Chapter 9

Fifteen years ago…

A small hand shook Micheal's shoulder. He grunted, eyes peeling open to find his little brother's face inches away, eyes wide and gleaming.

"Wake up!" his brother whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. "Look!" He jabbed a finger toward the window.

Micheal groaned, tossing off his blankets as his feet hit the cold wooden floor. He stumbled to the window, his brother already there, noses nearly pressed against the glass.

Outside, beneath the silver moonlight, shadows rippled across the snow. Massive shapes, lean and muscular, moved with eerie grace. Wolves—huge, their shoulders as high as a man's chest—glided along the edge of their father's estate, silent as specters. Their fur shimmered in the moonlight, and their eyes flashed, cutting through the darkness.

His brother's breath fogged the glass. "Do you think… one day, we'll be like them?"

Micheal's heart skipped, but he forced a grin, ruffling his brother's tangled hair. "Of course," he said, his voice steady. "Now go to bed."

His brother lingered a moment longer, eyes fixed on the wolves, then turned and padded out of the room.

Micheal stayed behind, his gaze locked on the pack as they vanished into the shadows, his brother's question echoing in his mind.

As the sun crept over the horizon, light spilled into the room. Micheal sat up as he sense a shadow across the doorway. "Micheal, it's time to train," Damien's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, Father." Micheal nodded, his chest tightening as he pulled himself out of bed.

He made his way to the clearing behind the estate, frost still clinging to the grass. Waiting there was Selen, his father's mistress, a wooden sword resting casually in her hand. Her eyes were cold, calculating.

"Come, child. It's time to begin." She tossed him a wooden sword, the weight solid and familiar in his grip.

Micheal tightened his hands around the hilt, feeling the rough wood press against his palms.

"Start," she commanded.

He lunged, swinging the sword with all his might. She deflected it effortlessly, her arm steady as stone. He attacked again—left, right, low, high—each strike faster, more desperate than the last. But she blocked them all with a flick of her wrist, her movements fluid, precise.

A sharp pain shot through his ribs as she countered, her wooden blade striking him before he even saw it coming. Another hit landed on his shoulder, then his thigh. Each blow came faster, relentless, until his body ached.

Then he stopped. His breaths were ragged, but his mind grew calm. He watched her—really watched her. The way her feet shifted, the subtle twitch of her shoulders before she struck.

He moved before she did, his blade meeting hers with a crack that echoed through the clearing. Her eyes narrowed, a glimmer of surprise breaking through her mask of indifference.

But then it started—a heat blooming inside him, curling in his chest like a flame. His heart raced, and his vision blurred. He felt the world tilt, colors swirling as the heat grew hotter, fiercer. His hands burned against the wooden hilt, and his eyes… his eyes were burning.

Selen's expression changed, her stance shifting back. "Micheal—"

But he couldn't hear her. The world was aflame, heat and light swallowing everything as his vision went white.

Then, nothing.

Micheal woke to find himself alone in a dim room, his body aching and his head heavy. His father stood by the window, his back turned, shoulders rigid.

Without turning, Damien spoke, his voice low and measured. "You nearly killed Selen." He looked over his shoulder, eyes sharp. "Your bloodline has awakened."

Micheal's heart raced. "Bloodline?"

Damien faced him fully, his expression shifting from sternness to something more complex—worry, fear, pride. "You are the only one to awaken the blood of Lycus—the mythical beast from the beyond. It grants you power… and a lifespan far longer than any of us."

Micheal's breath caught. "Longer than… yours?"

Damien's shoulders sank. "Yes. Longer than mine. Longer than your mother's. Longer than your siblings'." His voice grew heavy. "You will live on, long after we are gone."

Micheal felt the room close in, the air too thick. His hands trembled as memories of the fire flooded back. "What… what am I?"

"My heir," Damien said, stepping closer. "The one who will lead the wolves when I'm gone. But until you master this power, you must hide it. If others find out, they will fear you… and they will try to kill you."

Micheal's eyes widened. "Kill me?"

Damien nodded, his face hardening. "Your powers are unstable. Dangerous. Until you reach adulthood and learn to control them, you must pretend to be useless. Lazy. No one can know who you are or what you can do. Do you understand?"

Micheal looked into his father's eyes and saw the burden there—the weight of what he was passing on.

"Yes, Father," he whispered, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "I understand."

Present day

Micheal's hands were chained together, the cold metal digging into his skin as they hung from the ceiling. His body ached from the strain, his muscles tight and sore, but his mind burned with an intensity that no chain could hold.

The room was dark, save for the faint light filtering through a narrow window, casting long shadows against the stone walls. The silence was oppressive, the stillness suffocating. Time passed slowly, each minute dragging like an eternity.

He sighed, a deep, heavy breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of frustration. He didn't care about their plans—he didn't care about the nobles or their petty games. But the longer they kept him here, the clearer it became. They weren't going to let him go.

Micheal's eyes glowed like embers, the fire within him burning hotter with each passing second. The chains rattled as he flexed his fingers, his body growing warm, then hot. The enchantments woven into the chains fought to hold him, but they were no match for the power now coursing through him.

With a sharp twist of his wrists, the chains cracked, the magical bonds disintegrating under the pressure of his force. They snapped apart, falling to the ground with a clatter. He dropped to his feet, his body tense and ready.

He glanced at the wall where the katana had once been hung. They had taken it, hidden it away as though it mattered. He didn't care. But if the opportunity came, he would take it back.

Without warning, his form began to shift. His body contorted, fur sprouting over his skin as his muscles grew, his bones reshaping. In moments, he was no longer a man but a towering, black wolf, his eyes burning with the heat of a thousand flames.

He lunged forward, crashing through the door with enough force to splinter the wood. The guards, caught off guard, stumbled back in shock, but Micheal was already moving.

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as he prepared. Then, with a deafening roar, he exhaled, unleashing a torrent of flames from his mouth. The fire surged out, consuming everything in its path. Walls crumbled, furniture caught fire, and the air turned thick with smoke.

Micheal didn't stop. He wouldn't stop until he was free.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he broke free from the confines of the estate. The open sky stretched before him, but just as he thought he'd escaped, he found himself surrounded.

It was daylight now, the sun shining brightly above, but the sudden brightness didn't lessen the danger. A group of men in black hooded suits, their movements precise and silent like shadows, stood in a perfect circle around him. In the center, a girl stood—her blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, her blue eyes cold as ice.

Micheal's gaze sharpened as he finally recognized the girl. She was the one who had stabbed him. In her hand, she held a katana, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. He recognized it immediately—Yeonghon Samkki, a weapon of great significance.

"Well, this is quite unexpected," she said, her voice smooth, almost playful, as if she were enjoying this encounter.

Micheal's lips curled into a sneer. "I don't care what you do with that weapon. Take it and take your country back for all I care." His voice was steady, but there was no hiding the defiance in his words.

He shook out his fur, feeling the tension in his muscles as he readied himself for whatever they had planned. Despite his seemingly lazy demeanor over the past years, he had been biding his time, learning, waiting.

The girl eyed him, her expression unreadable. "You don't care about your own kind?"

Micheal's gaze shifted to the sky, the sun hanging high and bright. "I view things differently," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper against the wind.

The girl's eyes darkened. "Many would argue you should care about others."

Micheal's gaze hardened as he fixed his eyes on her. "Why should I care for a stranger? No… I care for my family. The rest? Let them burn in hell."

He clenched his jaws, the words fueling the fire within him. It was time to stop pretending, to stop holding back. He'd had enough.

In an instant, Micheal lunged toward her in his wolf form, his massive jaws snapping shut. His teeth sank deep into her flesh, and with a savage growl, he tore into her, his fury unmatched. The girl's scream was brief as he ripped her apart, her body falling limp in his grip.

The remaining attackers rushed forward, but Micheal was already a blur of black fur and deadly force. Katanas were driven into him, but he paid them no mind. His massive claws slashed through their ranks, each strike as brutal as the last. Blood soaked his fur, but the pain from the blades was nothing compared to the fury coursing through him.

Each katana wound burned, but they were nothing. With every attack, he grew more savage. He tore through them with unmatched power—his jaws biting through steel, his claws rending flesh. The sounds of katanas slicing through the air and screams filled the battlefield, but they were drowned out by the raw violence of his assault.

Finally, when the last body lay crumpled on the ground, Micheal stood amidst the carnage, his wolf form heaving with labored breaths. Several katanas were impaled through his fur and skin, the blades lodged deep, but he barely felt the pain. Blood dripped from his body, mingling with the pools of blood that surrounded the fallen warriors.

His eyes glowed with the embers of fury, his breathing shallow but steady. He had no remorse. No regret. Just the cold aftermath of destruction. He was a beast, and in that moment, he had nothing left but the hunt.