Before the Howl

Commander Richard wasted no time.

His voice, sharp and authoritative, pierced the night as he organized the remaining forces into four groups. There was no hesitation, no wasted words—only the calculated, precise decisions of a man who had seen too many battles and knew exactly what needed to be done.

Edward watched from the sidelines, not yet a part of this army's structured order, but his mind had already begun to work. His body still bore the exhaustion of his wounds, yet his thoughts raced, dissecting each decision as if he were piecing together a puzzle from scattered fragments. Even without his memories, something within him grasped tactics.

The first unit mainly comprised the wounded and weak—those who could not fight but could still serve a purpose. They were sent back into the battlefield ruins, tasked with scavenging whatever could still be salvaged: discarded weapons, armor that hadn't been shattered, and arrows that hadn't yet snapped in half. Anything reusable would become part of their dwindling supplies. This task stemmed from necessity rather than strategy, but Edward recognized its efficiency. An army without weapons was already doomed.

The second unit was deployed atop the castle walls to observe enemy movements and provide warnings. Archers were arranged strategically, ensuring they could rain death from above when the battle commenced before the enemy reached Emberhold's entrance. Scouts moved along the edges of the stone, their eyes fixed on the treeline beyond. It was an ideal vantage point to see what was approaching.

The third group puzzled him at first. They were tasked with cutting wood and chopping away at whatever remained around the castle's perimeter. Large wooden stakes, some sharpened, were being dragged toward the outer defenses, firmly planted in the softened ground just beyond the walls.

Edward frowned, his gaze narrowing as he tried to understand its reasoning. It wasn't a barricade. They would have used rubble, carts, or something heavier if they had intended to block the entrance. But these stakes weren't meant to stop anything.

They were meant to be impaled.

His thoughts fell into alignment. They weren't walls; they were claws. A simple yet effective defense—sharp wooden pieces angled upward, preventing anything from charging forward unchecked.

'Why do I know this?'

The question formed in his mind, yet there was no answer. His body tensed involuntarily, triggering a sensation akin to muscle memory without his consent. He could envision them being used before—not in a memory, but in an understanding buried too deep to retrieve.

Claws like these could halt horses. A cavalry charge would be thrown into disarray when they encountered the sharpened wood.

'But…Horses?'

Would they even be fighting humans?

He hadn't seen any cavalry among the blue-bannered forces. He hadn't even spotted any tamed mounts. Considering all he had learned in the last couple of hours, they would be lucky if they confronted an enemy that thought like men and fought like them.

But something about Richard's movements—the way he pushed the strongest warriors to the front and sent them beyond the gate to prepare the defenses out in the open—made Edward think differently.

***

Edward realized he couldn't remain idle while the others prepared. He had to be helpful—if he was going to survive, he needed to have a role in this army, even if he wasn't a soldier.

Steeling himself, he approached Richard, overseeing the preparations with an unwavering gaze. Initially, the commander barely glanced at him. His attention was focused on the defense formation and the positioning of his troops.

"I want to contribute," Edward said, his voice steady despite the lingering exhaustion in his body.

Richard's gray eyes flicked toward him, scanning him like a weapon under appraisal. "You're sharp," Richard remarked, his voice calm yet carrying its usual weight. "Quick. You have good instincts. But you're also down a hand. That limits you."

Edward felt a surge of tension. He realized it was a significant issue. A major issue.

"Then what do I do?"

Richard studied him for a moment longer before giving a sharp nod toward one of the weapon piles, where the first unit had gathered supplies from the battlefield.

"Find something useful," he ordered. "A two-handed sword is out of the question—you'll get killed trying to wield something that size. You're better off with a lighter weapon, something quick. A short sword, a dagger, or maybe even a shield."

Edward didn't argue; he wasn't able to do so. With a final nod, he turned toward the pile of salvaged weapons, feeling the weight of Richard's expectations settle heavily on his shoulders.

The first unit had done a good job. Piles of steel and armor had begun to accumulate, weapons stripped from the bodies of the fallen. Some were broken beyond repair, but others remained sharp and functional.

Edward crouched next to the pile of salvaged weapons, examining each option closely. This decision wasn't merely about preference—it was about survival. One wrong choice, one weapon that didn't suit his new limitations, and he'd be just another body on the battlefield.

His gaze landed on a shield first.

A large, rounded piece of reinforced wood with iron reinforcements along the edges. It was sturdy and undeniably valuable in combat. A shield would enable him to block incoming strikes, deflect arrows, and even bash enemies back if they got too close. It offered protection—and security.

But that was precisely the issue. Relying solely on defense wouldn't ensure his survival.

With just one hand, he couldn't correctly wield both a shield and a sword. If he carried them, he would be limited to a purely defensive role, unable to strike back effectively. He would have to depend entirely on others to finish the fight for him.

Edward wasn't the kind to trust his life to men he had just met. His fingers lingered over the shield's surface momentarily before he pulled his hand away.

'Not an option.'

His eyes flickered toward the two remaining choices—a dagger and a short sword. Both were light, fast weapons that were easy to handle with one hand. He picked up the dagger first, feeling its weight in his palm.

It was small, efficient, and perfect for quick, precise strikes. The shorter blade made it ideal for close combat, able to slip through gaps in armor and exploit weaknesses that others might miss. In the hands of a skilled assassin, a dagger was lethal.

But that was the problem. To wield a dagger effectively, he would have to get uncomfortably close. Way too close.

A dagger requires absolute precision, and Edward, confident in his instincts, can't be sure if his missing memories also indicate a lack of combat experience. He wouldn't get a second chance if he failed to deliver a clean, fatal strike.

And against the kinds of monsters Richard was getting ready for, that was a risk he couldn't take.

His eyes finally settled on the short sword.

Reaching down, he carefully lifted it, rolling the grip between his fingers and feeling its weight and balance. It was nothing special.

A standard military sword, produced in bulk for combat. The steel appears rough and unrefined, with some unevenness—not crafted by a master but designed to be distributed to countless soldiers—a functional tool, not a work of art.

He ran his thumb along the blade. Dull in some spots. Sharpened just enough to kill. But that was all he needed.

It was light enough for swift swings, long sufficient to maintain distance from his foe, yet compact enough for easy one-handed maneuverability. It did not require the exact precision of a dagger, nor did it confine him to mere defense like a shield. It struck the ideal balance between safety and lethality—the best choice.

Exhaling slowly, Edward tightened his grip around the hilt.

'This would do.'

This was his weapon for now. It was his first step toward reclaiming any skills he had forgotten.

Satisfied with his choice, Edward secured the short sword and returned to Commander Richard. The air around them was still thick with the sounds of preparation—the clatter of armor, the sharpening of blades, and the hurried shuffling of men moving into formation. However, Richard was not standing still.

As Edward approached, the commander issued orders with a steady and commanding voice. He directed the squads with precision honed through years of warfare. However, when Edward arrived, Richard acknowledged him with a glance and motioned for him to follow.

"Good. You're ready," Richard said, shifting his focus between his troops and Edward as they walked. His words were direct, but there was a weight behind them as if he had already contemplated what he wanted to say.

Edward didn't speak—not yet. He listened.

Their steps were deliberate, weaving through the organized chaos of soldiers securing positions, archers scaling the walls, and scouts adjusting defensive lines. As they moved, Richard spoke, his words flowing between commands, maintaining his pace.

"You remember the battle on the hill?"

Edward nodded, withholding an answer.

Richard exhaled as if releasing a weight he had been carrying and continued.

"We captured this castle effortlessly… due to the enemy forces not being in their right minds."

Edward's brows furrowed.

Hollow.

That was how Richard described them—like men whose bodies were still functioning and fighting but whose minds were… gone.

Something clicked in Edward's mind: Michelle. She had mentioned it before. The Abyssal Creatures could control the beasts.

Suddenly, another idea hit him hard, like he'd been punched in the chest. If they can wield power over beasts, could they also dominate people? The question escaped his lips before he had the chance to reconsider it. 

Richard halted for the first time since starting his walk. It wasn't for long—just a momentary pause, a quick flash of surprise in his keen eyes.

The answer was affirmative.

Richard let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You catch on quick," he muttered as if he hadn't expected Edward to come to that conclusion so soon. Then, without hesitation, he continued, his voice calm yet firm.

"Yes," Richard confirmed. "Those bitten by werewolves don't simply turn into them—they lose themselves before the transformation occurs. As soon as the infection spreads, they stop thinking clearly. Something whispers in their minds, drawing them away from their thoughts."

Edward felt his spine tense. The commander's following words weighed even more heavily.

"Before the Great Calamity, that wasn't true. The infection was slow and painful, yet people stayed themselves until the full transformation was complete. They were still human… until they weren't. But now?"

He shook his head.

"Their minds depart before the transformation is complete, and we now comprehend its reasons."

Edward swallowed hard.

"The Abyss?"

Richard nodded once.

"Abyssal creatures don't just control the beasts, Edward. They corrupt them. They twist everything that already existed, transforming them into… something worse."

A shiver coursed through Edward's spine.

Richard's demeanor grew somber as he pressed on.

"Before the Abyss, werewolves were already dangerous. However, they were still merely beasts—powerful, but nothing a well-trained squad couldn't manage. A single group of skilled warriors could hunt, contain, and eliminate them if necessary. That's why they were classified as Tier 1: Lesser Beasts."

His voice dropped slightly, the following words carrying a quiet weight.

"But now?"

His gaze flicked toward the distant treeline.

"Now they're something completely different. Even two full squads of trained soldiers aren't always enough to take one down."

It wasn't just their strength that had increased; it was something else—something more insidious. Edward's fingers instinctively brushed the hilt of his sword as his mind tried to piece everything together.

These weren't just mindless beasts anymore. They were weapons—extensions of something greater. The Abyss wasn't just sending monsters; it was transforming the continent's creatures into members of its army.

His stomach twisted.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to absorb the information. There was no point in panicking—not yet. Instead, another thought formed.

Why was Richard telling him all of this? Why him?

A two-star knight, one of the highest-ranking warriors present, and a seasoned commander took the time to personally explain the enemy's true nature to him—a one-handed, memoryless stray.

It didn't make sense.

There were far more capable men and women in these ranks—fighters who were stronger, faster, and more experienced—men like the pale green-haired warrior Edward had seen near Richard earlier, one of the few who had been giving direct commands outside the gates.

Any other commander would have sent him into the frontlines as disposable cannon fodder, using his body as a distraction and allowing him to die while others fought the actual battle.

But not Richard.

The realization left him feeling two emotions at once: wary and grateful. Richard and Michelle didn't see him as dead weight.

***

The weight of Richard's words settled deep in Edward's mind, the truth about the werewolves and the Abyss sinking in like cold iron. Each piece of information only confirmed what his instincts had already warned him.

This battle wouldn't be easy. 

But suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the night before he could fully comprehend it. 

A voice from the walls—raw, taut with urgency.

"MOVEMENT IN THE TREES!"

Edward's head snapped up.

Every soldier in the courtyard froze, tension curling tightly in their bodies. The preparations, planning, and strategy faded into the background as the reality of battle struck them.

A second cry followed, this time louder and more desperate.

"THE ENEMY IS GATHERING—THEY'RE ABOUT TO CHARGE!"

A chorus of noise erupted around them. Troops scrambled into position, and archers hurried to their posts. The once-steady air was now filled with shouting orders and the frantic clanking of armor.

Richard's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"BRACE YOURSELVES!"

Edward's heartbeat pounded against his ribs, his fingers curling tightly around his short sword, knuckles white with tension. Beyond the castle walls, shadows began shifting in the forest's depths.

They were coming.

And now, there was no turning back.