The Adventurer was hurled backward, his body crashing hard against the ground before tumbling several times away from Ursulyn.
This time, the battle would be seen through the Adventurer's eyes.
Dust swirled, but he forced himself up, breathing raggedly. Five horned wolves had already encircled him from every side.
Though their shapes mimicked wolves, calling them mere beasts would be far from truth. Each was massive, the size of three fully grown gray wolves combined. Their coats were black as midnight, etched with glowing violet sigils running across their bodies. Their frames were powerful, their fur sharp and gleaming like blades of obsidian. From each head curved a pair of horns, arched backward, pulsing with deep purple light.
By every measure, they looked less like wolves and more like monsters wearing the guise of wolves.
From the pouch at his waist, the Adventurer pulled out a small, gleaming orb—a light sphere. Without hesitation, he hurled it into their midst.
CRACK!!!
A burst of brilliance exploded, flooding the clearing. But the wolves did not flinch. No startled howls, no recoil. Instead, they lunged forward, driven only by an unshakable hunger to kill.
Their assault felt wild, yet strangely orchestrated—two leapt high, while three charged straight ahead, so forcefully their horns clashed mid-air.
The Adventurer rolled forward, slipping between the legs of one that soared above.
One wolf, realizing its prey had slipped past, spun instantly with jaws gaping wide.
The Adventurer raised his blade to block. Steel met fangs in a jarring clash. Yet in his left hand, weakened, the swing lacked power. From behind, another claw was already raking toward his back.
Reflex saved him. He threw himself low, rolling forward, dodging by a hair's breadth. Wet earth smeared his clothes, but he had no time to curse—another dark bulk loomed ahead.
A wolf lunged, its fangs aimed straight at his face.
No time to think. Instinct overrode fear. He drove his sword upward, plunging it into the beast's throat.
But its tail lashed violently, smashing into his ribs. He was flung aside like a rag doll, hitting the ground hard before lying still, gasping as pain seared his chest.
His body could only withstand so much. Worse, the potion's fleeting strength was draining away, and the wound in his right arm threatened to reopen.
With effort, he staggered to his feet. But already another shadow loomed—a wolf descending, claws slicing down with strength enough to tear him in half.
He rolled aside, barely in time. The gust of its claws brushed his hair and ripped through the soil.
When he stopped, he realized—his sword still lodged in the throat of the beast he had struck.
Frantic, the Adventurer dug into his pouch for anything left to fight with.
His fingertips brushed three familiar orbs—more light spheres. A small metal tube—his spring-snare trap meant for wild beasts. Then a rough-surfaced orb—an alchemical smoke bomb.
In the pouch's corner lay a vial of beast-repellent powder, and a handful of Nurhavana's coin—Ripah.
Not weapons to kill, merely tools to survive. He had only seconds to form a plan.
Four wolves thundered closer, claws pounding earth in rhythm. One, already ahead, lunged first.
The Adventurer dodged sideways, nearly stumbling, then retreated several steps while yanking the smoke bomb free. He needed time—just a few seconds more.
Running, he carved distance and began a prayer under his breath.
"O Magistre, keeper of shadow and mist,I summon your trace within this silent shroud..."
The orb trembled in his hand, as if alive.
"Let smoke be the veil between Belerium and light,Shield my steps from eyes that kill..."
A wolf leapt at him, claws poised to tear his face apart.
He sprang from a tree trunk, vaulting left, dodging by mere inches. Still airborne, he finished the incantation.
"By your miracle, grant form to my concealment!"
He smashed the orb into the ground.
PHOOM!!
A muffled blast, and thick violet smoke unfurled, drowning shrubs, trees, and shadows alike. Within several meters, the world dissolved into haze.
In a single breath, the Adventurer vanished from sight.
Hidden behind the thick brush, he crouched as low as he could. The alchemical mist did more than blur his form from enemy eyes—it also muddled the flow of Belerium, making his magical presence undetectable to the horned wolf-monsters. Even their sense of smell faltered, as though every trace of scent had been swallowed by the fog.
But this effect would not last. Only a few minutes at best.
And in that narrow window of time, the Adventurer had to forge an opening—a strike that could carve a path to survival.
The wolves' breaths rumbled heavy and uneven, echoing through the mist like voices from hell. Yet they did not attack blindly. It was as though… they were waiting for him to make his move.
Monsters though they were, perhaps a fragment of wolf instinct still lingered. And in such uncertain ground, wolfish instinct bound them into formation—spread wide, circling, watching from every angle.
The Adventurer slipped a light sphere from his pouch. His plan was simple: throw the orb, use its sound to mask his movement, then close in for an ambush.
If he was discovered, he'd fall back on the beast-repellent powder—though he doubted it would make any difference against these creatures.
Still, there was no room for hesitation. Every chance carried risk. If he chose fear and inaction, he might as well bid farewell to this wretched life.
He drew a breath, then hurled the sphere toward what he guessed was a safe point ahead.
CRACK!!
Light burst out, though not far. Muscles tense, the Adventurer readied to slip into a new position.
But his eyes caught something—a faint glint of metal.
His sword.
Still lodged in the neck of one of the wolves. That gleam betrayed not just the blade's position, but the wolves' as well. About forty meters. Yet more than that—he saw movement.
A wolf's swift steps—charging toward the light. From the sound of it, only one. Perhaps this was the difference between beasts and monsters—their instincts driven not by certainty of prey, but the pull of some unnatural compulsion.
"Alright… this time, no careless moves," he reminded himself, recalling the mistake he had made before.
He began to move. His steps hidden within the drum of the wolf's pursuit.
Slow, deliberate. Each motion thin as a whisper of wind.
Three steps…
Suddenly—air slashed past his side, claws tearing the mist with a shriek.
Instinct roared.
Jump!!!
He leapt back, rolling across the ground, nearly smashing into a massive root.
The wolf hadn't struck at random. It had baited him. It knew the light was only a distraction—that the Adventurer would slip the opposite way.
A low growl escaped him. "Damn it… I made noise!"
At once, the pack's footsteps surged toward him. The repellent powder was useless now—no defense against a full-on charge.
He had no choice. His next light sphere would have to be used not for sight, but for sound—to shatter the air and buy him room to move.
He hurled it rightward.
Another burst, another crackle of light. The noise was sharper this time, enough to stir confusion.
And again, his eyes locked on the gleam of his sword.
Could this be his chance? To reclaim the blade?
His supplies were dwindling, and the mist would soon unravel. Hiding was no longer survival.
Doubt flickered—then hardened into resolve. No more clinging to worst-case fears. In this cornered state, only action remained.
"I have to separate them."
He glanced into his pouch. One light sphere left. It could not be wasted.
Instead, he palmed three Ripah coins, clenching the metal tight. Better to lose money than his life.
The violet mist was thinning above. Time was slipping.
Clink!
One coin flicked right, striking stone. As he hoped, a wolf diverted, chasing the faint sound.
Then came the final sphere. He hurled it left. Light burst, shadows stretched, tricking the eye. Two more wolves broke off, chasing silhouettes that weren't real.
From the glow, he saw it clearly—the wolf that carried his sword still faced his way. That meant two remained.
His mind raced. How could he lure the sword-bearer into his trap?
A reckless idea struck. Mad. Impossible. But there was no time for alternatives.
He yanked the spring-snare from his pouch, placing it on the wolf's path, fingers flying to set the mechanism. Once primed, he scattered beast-repellent powder across it.
Strange, perhaps—but he trusted his own gamble.
One coin remained.
Clink!!
He flicked it behind him, crafting the illusion of retreat. In truth, he crept forward, pressing low behind the brush, just meters from the trap.
A wolf's steps closed in on the coin's echo.
But then—
GRAAHH!!!
The harsh crack of metal sprang, followed by a guttural howl.
The Adventurer's eyes widened. It worked.
He was certain—the wolf caught in the trap was the one carrying his sword.
Who would have thought that the powder meant to drive away beasts would instead lure that wolf straight into a snare?
The Adventurer had gambled on a twisted logic: the wolf with a blade buried in its neck would, by now, have blood flooding its throat, spilling into its nasal passage. That stench—iron, foul and metallic—would overwhelm its senses. So when it stepped onto the powder, it felt nothing.
The others, however, would recoil, snarl, or back away from the acrid sting.
One truth remained: no matter how monstrous these wolves had become, no matter their resistance to pain, they were not immune to its effects.
From that savage howl, he knew the others were closing in.
Two steps—then he sprinted. A wolf lunged from the side.
The Adventurer leapt, but not backward this time. He dove forward, threading the narrow space between claw and fang. There was no time to dodge. No time to retreat. Only forward—before they all converged.
The pounding of paws echoed from behind, rushing toward the trap.
His legs felt leaden, but he pushed on. Through the thinning haze, he saw the outline of the snare ahead—and the wolf thrashing violently within it.
"There it is. My sword—still lodged beneath its throat."
But the others were emerging from the fog, which was nearly gone.
They came from every side. The bait he had laid before… was now his prison.
He reached the trap. The wolf writhed with brutal strength, but the iron grip of the snare held.
The Adventurer lunged for his sword, still buried deep in the wolf's neck, dark blue blood spilling freely.
His fingers closed around the hilt—
Stuck.
Panic flared. No time left. He poured every ounce of strength into it. His jaw clenched, breath caught in the rush of adrenaline. But the blade did not move. His heart thundered, blood roaring through his veins like an alarm.
"Come on… come out!!!"
Then, while his focus faltered, a heavy tail slammed into his back.
Not enough to cripple him—but enough to break his momentum.
No time to curse. He staggered and lunged back for the sword.
When the wolf struck again, its footing slipped, its swing went wide, and the Adventurer narrowly sidestepped.
He was back at the blade. His hands gripped the hilt once more.
But now—the mist was gone.
And in that dreadful clarity, he saw them. Fangs. Claws. Eyes burning red. All around him. A few more inches, and they would rip him apart.
Time stopped. His mind went blank, his body frozen.
Then—the earth shook.
From beneath the roots of the great tree, something rose.
Roots burst from soil and bark, tearing the ground apart.
The earth lifted beneath his feet, throwing the wolves' attacks off balance.
The Adventurer clung to the hilt, refusing to fall.
And this time—he didn't pull. He swung.
With a savage strike, the blade carved through the wolf's throat. The cut was deep, splitting half its neck though not severing it. Dark blood sprayed, and the Adventurer fell with it—but now, the sword was in his hands once more.
He had no time to rise. The wolves closed in again.
Using the rising roots, he vaulted upward, narrowly avoiding their claws. His blade slashed through fur and flesh, grazing but not crippling.
Their attacks grew relentless. He could only defend. No chance to strike back.
It was as if every cut he made was a scratch on their tails, while their blows tore into his body.
One lunged from the front. Its pattern was clear—going for the bite.
The Adventurer slipped to the side and slashed its snout cleanly.
Another chance—he lunged forward, his blade ripping into a wolf's underbelly. Blood sprayed.
But before he could rise, jaws snapped open before him.
He blocked with hilt and edge, but the beast's strength was overwhelming. It lifted him into the air—then slammed him into the ground.
The impact rattled his bones, nearly fatal. Before he could catch his breath, another wolf rammed into him, sending him tumbling across the dirt.
He rolled and rolled until his body hit the ground hard. Breath ragged. Chest crushed. Legs trembling. His body refused to move. Even standing felt impossible.
And in that despair—something crashed nearby.
Trees shattered.
The Adventurer forced his eyes open. Through the wreckage and the last threads of mist, he saw it—a figure hurled against the earth.
It was… Ursulyn.
Her body flung violently, tearing through the trees.
The Adventurer stared, stunned.
Inside, a single thought whispered:
"…She lost!?"