Kealix's eyes narrowed as the wolves crept closer—twelve of them, silent but savage, dripping malice with every step. They moved like living nightmares, pitch black against the bone-white wood of the ashen forest. Bony spikes jutted from every angle of their contorted bodies, twisted like nature itself had tried to reject them. From their gaping, jagged maws, thick strands of saliva stretched and broke, sizzling as it hit the cold ground. They were slow, but deliberate—hunters who knew their prey had nowhere to run.
Twelve of them. All focused on him.
He exhaled, steadying his pulse. The cold air burned slightly as it filled his lungs, but he welcomed the sting. It reminded him he was alive. That this was real. And that he'd faced worse.
This isn't new, he reminded himself. Danger isn't new. Panic means death right now.
His hand hovered just above his hip, where the card deck pulsed faintly with hidden power—each card a force, a connection waiting to be drawn. He ran through options quickly, mentally combing through combinations that might give him a fighting chance.
Flow. Hero. That pairing again.
Five seconds. That's all it took.
He summoned them.
The two cards leapt free from the deck with a crackling burst of energy. One flared indigo, deep and smooth like twilight on water. The other gleamed gold, radiant and alive, like dawn breaking through storm clouds. They circled him once, twice—building speed and light—before slamming into his chest with the force of a lightning strike.
He didn't flinch.
Light exploded around him, chasing away the cold shadows. Power surged through his veins like fire and water colliding. His attire shimmered, tarnished metal flaking away as brilliant gold reclaimed it. Indigo light traced the outer seams of his garments, pulsing gently like a second heartbeat. His hair shimmered too—threads of gold and violet weaving themselves into the strands like they belonged there all along.
But he didn't see any of it.
Flow had anchored his focus. The world narrowed to what mattered. The wolves. Their movements. Their spacing. Their posture. Every breath, every twitch of his muscles, was calculated and honed.
No distractions. No hesitation.
He reached out mentally to Hero, expecting the familiar golden blade to materialize in his hand.
Instead, something else responded.
A weapon flashed into existence—longer, heavier. Double-edged. Balanced differently than anything he'd held before. He adjusted instinctively, feeling its weight and motion as he brought it up for a better look.
The design stole his breath for just a second.
Wolves—elegantly carved—graced the base of each blade. Their eyes gleamed faintly, as though alive. The weapon radiated a different kind of strength. Not one of familiarity… but legacy. It wasn't just a sword. It was something else. Wilder.
A glaive? he thought, recognizing the shape. this isn't hero's is it?.
He didn't question it. He didn't have much time.
His thumb brushed a small notch along the center grip—a strange contraption built seamlessly into the weapon's spine.
Click.
With a quiet mechanical whisper, the glaive split apart, folding and shifting in his hands. The long, elegant weapon became two sharp, curved swords. Lighter, faster. Single-edged, perfectly balanced. As he held them, the blades began to glow—subtle at first, then brighter—gold bleeding into their edges like sunlight chasing away night.
Hero's power was fusing with the steel, claiming it.
Kealix's lips twitched into a rare, quiet smile. Just the edge of amusement. Or respect.
"This must be yours… huh, Frost?" he muttered under his breath, recognizing the spirit behind the blade. "It's a fine weapon."
He twirled one sword once, fluid and natural, then shifted his stance as the wolves inched closer.
"It'll be more than enough."
And just like that—movement.
A low growl, too close. Kealix's instincts screamed. Something was behind him.
He pivoted hard, Flow guiding his body faster than conscious thought. A blur of black. A rush of foul breath.
He dodged—barely.
In the same breath, his blade snapped upward in a clean, practiced arc. Steel met bone. The wolf's head separated clean from its body, spinning through the cold air before it landed with a dull thud beside him.
Kealix landed, breath tight, balance disrupted—his left foot hovering midair from the evasive move. He adjusted, but the momentum was off. He wasn't planted.
The wolves noticed.
Four more launched at him from every direction, claws scraping stone, bony limbs cracking as they pounced. No hesitation and no mercy.
They were fast, almost too fast.
He was trapped.
Any normal fighter would've been torn apart right then. No time to parry all of them. No space to counter. Nowhere to run.
But he wasn't normal.
He had Flow.
Kealix's body shifted, mind quiet. The world stretched out around him—slower, clearer. Combat consumed him completely. There was no fear. Only precision.
First move.
He hurled one of his twin blades with deadly force. It sailed through the air and buried itself deep into the skull of the nearest wolf, stopping it mid-leap. The blade stuck out of its head like a grotesque, shining horn as the body fell backward, twitching once, then still.
Three left.
All in the air now—closing in from above and the sides.
No time. No margin for error.
Kealix's hand shot out. He grabbed the lifeless wolf that had just fallen, fingers curling around its jagged head. With a guttural yell, he twisted and swung the head like a hammer. The bony skull slammed into another charging wolf mid-air—crushing it with brutal force.
The impact was enough. Bones shattered. The second creature crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Kealix dropped what was left of the dead wolf and spun, realigning his stance mid-motion. His heel slid against the cold forest floor, adjusting his footing for the next clash.
Two wolves still hung in the air—seconds away.
Move.
He ducked beneath the first one, its claws raking past the space his head had just been. He turned sharply and brought his remaining blade up in a powerful, upward slash.
Steel tore through bone.
The blade sliced directly through the creature's gaping mouth—splitting it clean down the center. Its body fell in two lifeless halves, dropping behind him like broken wings.
Only one remained.
Kealix rose slowly, blade dripping, breath steady despite the chaos. Flow still pulsed within him, keeping his thoughts sharp, keeping his body alive.
The forest was quiet for now, but the battle wasn't over. Not yet.
The last of the four wolves lunged.
But Kealix didn't move.
He stood still, grounded, eyes locked on the snarling beast as it charged, jagged limbs pounding the blood-slicked earth. It was bait. A trap. He wanted it to come.
And it did.
Just as the creature reared back to strike, Kealix thrust his blade forward, extending the weapon straight into its path.
The wolf impaled itself.
Its momentum drove the blade deep into its skull, forcing Kealix back a few steps from the sheer weight of the impact. His boots skidded slightly against the ground, knees flexing to absorb the blow. The strain tugged at his muscles, but he didn't falter.
The beast twitched once. Then dropped.
Five down.
Seven to go.
Blood oozed from the creature's open skull, seeping into the folds of Kealix's attire. The coppery stench mixed with the already pungent air—a thick fog of metallic blood and rotting marrow. The forest was now soaked in crimson and gore. Entrails spilled from split-open bodies, steaming slightly in the cold.
Stillness hung for half a breath.
Then the final seven moved.
All at once.
No strategy. No delay. Just raw, animal aggression.
They charged in a black tide—fangs bared, eyes glowing with unnatural hunger.
Kealix knew he couldn't take them all with one blade.
He spun, body tense, already moving toward where he'd thrown the other sword. But as he turned—
A snarl.
A blur of movement.
A wolf was already there, standing directly between him and his fallen blade, as if it had been waiting for him to make that exact move.
Kealix's eyes narrowed.
Damn it.
He couldn't hesitate. Not with the pack closing in.
With a burst of motion, he charged the lone wolf, teeth gritted, focus razor-sharp. The creature leapt—claws outstretched, jaws aimed for his throat.
But Kealix was already dropping low.
He slid beneath the airborne beast, the cold earth scraping against his back as he twisted mid-motion. His hand shot out, fingers closing around the hilt of the embedded blade still lodged in the skull of the earlier kill.
In one seamless movement, he wrenched the blade free—rising just in time for the attacking wolf to crash into the corpse behind him with a wet crunch.
Kealix didn't pause.
With both blades in hand, he slammed them together, the mechanisms clicking into place with a satisfying metallic snap. The twin swords reformed into the double-edged glaive—sleek, glowing faintly gold at the tips.
Just in time.
He faced the pack.
They were nearly on him.
And now, so was he.
One of the wolves charged with a snarl, limbs pounding against the blood-slick ground.
Kealix turned sharply, his movement smooth and evasive, Flow guiding every shift of his body. In the same motion, he spun his glaive in a wide arc, gold flashing in the dim forest light. The blade sang through the air—it didn't meet any resistance.
The wolf's head came clean off mid-air.
It hadn't even landed before it was dead.
No time to breathe. No time to admire the kill.
A second wolf was already behind him—he'd turned his back to the pack. A mistake.
Kealix gritted his teeth, grounded his stance, and whipped the glaive in a full 180-degree slash, the blade slightly angled downward. It caught the incoming wolf across the neck with brutal precision. Bone cracked. Flesh split.
The beast dropped mid-charge, its legs twitching once before going still.
Five left.
He turned, facing the remaining pack.
They didn't hesitate.
Two rushed him head-on—raw aggression in their speed—while the remaining three broke wide, flanking him from both sides.
Kealix read the formation in an instant.
He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the two frontal wolves as they lunged for his chest. As he soared backward, he twisted his body and slashed the glaive in a wide, horizontal arc.
The blade tore through the air.
And then—through flesh.
Both wolves were split from shoulder to hip, their upper halves peeling away from their lower bodies as if paper-thin. A rain of blood followed, splashing across Kealix's armor and face, warm and thick.
Only three left.
The others were closing in—fast.
One came from the right.
Kealix twisted, impaling the beast on the forward edge of his glaive, driving it through its ribs with a sickening crunch. But he couldn't remove the weapon fast enough.
Another wolf was already in the air, leaping toward his exposed back.
Kealix yanked.
Stuck.
The glaive wouldn't budge.
But he didn't have time.
With a roar, he released the weapon and turned, just as the lunging wolf came into reach. He grabbed its open jaws mid-air—raw strength against feral rage—and slammed its entire body down with brutal force.
Right onto the other edge of his glaive.
The blade pierced the creature's spine. A shriek—then silence. It went limp instantly.
Two bodies impaled. One weapon lost.
Kealix stood over the carnage, chest heaving, drenched in blood not his own.
Then he heard it.
A growl—closer now.
The last wolf.
Charging fast.
And he had no weapon.
But he was too late.
The final wolf launched at him, faster than he could react.
Its jaws sank into his left shoulder—deep.
A searing flash of pain tore through his body.
Kealix cried out, a raw, guttural sound, half fury, half agony. Blood soaked through his attire as the beast's fangs punctured muscle and tore flesh. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the fire blooming in his shoulder.
Dammit!
He twisted violently, using his body weight to fling the wolf off. The creature flew a few feet before crashing into the ground, snarling as it skidded.
Kealix stumbled, clutching his wounded shoulder.
His left arm hung uselessly at his side it had become dead weight. The pain was nauseating. Each heartbeat sent another wave of fire through his chest.
He glanced at the wound, it was deep and bleeding fast.
The sight made his stomach turn, but he had no time to dwell on it.
A low growl.
The wolf had already recovered. Its eyes locked on him with savage hunger. It sprang again, this time launching straight for his head.
Kealix didn't flinch.
He dropped his stance low, braced his legs—and caught the beast mid-air with his right arm, wrapping his right hand around its throat.
They crashed to the ground together.
The impact rattled his bones.
The wolf thrashed violently beneath him, claws scraping at his armor, jaws snapping inches from his face. It screamed. He screamed back. Their voices overlapped—snarls and rage and pain in one tangled roar.
But Kealix held firm.
Every muscle in his right arm burned as he forced the creature down, choking it, pressing all of his weight onto its throat. The wolf bucked wildly, legs kicking out in a last, desperate attempt to break free.
It wasn't enough.
Kealix's eye burned with fury.
He stared into the beast's bloodshot gaze and growled through clenched teeth, "I won't die yet… Not to you!"
Then, with a final surge of strength, he twisted his hand and ripped.
Flesh tore.
Blood gushed hot across his face and chest.
The wolf spasmed once. Then again. Then fell still—its throat torn out, air gone, life gone.
Silence fell.
Kealix slumped back, chest heaving, every breath scraping against his ribs. His body trembled from the pain and exhaustion, but Flow still surged through him—keeping his reflexes sharp, his mind clear, his body moving when it had no right to.
He looked at the battlefield.
The corpses.
The blood.
The silence.
And he knew—
This was only the beginning.