The territory of the Howling Moon Clan was shrouded in the night.
Russell stood on the rocky platform of Crescent Moon Valley, gray now mixed within his cyan mane.
The lifespan of Grey-mane Werewolves was not long, only about fifty years.
Six years had seen this once-young Chieftain enter middle age; his fur was no longer as bright as before, but his eyes remained as sharp as blades.
In the valley, the werewolf warriors were resting.
They bore scars old and new—some left by Ogres, others marks from hunting or internal strife.
Russell knew very well that dissatisfaction within the clan was growing.
The young challenger, Manefire, had publicly questioned his decisions at gatherings more than once, while the Old Shaman, over sixty, was nearing the end of his life. His mind was becoming increasingly blurred and his thoughts were descending into Chaos, no longer able to stabilize the people's hearts as before.
Awooo! A low wolf howl echoed from the distance.
The patrol had returned.
Russell leaped and galloped down the valley slope, returning to the territory below to speak with the patrol and understand the situation.
The news they brought back was not optimistic.
The Ogres of the Bone-Chewing Clan were still expanding, and it was unknown when they would approach Crescent Moon Valley again.
Russell exhaled silently.
He looked up at the night sky as if waiting for something.
The Dragon Lord from six years ago had promised to return, but time was eroding the clan's patience. Some clansmen had already forgotten the Dragon's power, and different voices had emerged within the tribe.
Russell set off, strolling through the territory on inspection.
By the fire pit deep in the territory, several werewolf warriors who had just finished their patrol were tearing at the leg meat of their prey. Grease dripped onto the charcoal, making a sizzling sound.
"Manefire provoked the Chieftain at the training ground again today."
A young werewolf warrior spat out a bone fragment and said in a low voice, "He scratched off half of the achievement totem the Chieftain carved on the rock wall right in front of everyone."
The werewolf nicknamed Manefire had parents who had opposed swearing fealty to the Dragonkin and were personally defeated by Russell, turning into giant wolves.
Therefore,
Manefire held a grudge against Russell.
After another six years of growth, this somewhat talented werewolf youth had become the strongest werewolf warrior of the new generation. He no longer hid his hostility toward the Chieftain and wanted to challenge his position.
The old warrior sneered, revealing a broken canine tooth.
"Six years ago, Manefire was still trembling with fear at the sight of a Wicked Snake, only daring to hide behind his mother. Now he dares to criticize the Chieftain's claws."
"But the Chieftain truly has grown old," a female werewolf whispered, her ears twitching alertly.
"During the last hunt for the Rock Ox, the Chieftain's charge was half a beat slow. If Frostfang hadn't followed up with a Spell in time, the prey would have escaped."
The fire crackled and popped.
Russell's figure appeared on the other side. The young werewolf warrior shrunk his neck, not daring to continue the conversation.
Walking past the warriors, Russell acted as if he hadn't heard anything and headed straight for a stone house nestled against the cliff.
Around a bonfire,
Manefire and three of his confidants were sharing a recently hunted wild boar.
The fresh meat was still steaming as it was torn into bloody strips by sharp teeth. It wasn't roasted or boiled; they ate it raw. Young werewolf warriors preferred fresh meat.
Manefire was a tall, physically strong werewolf.
His blue-gray mane was interspersed with a bit of red, looking like a ball of fire when it fluttered in the wind, which was the origin of his nickname.
Devouring the fresh meat, Manefire's gaze fell upon Chieftain Russell, watching him enter the Old Shaman's house.
"The old fellow's prestige is getting weaker and weaker. He almost let the prey escape during the last hunt."
Manefire licked the bloodstains from his claws, his fur flickering in the firelight. "His claws and teeth are no longer as sharp as mine, and his body is not as strong as mine."
A werewolf with a scar on his face whispered, "The Chieftain has been running to the Shaman's house a lot lately. Is he preparing some ritual to strengthen himself?"
Manefire slammed a claw onto the rock wall, causing gravel to rustle down:
"The Shaman is already senile; it's impossible for him to give him any empowerment."
"At the next Full Moon Festival, I will challenge Russell in front of the whole clan." He bared his snow-white fangs. "By then, I will become the new Chieftain of the Howling Moon Clan!"
The Old Shaman was nearing death.
Frostfang, Russell's daughter, who had been chosen to inherit the Shaman's position, was currently only a naive young Shaman. She lacked the Old Shaman's prestige and posed no threat to him.
Manefire had made up his mind.
He had to replace Russell.
Russell's claw gently pushed aside the animal skin curtain hanging at the stone house's entrance, and a murky flow of air mixed with the smell of charred herbs and decay rushed toward him.
The Old Shaman's room was even dimmer than it had been six years ago.
He was curled up on a bed in the corner, his hunched figure almost merging with the shadows.
Beside him sat a slightly smaller female werewolf with bright white teeth and fur woven into small braids, wearing a beast bone necklace around her neck.
Frostfang Beli, Russell's daughter and the successor to the Shaman.
She was grooming the Old Shaman's fur, patiently picking out fleas. Seeing her father's arrival, she stopped her movements and retreated outside.
Hearing the footsteps, the Old Shaman's cloudy yellow eyes slowly turned; his pupils were gray and clouded, devoid of life.
"Russell... you've come..."
The Old Shaman's voice sounded like it was squeezed out of a leaky leather bag, speaking slowly with a gurgling sound of phlegm in his throat.
Russell nodded and sat silently by the fire pit.
Six years ago, this stone house had been the most sacred place in the clan. The Old Shaman's prophecies could be accurate down to the very hour the rainy season would arrive.
Now, only some withered shrub branches were burning in the fire pit, and even the firelight looked sickly.
"I can almost no longer suppress Manefire."
Russell sighed, a hint of exhaustion appearing between his brows. "His talent is excellent, and he is growing very fast, while I have already passed my Peak."
Manefire's temperament was cruel and vindictive, and he lacked the perspective and vision to lead the tribe.
As a warrior, he was excellent, but if he became the Chieftain, it would be a disaster for the Howling Moon Clan. However, the Howling Moon Clan worshipped the strong. If Manefire defeated him through the formal challenge process, he would be unable to stop him from taking the Chieftain's position.
"It's... it's fine. The Dragon Lord is coming soon."
A smile appeared in the Old Shaman's cloudy eyes as he spoke.
Russell was slightly stunned, his eyes gaining much spirit. "Is that true? Can you be sure?"
Like a final flare of life before death, the Old Shaman coughed lightly, and his voice became clear and continuous.
"My life is nearing its end. Fortunately, perhaps due to the protection of the Ancestral Spirits, I have glimpsed a bit of the future."
"What future?"
Russell asked.
The Old Shaman did not answer.
The future is not set in stone. Leaking a Prophecy would not only bring backlash to oneself and the listener but also influence and change the future.
Every Caster or Shaman who knows Prophecy is an excellent keeper of secrets.
The Old Shaman raised a withered claw and gripped Russell's arm tightly, saying word by word, "You must, you must follow behind the Dragon Lord! No matter what happens, your loyalty must not waver! This is the most important opportunity for the Howling Moon Clan."
Russell nodded solemnly, then saw the Old Shaman slowly close his eyes.
He felt a sense of tragedy and sorrow.
Just as he thought this highly respected elder had passed away, a snoring sound came from the Old Shaman's mouth, interrupting Russell's grief.
It turned out he had just fallen into a deep sleep, not died.
The old werewolf was afraid of the wind and cold, so Russell tucked the bedding around the Old Shaman.
Boom!
Suddenly, a muffled thunder rolled from afar to near.
Like the breathing of a giant beast, or the sound of wings vibrating.
The Old Shaman, who had just closed his eyes, suddenly snapped them open again, his gaze no longer cloudy. After a brief stun, Russell's expression also immediately became excited.
The cubs born in recent years did not understand what this rolling thunder-like sound meant.
But Russell and the Old Shaman were both very familiar with it.
"Help me up!"