The First Mistake

As the realization dawned, the brave Commander Richard took the initiative first.

His voice sliced through the rising tension, barking orders with the unwavering authority of a seasoned leader. He was no stranger to war nor the weight of battle pressing down on his shoulders. Now, as the defender of Emberhold, it was up to him to command the last stand of those who remained.

The castle itself was a behemoth.

Massive stone walls towered over the battlefield, built for defense, not surrender. A fortress like this was nearly impenetrable—if held by a capable force. But that was the issue. There were only about 150 soldiers prepared to fight. A mere shadow of an army compared to the numbers this stronghold was designed to accommodate.

The defenders were spread into three formations:

First, twenty archers perched on the walls, arrows ready and poised for the command to shoot. They formed the initial line of defense, prepared to unleash deadly fire from above before the enemy could approach the gate.

Two groups of fifty warriors formed a defensive half-circle before the castle gates. Shields raised, spears braced. Just behind them were rows of sharpened wooden stakes—the claws Edward had seen prepared earlier. They would impale anything that charged too recklessly, turning the momentum of their enemy against them.

The last defense line, stationed at the gate itself, was where Edward stood.

The wounded and inexperienced were assigned here and considered weaker than those at the front. They formed the last line of resistance before the enemy breached the castle. If the first two lines fell, these would be all that remained if things went wrong.

Edward glanced around.

The men and women around him were young—too young. Sixteen, eighteen at most—just like him. Some were shaking, their hands clenched around weapons they had never fired in combat. Others bore visible injuries, their bandages still fresh, their bodies not yet healed from the last fight. These weren't seasoned warriors—they were what remained.

The air was thick with tension. The wind had picked up, a cold, relentless force that whistled through the ruins of the battlefield. The torches along the walls flickered, casting shadows that danced across the stone, twisting unnaturally in the encroaching darkness.

Yet, the enemy did not arrive. They were waiting and watching.

'Why? Why were they allowing us time to prepare?'

Edward clenched his jaw.

It was illogical. A wild animal would attack whenever the chance arose. Predators don't allow their prey to regain strength. Yet, these creatures had transcended mere beasts, becoming something more terrifying.

Were they studying them? Toying with them? Playing with their prey before the slaughter began? Whatever it was, the delay only made the wait more unbearable.

And then, the howls began.

Initially low, a distant rumbling in the wind—a whisper of something unnatural. Then another. And another. They transformed into a chorus of unholy cries, reverberating through the valley below, creeping up the hillside like a nauseating sound wave.

Edward felt his chest tighten.

A sudden, terrified gasp from the soldiers near the wall drew his attention.

"Look! There's something!" one shouted.

They emerged through the dense crown of trees nestled in the lower part of the hill. Pair of eyes. Crimson. Unnatural. Glowing like burning embers in the darkness.

At first, it was only one pair. Then two. Then dozens.

Gulping and gasping, the soldiers stared, their grips tightening around their weapons and their feet shifting in anticipation of the nightmare about to unfold.

Edward's breath was shallow. For a moment, all he could do was watch. As his vision sharpened in the dim moonlight, he realized something was wrong. These were not fully transformed werewolves. Not yet, at least.

At the edge of the battlefield, emerging from the tree line like creeping phantoms, stood two dozen abominations—twisted figures caught between humanity and monstrosity.

Their legs had already succumbed to the beast within, covered in thick, matted fur. Their feet were no longer human but had warped into elongated, clawed paws, barely resembling their original forms. Their spines had curved unnaturally, and their torsos hunched as if their bodies were tearing themselves apart from the inside.

The last remnants of their humanity clung desperately to their upper bodies—but even that was fading. Their arms had already transformed, muscles bulging, skin splitting, exposing veins darkened by corruption. Their hands had morphed into weapons, fingers extending into long, hooked claws that twitched, scraping the earth as they moved.

However, the faces sent a shiver through Edward's body. These were not senseless beasts.

Their expressions contorted, caught in a horrific limbo between agony and bloodlust. Their eyes burned a vivid red, but behind that unnatural glow, remnants of human awareness lingered—twisted, broken, and suffering.

Some still had lips, though pulled back in permanent snarls, revealing teeth lengthening into fangs. Others had already lost their human mouths, their jaws distending, cracking, with salvia dripping as they elongated into half-formed muzzles. Their skin was splitting at the seams, fur sprouting in patches, like a body caught between two warring forms.

Some of them still had armor—torn and barely clinging to their mutating frames, the insignia of the Aurion Empire scarcely visible through the clawed gashes across their chests.

'Once soldiers. Once men. Now...what are they now?' Edward thought.

Although the creatures standing before them had not yet fully transformed, Edward understood the truth deep down. They were lost.

Their bodies had already betrayed them, and their minds were not far behind. Whatever fragments of humanity still clung to them were slipping away, consumed by the beast within. Soon, nothing would remain of the soldiers they once were—only hunger, only fury.

Edward's chest tightened as he swallowed, yet his throat felt dry, as if his body refused to accept what his mind had already concluded. The only way to set them free was to kill them.

His grip on his sword tightened, the rough leather wrapping pressing against his palm. His arm felt heavy, but not from exhaustion from responsibility.

He was going to have to cut down what was once human.

A wave of excitement surged through his veins, but a voice broke the silence before it could take hold.

"STEADY YOURSELVES!"

Edward's head snapped up toward the front lines. There, standing resolute among his soldiers, was Commander Richard. Edward could only see him from behind, but the sight was unforgettable even then.

A lone figure stood with his sword raised high, its steel gleaming under the cold moonlight. His gray hair fluttered in the wind, strands whipping in different directions, yet his stance remained steadfast. The night enveloped him, but he stood unshaken, a single, unwavering presence in the face of darkness.

At that moment, the image of Richard seared into Edward's mind—a vision that would stay with him for the rest of his life. This was what it meant to be a man who stood between his people and the abyss, regardless of the odds.

A man of honor.

***

Once an untouched canvas of deep black, the midnight sky was now disturbed—pierced by the sharp flight of arrows streaking through the cold air like shooting stars, their tips gleaming under the pale moonlight.

Two dozen projectiles soared toward the charging creatures, intent on halting their advance before they reached the defensive line. Some struck true, embedding themselves deep into fur-covered flesh, while others merely whistled by, disappearing into the darkness.

But none of the Beasts stopped.

Even those struck didn't falter, stumble, or cry out. Their bodies absorbed the impact without hesitation, as if the pain never registered—or worse, as if they simply didn't care.

Then, the first wave struck the line.

The force of their charge was like thunder crashing against the earth, creating a rippling shockwave that sent the front row of defenders staggering backward. Shields groaned under the impact, boots skidding on the stone and dirt as soldiers desperately held their ground. But some—some weren't quick enough.

A few of the younger, weaker men were thrown aside instantly, their bodies hurled into the air like ragdolls, crashing to the ground with sickening force. The battlefield became a storm of metal and flesh, clashing in chaotic violence, with the sounds of weapons striking flesh mingling with the screams of the wounded.

Edward's mind raced, analyzing the battlefield as though it were a puzzle that required immediate solving.

The left flank held firm.

Richard stood at the center, an unyielding pillar amidst the destruction. His blade flashed with brutal efficiency, cutting down everything within reach. The pale-haired warrior beside him, the one Edward had seen earlier, moved like a specter in battle—precise and deadly—plugging any gaps in their line. Together, they ensured the security of the West flank.

The East flank, however, was breaking.

No commander, no order—fear.

The men there were not warriors; they were boys in armor, trembling as monsters approached. Their formation lacked backbone, with no structure to withstand the onslaught. They faltered and hesitated—and hesitation in battle meant death.

Then Edward noticed it. A solitary, half-turned beast circled the battle.

It moved with purpose and calculation, avoiding the heat of battle while seeking to flank the right side. If it succeeded and got behind the already-failing formation, it would collapse entirely.

His breathing slowed, muscles tensing as his mind started unraveling the scenario before him. He wasn't the strongest soldier here—not by a long shot. He wasn't the fastest nor held any grand title or rank. He was one-handed, half-armored, and inexperienced.

But he had his mind.

He had his instincts.

And right now, those instincts were screaming at him that this flank—this singular creature moving with intelligence instead of mindless aggression—was more dangerous than the ones charging headfirst into shields.

'I have to stop it... But how?'

If he engaged and failed, he would die. That was the harsh truth. But if he did nothing, the right flank would be overwhelmed, and they would all be dead soon enough, regardless.

The choice was clear.

Edward sucked in a slow breath, adjusting his grip on his sword.

He needed to act. But not recklessly. Not thoughtlessly.

A frontal charge was suicidal. He was smaller, weaker, and slower. If he engaged in a direct clash of strength, he would lose.

But strength wasn't the only way to kill.

Speed. Precision. The element of surprise.

His heart was pounding, but his mind was sharp, cutting through the haze of fear. He concentrated on the creature's movements—the way its steps were heavy, its gaze fixated on the disorganized troops. It hadn't noticed him yet.

"Good, I got it."

That was his advantage.

The corner of his lips curled slightly—not from arrogance or excitement, but from a calm, measured understanding of what needed to be done.

But life wasn't always fair, nor did it always unfold as planned. Edward was about to learn that the hard way.

His approach had been silent, calculated, and precise. His mind had already envisioned the strike—the clean arc of his blade, the sharp edge cutting into the vulnerable flesh of the creature's neck, the moment its body would go limp as life was snuffed out.

It should have worked.

But the world did not care for what it should have.

The creature turned a fraction of a second before his sword struck its target. Crimson eyes locked onto him with a burning, unnatural glow, and Edward's stomach plummeted.

"Wow. You're smarter than I anticipated."

The words left his lips in a near whisper, barely more than breath, but they were already drowned out by what happened next.

His sword, aimed perfectly, met resistance. Not flesh. Not bone. But claws.

The beast's arm moved with inhuman speed, intercepting the strike in a single, brutal motion. The force of the parry sent a jarring vibration up Edward's arm, rattling his bones and causing his grip to falter for just a moment.

Then came the counter: a single, clean, vicious swipe. A wall of force slammed into him, claws grazing perilously close, pushing him sideways before he could react. The impact sent him stumbling, his boots scraping against the ground as he barely managed to keep from falling flat.

His first strike had failed.

And now the beast was watching him.