final.
Alfred Raymond—second son, noble heir, hunter of glory—
lay still.
Unnoticed.
Colin did not look back.
He raised his sword.
Blood still falling from its edge.
No words.
None needed.
The army saw.
And broke.
"The general is dead—!"
"Run—!"
"It's a demon—!"
Panic spread faster than fire.
Faster than reason.
Faster than command.
Weapons fell.
Formations dissolved.
Men fled.
But there was nowhere left to go.
Behind them—
the valley closed.
And the hunters followed.
What had been a battle—
ended.
What remained—
was slaughter.