The pressure was no longer the same—heavier, more terrifying, as though some foreign force had suddenly intruded and overturned the balance. The effects of cursed enchantments were known to all: that crushing sense of despair, the urge to surrender, the paralysis of will. But now… that despair had deepened into something darker, more suffocating, something that strangled the very breath.
The people of the valley—those behind the fortress walls, even those buried deep within the Wolf King's lair—felt the sudden shift in the air. What had once been a mere inner frailty, a dimming of spirit, now became raw terror and a suffocating helplessness. Some of the younger cubs broke into wailing howls and frightened cries, as though sensing an unseen predator stalking them.
From his vantage point, King Kazler could both see and hear what was unfolding, and he knew his people were breaking under the weight of fear. Yet he, too, was not spared from the crushing force; his chest ached as he watched his son, Angelo, caught in a state from which he might never return. And still—somewhere deep within—he clung to a fragile thread of hope, even as everything around him screamed for surrender.
For Larveo and his companions, the moment they unraveled another spell, this new pressure descended upon them without warning, so heavy that even moving felt like dragging a boulder chained to their shoulders.
"What is this pressure?!" Adinis cried out before she could even process the shock, collapsing to the ground as though the bones in her legs had dissolved.
"I can't move! Adinis, what's happening?!" Laro shouted, his voice shaking, barely holding steady.
"How should I know?!" she snapped back, her words sharp with panic.
Larveo, though struggling as much as they were, forced himself to remain composed. Barely able to hold his ground on four legs, he shifted into his half-human form in the hope that it might make movement easier—and partially, it did. He lifted his gaze toward the battlefield, which had fallen into sudden silence after moments earlier being filled with the clamor of wreckage and battle cries. There, he spotted Angelo the wolf, standing motionless, his eyes locked unwaveringly on a single point.
"I don't see Larkin anywhere… could he already be dead?" Larveo muttered under his breath, too faint for Adinis or Laro to hear. Though the pressure clouded his thoughts and gnawed at his bones, he realized what they faced was not Angelo's influence. This was something else—darker, heavier, far more obscure.
Angelo, his body cloaked almost entirely by the enchantment that even veiled half his face, stood fixated on the mound of stones that had buried Darken. From within the cracks, a pair of sharp, crimson eyes glimmered. Though the wolf was barely conscious, instinct screamed at him with alarming clarity: danger.
The stones began to shift, pushed from within. Pebbles fell loose, larger rocks tumbled aside, until at last the figure of Darken emerged. His head hung low, his movements unsteady, staggering like a drunkard. Yet the way he forced his way through the pile was effortless, as though he were merely brushing aside shrubs with his body and feet.
When he finally broke free, his body was battered and bruised, his left arm clearly broken. But then came the sight that forced Angelo to retreat a step: Darken's wounds began knitting themselves shut with every step forward. Even his shattered arm mended, rising whole once again. At last, Darken lifted his head, revealing his face—or what Angelo perceived of it.
Angelo let out a deep, wary growl, stumbling back in heavy, cautious steps, never once tearing his gaze from Darken. The man's presence alone had reshaped the entire battlefield.
"That human is still alive…" Toril gasped, clutching his chest, struggling to breathe beneath the weight.
King Kazler managed to rise to his feet once more, but his eyes wavered between his son—who seemed to drift further and further from his reach—and his people, whose will crumbled like autumn leaves in the wind. Truly, it was a position no one would envy… exactly as Toril had thought.
After a long, strained silence, Kazler spoke:
"Go—stabilize the situation inside. If you see anyone showing signs of strangled howls or unstable transformations, separate them at once!" His tone was sharp, each word heavy, as though forced from his tongue like a lightning strike.
His followers hesitated for only a moment before obeying, hurrying down the wall and into the fortress, gathering others to carry out the king's command.
Toril simply watched. Even when words came to him, he swallowed them back. Now was no time. The king could barely stand as it was, breathing raggedly, his eyes fixed on Angelo—whose gentleness and awareness were swiftly vanishing, replaced by the merciless shell of a beast.
At the same time, Darken stood tall. His clothes hung in tatters, barely covering his body, yet his stance was both imposing and alien. The oppressive force flowing from him was unmistakable. Everyone understood in that moment: no one in the valley could radiate such a power. Only Darken. His eyes now glowed a blood-red, twin flawless gems of unbroken crimson.
For a full minute, neither moved. Darken stood silent, his face an unmoving mask of stone, devoid of any trace of emotion. Angelo crouched tense and ready, his attention fixed, prepared to strike. The sheer stillness of Darken's stance sent unease through all who watched.
Then—Darken took a single step forward with his right foot. A simple motion, but it was the signal Angelo had been waiting for. The wolf lunged with blinding speed, leaping to strike Darken's chest with his claws. Yet the clash ended differently than expected: Darken leapt toward him in turn, driving a powerful kick with his left leg square into Angelo's chest.
The wolf was hurled through the air, landing hard on his feet but wracked with pain. A guttural roar escaped him as blood trickled from his lips.
King Kazler was struck with disbelief—at the speed of his son's assault, at Darken's instantaneous counter, at the sheer violence of their collision. Within his heart, he wished Darken would triumph, for the sake of the valley and the people who called it home. But deeper still… he wished Angelo would live. That his son would survive, whole and unbroken.
Suddenly, he felt something strange pulling him back. Instinctively, he stepped toward the inner edge of the wall, overlooking the fortress within. Toril, still reeling from the last clash, caught sight of the king's movements and turned to him, only to find Kazler tense, his gaze flicking nervously between the fortress interior and the battlefield where Angelo stood.
"What's wrong, my king? What's happening?" Toril asked, eyes darting between Kazler and the field below.
The king's voice was taut, heavy with dread:
"This feeling… it can't be… he's going to use it?" His words were clear in sound, but their meaning remained veiled.
"Use what?" Toril pressed, unsettled by the king's demeanor.
Kazler lowered his voice, though it remained audible:
"The Cry of Submission… he's about to use it. And when he does, catastrophe will follow."
At that very moment, Angelo dipped his head, then raised it sharply, unleashing a piercing howl that reverberated across the valley. Even Larveo, watching from afar, felt its resonance deep within his core—an irresistible compulsion to move.
"No… not this! Not even you, Angelo!" Larveo roared, forcing himself against the cry's influence, straining to remain upright.
"What's happening? Why is he howling like that?" Laro asked, edging toward Larveo, hesitant to get too close.
Larveo clutched his chest, his voice strained:
"That is the Cry of Submission. A pack leader's call to summon his kin. In our veins, it carries the same compulsion… and something more."
"And what is that?" Adinis demanded.
"It forces the wolves into full transformation—compelling them to obey the will carried within the howl. And now… Angelo, son of King Kazler, is summoning the valley to fight at his side."
And so it happened. The cry spread through the fortress's depths, tearing through the minds of countless wolves. Many convulsed in agony, clutching their heads as if struck by fire. Some resisted, for the sound was unlike the queen's familiar call. But most succumbed, shifting into their full feral forms, until chaos consumed the fortress.
Wolves turned on one another with merciless ferocity, destroying anything in their path. Some were crushed beneath falling stones in the frenzy of collision, dying instantly. But it did not last. When Angelo howled once more, the pack surged violently toward the stone gate guarded by Areki and Madli. Despite their desperate defense, they could not withstand the onslaught. The gate shattered, and the frenzied horde poured through, racing to answer the prince's summons.
"Damn it! What is this madness?!" Toril cried as the ground beneath them shook from the force, threatening to throw him off balance. They stood directly above the gate.
"My king! What's happening?! The inner court is in ruins! Those wolves are rampaging into the open!" Toril's voice cracked with fear and disbelief.
Kazler watched, his heart breaking as he realized the one behind this devastation was none other than the son he cherished. His knees nearly gave way, but Toril's words anchored him, and he replied, voice bitter with anguish:
"The Cry of Submission… my son unleashed it, gathering the pack to his side."
His eyes lingered on the battlefield.
The wolves charged at Darken in a frenzy, jaws wide, tearing toward him with no hesitation, consumed with the madness to rip him apart.
But Darken allowed them no opening. He moved with brutal precision, hurling some aside by their ears, battering others with his sheer weight. Yet the overwhelming numbers pressed him from every side. They attacked with blind savagery, as though commanded to fight until nothing remained.
Larveo and his companions watched in disbelief, and none more shaken than Larveo himself. The very wolves they had once relied upon for protection in times of despair had become merciless beasts. He saw Darken plunge his hand into a wolf's chest and tear out its heart.
One by one, Darken slaughtered those who lunged for him—ripping hearts free, rending bodies apart from within. But the sheer numbers smothered him at last, piling atop him until his form was nearly lost beneath the mass.
"He's finished!" Toril shouted, eyes wide, before rounding on the king. "You must act, my king! Only you can stop this! You are the true king, not Angelo! Do something!" His words burned with desperate hope and despair alike.
The plea pierced Kazler's mind. For a heartbeat, surrender tempted him. But then his jaw tightened, and his brow furrowed with grim resolve.
' Damn it… what was I thinking? '
' I am king. My people come before all else… even my family. '
Kazler shifted, his body expanding into its full form: vast, powerful, majestic. His fur shone with mingled hues of crimson and steel-gray, his presence overwhelming, rivaling Angelo's—surpassing it, as befitted the true King of the Valley.
"The king moves at last," Kazler growled, his voice thunderous and terrifying.
For a moment Toril was struck silent—but then, hope flared within him. Perhaps they could end this chaos, reclaim their homeland, and mend what had been broken, together with Arldir.
But suddenly, Kazler noticed something unnatural. A current, like air made visible, rose from the heap of wolves atop Darken. In an instant, their bodies burst apart, flung into the air—torn to shreds, their blood raining down in a gruesome storm.
' That aura…? ' Kazler thought, struggling to comprehend the carnage.
Larveo and his companions, nearest to the slaughter, watched in horror as mangled wolves fell around them, waves of blood spilling over the ground. At the center, Darken stood tall, the mysterious aura raging around him in violent surges of red and black, radiating nothing but peril.
Before anyone could draw breath, Darken hurled himself toward Angelo. The wolf had no time to react. Darken raised his palm, clenched it halfway, and slashed upward. The dark aura obeyed instantly, striking Angelo and tearing into him with a savagery beyond even that of the frenzied pack.
Blood sprayed violently, drenching Darken until his body was bathed in crimson. Angelo's screams lasted only heartbeats, but that was enough to carve silence and dread into the hearts of all who witnessed. Even thought itself seemed too slow—everything had ended before it began.
Yet Darken was far from finished. He thrust both hands forward, pressed his wrists together, then pulled them apart with brutal force. The aura responded, exploding in a storm of rending power that shredded Angelo's body into fragments, blood cascading down in torrents. Still, Darken's face remained utterly expressionless—no exhaustion, no remorse, no fury. He was the embodiment of absolute coldness… and absolute brutality.
Larveo, Adinis, Laro, Kazler, Toril, Areki, Madli, and all who stood near the shattered gate bore witness to the most horrific scene of their lives. And more than that—they saw a side of Darken none had ever glimpsed before. The terrifying side of the one they once called "human." Now, no one could say what he truly was.
The wolf who had once been a symbol of terror to outsiders, yet a long-lost friend to the valley's people, was gone—snuffed out as swiftly as a flame in a storm. Those days of dread and despair had ended with a speed that defied reason itself.
And yet… Darken did not stop.
He turned, scanning his surroundings as though searching for something. Suddenly, he drove his right foot into the ground and launched forward like an arrow. His path led toward the same entrance he and the elves had once used to reach the valley. But he did not stop there—he tore through every obstacle in his way, until he breached the hidden lands of the elves.
With a speed and force beyond mortal senses, he slipped through the secret barrier as though it were nothing, leaving no trace for the guards. But King Toras felt it moments before it happened.
Darken charged on, closing in on a towering white structure beside the Great Tree, where King Toras, Queen Erlsya, and Arldir had gathered. In a single instant, he shattered the wall as if it were paper. Before anyone could react, his fist crashed into Arldir's flawless face, hurling him through the far wall and into the depths of the elven forest.
" I Must Kill ... Claridis . "
The words slipped from him in a voice like a death knell—low, heavy, more dreadful than any scream. None in the chamber heard them clearly, not even the king himself. Yet Darken's blood-soaked figure was more than enough to freeze their veins. In that moment, one instinct alone seized every heart present...
SURVIVAL .