But as more and more werewolves gathered, hurling themselves forward without fear of death, the humans inside the stone house began to falter. Their formation grew chaotic; the rhythm of their defense broke apart.
After all, human stamina was limited. They could not compete with the sheer strength and endurance of these beasts. As the desperate struggle dragged on, their movements slowed, their thrusts weakened.
When one spear finally struck home, its wielder was too slow to pull it back. A furious werewolf smashed it in half with a swipe of its claws — and the gap in their defense widened. Within moments, another wolf broke through, forcing half of its massive body through the doorway.
Up to now, the humans had relied on the narrow entrance to limit the monsters' numbers. But once a werewolf got inside, none of them would be able to withstand its full power. Their fate would be sealed — torn apart, devoured alive.
Seeing that the defenders were about to be overrun, Chen Mo finally moved.
He unleashed his full speed, his strength erupting in a violent surge. In an instant, he was among the pack, sword flashing in a blur of silver arcs. One after another, werewolf heads flew through the air, dark blood spraying in crimson fountains.
At the door, the first beast had just wedged its clawed foot inside. Its jaws opened wide, fangs glinting as it lunged toward a terrified man clutching a broken spear.
Beside the man stood a tall, battle-worn middle-aged warrior — the same one who had been shouting orders moments before. Seeing the danger, he charged forward, swinging his sword in an attempt to save his comrade.
But the werewolf was far faster. Its gaping maw was already inches from the man's throat, reflected in the despairing eyes of its prey —
—and then, in a flash, Chen Mo's blade struck.
The razor edge sliced clean through the creature's neck from behind. The beast's eyes dimmed instantly; its massive head flipped forward, hanging by a strip of flesh before it fell, spraying hot blood all over the man it had nearly killed.
The survivor, face drenched in scarlet, could only stare blankly at the lifeless monster before him.
The older warrior, however, recovered at once. His gaze locked on Chen Mo — on the sheer force of that strike — and a flicker of awe crossed his stern face. He rushed forward to reinforce the doorway.
With the entrance secured, Chen Mo didn't slow down. He swept through the village perimeter, cutting down every werewolf that came within reach.
The beasts were savage and fearless, driven mad by bloodlust. Rather than retreat, the slaughter of their kin only enraged them further. Dozens howled and charged straight at him.
For the first time, Chen Mo felt a sliver of pressure — their speed and strength were monstrous, their ferocity relentless. But his expression remained calm, eyes cold, movements precise.
His sword danced — swift, fluid, and absolute. Each motion carried deadly intent; every swing was a perfect balance of power and control. The divine edge of the King's Sword, empowered by his superhuman strength, speed, and reflexes — six times that of a normal man — turned the battlefield into a massacre.
The holy cross techniques he had mastered were executed flawlessly.
Every parry, every slash, was final.
One by one, the werewolves fell, their bodies piling around him like broken pillars.
By the time the last creature collapsed with a guttural roar, a dozen corpses surrounded him. Blood streamed across the ground, turning the soil beneath his boots into a dark red pool.
The attack on the village was over. The entire pack had been annihilated.
Only two figures remained standing outside the stone house — Chen Mo, silent and steady amid the carnage, and the tall, broad-shouldered warrior who had come rushing out moments ago.
That man, Andrew, had seen it all — the impossible speed, the blinding swordlight, the ease with which Chen Mo tore through an army of monsters. He had wanted to shout, to help, but by the time he opened his mouth, it was already done.
The werewolves' iron-hard bones, which even seasoned knights struggled to break, were like butter before that silver blade. Not one blow was resisted.
Staring at the mysterious figure standing atop a mound of dead beasts, sword glinting faintly in the firelight, Andrew's chest swelled with emotion.
At last — humanity had a warrior who could stand against the beasts.
Perhaps their counterattack could begin.
When the others inside the house heard the silence outside, they cautiously peeked out.
And then they froze.
The ground was littered with corpses — dozens of them, massive and mutilated. The air reeked of blood.
They all knew what werewolves were capable of. Even the strongest knights couldn't face one directly. In battle, humans survived only through numbers, overwhelming a handful of beasts at great cost.
If more than a hundred appeared — a full-scale wolf plague — even fortified castles would fall, their defenders torn apart, their lands erased from the map. Countless fortresses throughout history had been devoured in such disasters, entire regions reduced to desolate graveyards.
Tonight's assault had involved several dozen — already a large pack by any standard, enough to destroy armies. Yet somehow, one man had wiped them all out.
At first they thought maybe it had been a noble's army sent to hunt the monsters, but there were no troops, no banners — only a single man in black armor, standing silently among the fallen.
It seemed impossible. But the evidence was right there, undeniable: headless bodies, silver sword gleaming in the moonlight.
When Andrew confirmed what they had seen, shock gave way to awe. The villagers' fear turned into reverence.
They stared at Chen Mo with eyes full of gratitude… and worship.
Meanwhile, standing motionless amid the carnage, Chen Mo said nothing. His expression was calm — almost serene — as if he were quietly feeling something deeper than victory itself.