The stench of blood clung to the night air like a curse, sharp and metallic, seeping into Qin Mo's lungs with every ragged breath. He stumbled along a narrow mountain pass, boots slipping on loose gravel. His robe hung in tatters, a jagged tear at his shoulder exposing a long, claw-like wound that burned with each step. The sect had stripped him of everything—rank, belongings, dignity—leaving only a chipped iron sword clutched in his hand. Rust streaked the dull blade, but it was all he had left.
A low, rumbling growl rolled through the darkness, echoing off the cliffs like a drumbeat. Qin Mo froze. Between twisted trunks ahead, two crimson lights glowed. Another pair joined them. Then another. Eyes wove in and out of the mist, accompanied by the soft crunch of paws on stone and the crackle of heat from flaming manes. The scorched smell of burnt hair carried on the wind.
Fire Mane Wolves.
He set his back to the rock face, forcing his breath to slow. So this is how they want me to die. Three days ago he had been a nameless outer disciple of the Azure Flame Sect, safe behind the walls if not respected. Then came the accusation: theft of the sacred beast core. Elder Liang had squinted at a jade slip and said, "Witness testimony places you in the vault at dusk." Senior Brother Zhao had opened his palm to show a smear of glittering ash—the unique residue of a beast core—taken from Qin Mo's practice robe. Planted. The elders didn't ask how. They didn't execute him either. They marched him to the gates and flung him into the Beast Mountains.
The mountains lived. Wind threaded through pine needles in long, warning sighs. Far below, hidden streams whispered over stone; once, a deep bellow rolled up from some unseen ravine and made gravel tremble. Shadows seemed layered, too thick to be natural. Bones hung from shrubs, gnawed white and clean. Claw marks scored tree trunks like tally marks left by something that could count.
The first wolf padded into view, muscle sliding under sleek hide, its mane a rippling halo of living flame. Another emerged on his right, then one behind him. They narrowed the ring with patient certainty, moving like water around a stone. Qin Mo tightened his grip until his knuckles whitened. His shoulder throbbed; sweat chilled on his spine. The wolves' eyes never left him, not curious nor angry—merely sure.
A snarl to his left—movement. A wolf lunged, jaws gaping. Qin Mo twisted aside, heat licking his face, and slashed. Sparks leapt as metal scraped bone. The beast yelped and retreated, but two more flowed into the gap, shoulders low, paws silent. His heel struck bare cliff. Cold climbed his spine. There was nowhere to run.
A sound like a cold string plucked inside his skull cut through the noise, silver-bright and absolute.
[System initializing…]
[Devouring System activated.]
[Kill and devour a beast to gain its strength, skills, and bloodline.]
The voice didn't enter through his ears. It bloomed behind them, emotionless and precise.
"What…" His breath came in harsh bursts, tasting of iron and smoke.
The largest wolf leapt, claws scything for his throat. Qin Mo dropped and drove the blade up. The point punched through flaming fur and flesh; hot blood hissed in the night air. The beast crashed to the ground and went still.
[Target slain: Fire Mane Wolf.]
[Strength +5, Agility +3. Skill obtained: Flame Step.]
Heat surged through him like a tide, dragging pain away. Vision sharpened; every flicker of flame, every grain of dust kicked by paws snapped into focus. Beneath his boots, faint crimson runes unfurled like curling ivy, then settled in patterns that pulsed with his heartbeat. Power coiled in his legs, not heavy but spring-loaded, a promise of violent acceleration.
The wolves hesitated. Prey had grown fangs.
Qin Mo stepped forward. Flame licked the ground beneath his soles, scorching hairline trails that faded a heartbeat later. "Come," he said, voice low and steady. "Let's see how much stronger I can get."
Two wolves lunged together for forearm and throat. Flame Step detonated—his body blurred. He slipped inside the first wolf's guard and opened its carotid with a short, brutal cut, then pivoted on his front foot and drove the blade into the second's ribs. It coughed heat and collapsed.
[Target slain: Fire Mane Wolf.]
[Strength +2, Agility +2.]
He moved like water through their ranks—sidestep, thrust under the jaw, reverse cut to hamstring. Wolves fell, manes guttering. Blood crackled where it met flame, throwing off sparks that spun like red fireflies before dying.
[Target slain: Fire Mane Wolf.]
[Perception +1. Flame Step proficiency +3%.]
The pack's rhythm faltered. Their silent confidence bled into calculation. Qin Mo's breath steadied into a fighter's metronome: inhale with threat, exhale with strike. The chipped sword felt less awkward as his newfound strength corrected his balance. He had never moved like this in training—free, precise, ruthless.
A warning growl rolled from the mist. The wolves froze, ears pivoting as one. The fog thickened at the far end of the pass, subtle currents turning like torn silk. One wolf whined and backed away. Another crouched, unsure.
Something bigger.
Qin Mo used the pause. The cliff to his right offered a jag of rock at shoulder height. To the left, scrub pines clung to the slope; beyond them a tumble of boulders made a natural choke point. Dead wolves bled heat into the air, turning the mist a faint orange. The stink curled at the back of his throat.
He wiped his blade on a corpse. For a heartbeat his reflection stared back—eyes too bright, cheek spattered with blood, hair plastered to his forehead. Elder Liang's bored tone rose in memory. Senior Brother Zhao's averted gaze cut deeper than any claw. The outer disciples lining the steps had watched him go with pity or relief. The sect motto—Obey. Endure. Earn—had kept him docile until an order demanded he abandon a village to beasts. He obeyed no more.
No one would save him. Good.
The mist parted as if pushed by a broad chest. The wolf that stepped through stood as tall as Qin Mo's shoulder. Its mane burned not yellow but deep copper, and its eyes were old coin gold, flat and patient. Scars filigreed its muzzle. When it inhaled, flames along its spine brightened, wind feeding bellows. The lesser wolves lowered their heads.
The wolf king.
It didn't rush. It watched him, tail lifted, measuring. Then it padded forward with the slow certainty of a top predator. Each step pressed heat into stone until resin bled from nearby pine bark. Qin Mo edged toward the choke point, putting the boulder pile at his back so the lesser wolves couldn't circle. The king mirrored him, head tilted as if amused that prey thought it could choose where to die.
"Let's try you," Qin Mo murmured, feeling Flame Step gather in his thighs.
The king moved. No snarl, no show. One heartbeat it stood; the next it was there, copper light and claws. Qin Mo threw himself aside, Flame Step ripping the ground, and talons carved furrows where his chest had been. He hit rock, rolled, came up into a guard—and the king had already turned, jaws yawning wide. He saw his own reflection in those teeth.
He slashed across the muzzle. The blade scored shallow. The king's hide was denser than the others', the flames lashing its neck forming a partial shield. It rumbled, not angry but acknowledging.
[Observation: Target possesses "Flame Aegis." Recommend: strike limb joints or exploit environmental cooling.]
Cooling… His gaze flicked to a veined streak of pale mineral where seep seeped along the cliff, and to a trickle that dripped from a stone lip, hissing when it met hot blood. The pass wasn't uniform. Cold pooled in pockets. Lure it there and dull the aegis.
He feinted right, letting the king drive him toward the wet stone. The lesser wolves bunched, unsure. He slashed at any that crept too close, keeping them at bay without committing. The king pressed, growing bolder as strikes glanced off. It snapped to test range, then lunged for a crushing throat bite.
Qin Mo waited to the last instant, then dropped and slid on the damp rock. Flame Step turned the motion into a sparks-and-water arc beneath the king's chest. The cold shocked burned skin. He stabbed upward at the foreleg's inner joint where fur thinned.
Steel bit.
The king howled. Its mane guttered for a beat. It reared, slashing blindly. Qin Mo rolled clear, sprang, and struck the same point again. Darker, thicker blood spattered the stone and steamed.
[Minor fracture inflicted. Flame Aegis reduced 12% for 30 seconds.]
Numbers had never sounded so beautiful.
The king changed tactics, circling to force him off the cold stone. It paced with a limp so slight most eyes would miss it. Twice it feinted, drawing a counter, then backed away before the blade connected, reading him as he read it. Intelligence gleamed in those flat gold eyes. Behind, lesser wolves yipped encouragement from the boulders, creeping until a glare froze them in place.
Footing. Breathing. Timing. He could do this.
He cut left, forcing the king to turn on the injured leg. As weight shifted, he darted and slashed for the tendon. Jaws snapped inches from his face. Heat scorched his cheek. He shoved the blade's flat against the muzzle and kicked off the snout, vaulting back. The king shook its head, furious now, and charged.
Qin Mo ran. Not away—past. He streaked along the cliff, boots hammering, Flame Step flaring in short bursts to conserve strength. The king matched him stride for stride, breath roaring, mane streaming like a comet tail. At the last moment, Qin Mo cut hard into the narrowest part of the pass and hooked a jut of rock with his left hand, swinging himself around so the king thundered by and skidded into the choke point. Granite boomed. Pebbles rained.
He was on it before it recovered, hacking the joint again, driving steel into meat. The king bellowed and struck sideways with its massive head. The blow lifted him and slammed him into the boulders. White exploded behind his eyes. The sword clattered away. His fingers wouldn't answer for a heartbeat.
The king limped forward, golden eyes cold. It would crush his chest and be done.
Qin Mo's hand closed on a sharp-edged stone. He hurled it into the king's face. Reflex forced the beast to blink. He dove, rolled, grabbed the sword, came up on one knee, and drove both hands into the hilt. The blade sank deep into the wounded joint.
[Severe tendon damage inflicted. Flame Aegis reduced 35% for 20 seconds.]
[Temporary effect unlocked: "Predator's Focus." Critical strike chance +10% vs. wounded targets.]
The king staggered, almost falling. Qin Mo ripped the blade free, lungs burning. He felt the window more than saw it. Three quick steps up the boulder pile, Flame Step flaring at the last; he launched, point angled for the gap under the jaw where fire could not shield.
The world narrowed to iron and heat and copper stink.
The point met flesh—and skidded. The king twisted, taking the thrust on thick cartilage, and smashed him with a forepaw. He flew, hit gravel, rolled twice, and ended on his stomach, coughing blood that tasted new and hot. The sword lay an arm's length away. He reached.
Paws thudded. Not the king's. Lesser wolves, emboldened by their ruler's roar, finally committed. Three fanned to his flanks, manes snapping with impatient flame.
Qin Mo forced his legs under him and rose in a weave, snatching the sword as he moved. The first wolf sprang. He met it with a short lunge to the throat, ripped free, turned the stroke into a backhand that opened a second across the eye, then stabbed the third as it tried to circle.
[Targets slain: Fire Mane Wolves ×2.]
[Strength +2, Agility +1. Flame Step proficiency +6%.]
The king limped closer, mane shedding sparks with every breath. Power still coiled in that frame; killing calm still lived in its eyes. Qin Mo's shoulder screamed; his legs trembled from repeated bursts. He felt his limits press in and asked the only question that mattered: What do you have left?
He leveled the blade at the king and steadied his breath on fours and sixes like the instructors had drilled. The wind shifted, bringing the mineral chill of the cliff. Far down the pass, water struck stone in a steady drip. Above, a shard of moon broke free of cloud and silvered the sword's edge.
"Come on then," he whispered, and for the first time since the elders threw him to die, he meant it.
The king lowered its head. Flames drew inward until they gleamed like hammered copper along its spine. The pack melted from the edges of his vision, giving their ruler space. Heat rolled over him in a shimmering tide. Gravel cracked beneath the king's paws as it gathered to launch.
The night held its breath.
The wolf king charged.