22. Not Enough

Ton strode toward the center, stopping a few meters before the Moonlit Wolf.

He steadied himself, drew a long breath, and closed his eyes.

When they snapped open again, he was ready—ready to fight.

No signal was needed.

In an instant, Ton lunged forward, hurling the knife he'd taken from the thin, muscular man with all his strength.

The Alpha Moonlit Wolf didn't bother to dodge.

Instead, it stared at the blade with cold disdain.

The knife struck—only to clatter uselessly to the ground, as if it were nothing more than a child's toy.

Its thick fur was as tough as bristled steel.

If even that couldn't pierce it, how could its hide be penetrated?

Ton refused to surrender to despair.

Clutching the remaining shortsword—the one he had taken during their escape from the encampment—he gripped it with both hands, as if his very life depended on it.

With a swift motion, he twisted the blade mid-air, shifting into a reverse grip, and drove it downward in a desperate stab aimed at the Alpha Moonlit Wolf's skull.

The beast barely flinched, its cold, contemptuous gaze locking onto the man suspended in mid-leap.

For the first time, the proud Ton's resolve flickered.

A beast—this monstrous creature—was looking down on him, as if he were nothing.

Yet he poured every ounce of his strength into the strike, his blade arcing toward the wolf's head with all the force he could muster.

The Alpha Moonlit Wolf barely needed to move—a slight tilt of its head, and the blade deflected harmlessly off its steel-bristled fur.

Then, with an almost lazy swipe of its paw—

Ton, once a proud warrior of his tribe, had just enough time to cast a final glance at his tribesmen.

Then—his body split apart. Three clean sections tumbled to the ground, organs spilling like butchered meat on a slab.

"NO!" Hound's scream tore through the air—

Barbarian Rage threatened to consume his mind, but the Death Ability—Incite of Blood—anchored his slipping sanity.

Around him, the spilled blood twisted upward, crystallizing into jagged crimson shards that hovered like a storm of razors.

With a snarl, he hurled them at the Alpha Moonlit Wolf—only for the shards to shatter harmlessly against its hide, dissolving into a fine, bloody mist.

Hound moved.

Muscles coiled, veins bulging, he dropped low, snatched a shortsword from the ground, and dragged its dull edge across the earth in a searing arc.

His pupils thinned to snake slits as Blood Instinct flared, revealing his enemy's weakness—a fleeting, vulnerable point.

He pivoted, channeling every ounce of his strength into a single, spiraling slash—the blade's tip striking true.

Contact.

But his slight frame lacked the force to drive the blow deep.

The wolf barely flinched.

The difference in their sizes was staggering—like a thumb pressed against an index finger, and that was just their height.

Their sheer mass wasn't even part of the equation.

A child against a titanic wolf.

Any sane being could predict the outcome.

Yet Kanaz and his father, the Tribe Leader, could only watch in stunned silence, jaws slack with disbelief.

They witnessed Hound, driven by primal fury, battling the Alpha Moonlit Wolf—but raw instinct was no match for the beast's cold, calculating dominance.

Even with Incite of Blood sharpening his reflexes and Barbarian Rage lending him a fleeting burst of speed, Hound's attacks were useless. His strikes might as well have been scratching a brick wall with a spoon—only managing to scrape off dirt.

His shortsword grew heavier with each swing, fatigue weighing his limbs like lead.

Every slash came slower, clumsier—until the Alpha's retaliatory swipe found him.

Hound barely twisted away in time, but the sheer force of the wind from the blow sent him hurtling backward.

His frail body crashed near Kanaz and the Tribe Leader, skidding across the earth.

"ANIK!" they cried in unison, voices laced with dread.

Broken, bleeding, but unbowed—Hound stood.

Blood slithered through the air like serpents of crimson, coiling around his wounds, stitching flesh with unnatural hunger.

Yet with every injury mended, fatigue carved deeper into his bones.

Only one word anchored his crumbling will:

"Live..."

His mind teetered between rage and apathy—seething at his weakness, yet numb to the instinct that refused to let him fall.

Was living always this?

Watching those you love die?

An endless, grinding struggle?

Just survival without meaning?

"HAHA!"

His laughter erupted—a jagged, broken sound. He screamed it at the moon, that cold, unblinking eye witnessing his torment.

"HAHAHA!"

The Alpha Moonlit Wolf recoiled. Something dark pulsed in that laughter.

With every manic chuckle, the blood pools boiled.

With every tear of blood shed, the gore twisted itself into a shape—

A thing clawing its way into existence, half-formed, grotesque.

Like a demon escaping from hell.

But it crumbled each time, melting like cursed ice, its essence scattering uselessly.

Incomplete.

Hound lacked the true understanding of Death.

"Ahhhh..."

A sigh slipped from his lips—soft, almost tranquil, as if the encircling enemies meant nothing.

"Damn this life."

The pool of blood stirred once more, crystallizing into shimmering shards.

But this time, they were different—finer, thinner, deadlier.

They hovered around him like a constellation of crimson blades, orbiting his body in eerie silence.

He let his shortsword clatter to the ground.

Instead, the remaining blood twisted and coiled in his palms, forging a pair of jagged daggers—edges honed to a murderous gleam.

Then—he moved.

A blur of motion, he lunged at the Alpha Moonlit Wolf, his crystalline arsenal slicing the air alongside him.

For the first time, the beast flinched. Its instincts screamed danger—it stepped back.

A thunderous HOWL ripped from its throat— 

And like a tide of claws and fangs, the waiting Moonlit Wolves surged forward, a living storm descending upon Hound.

Kanaz and her father stood frozen, witnessing the slaughter unfolding before them.

The Moonlit Wolves were so consumed with killing Hound that they had forgotten the two observers entirely.

Yet, neither fled.

They could only watch as the last warrior of their tribe fought like a cornered beast—no, like something far worse.

Carnage spread like a storm.

Wolf corpses piled high, their bodies scattered like sandcastles crumbling under a tide of violence.

Their spilled blood fed the dancer of the crimson stage, fueling his grotesque performance.

With every movement, crystalline shards of blood hissed through the air, impaling weaker wolves.

Every slash of his daggers cleaved a larger beast in two.

And with every wound he suffered—every bite, every tear—the very blood of his enemies ripped from the ground to mend his broken flesh.

An endless horde.

The Bone Orchard's curse.

The nightmare every hunter knew—and feared.

Not even the Arcane Dominion's brightest minds could unravel the mystery of the Bone Orchard's endless hordes.

It was as if the cursed grounds had been touched by Lifan herself—the Goddess of Life—her divine will warped into a nightmare of ceaseless, unnatural reproduction.

And amidst this abomination, Hound descended into madness.

Laughter spilled from his lips—raw, unhinged—as he embraced death like a lover. He slashed. Bit. Hurled spears of crystallized blood.

The carpet of Moonlit Wolf corpses did nothing to slow him; he waded through their remains like a reaper through wheat.

Until only two remained.

Hound—a broken, blood-soaked demon.

And the Alpha—cold, calculating, its primal instincts warring with something almost like fear.

The forest held its breath.

Shadows pulsed with watching eyes.

And his last tribesmen?

They could only sit. Stare. And bear witness.

The Alpha Moonlit Wolf swung its massive claws at Hound's small body.

Thanks to Incite of Blood, Hound saw everything in slow motion—his mind sharp and alert.

He noticed an opening between the claws, just big enough for him.

Instead of attacking, Hound threw his blood crystals into the gap to create a stepping platform.

He jumped onto them, dodging the deadly swipe.

This move showed him the truth: the Alpha was slower than him.

It took a full second for the wolf to pull back its claws—and that was all Hound needed.

As the wolf tried to bite him mid-air, Hound's enhanced reflexes kicked in.

He pushed off the wolf's nose, redirecting its attack.

The Alpha looked shocked as Hound drove his blood dagger straight into its eye.

"Your hide is thick," Hound thought, "but what about your eyes?"

He kicked off the dagger, launching himself toward his tribesmen.

The strike was good—but not enough to reach the brain.

The Alpha Moonlit Wolf cried out in pain, its eye bleeding around the blood dagger stuck in it.

It stared at Hound with wild, hungry eyes.

All its smart thinking was gone—now it was just pure anger.

The wolf crouched low, ready to attack.

Hound did the same.

They charged at each other at the same time.

The wolf leaped high like a spear being thrown.

Hound slid across the bloody ground, swinging his blade at the wolf's stomach as it flew over him.

But then—

The wolf fooled him completely.

Hound wasn't the target.

His tribesmen were.

"NO!" His crazed laughter twisted into raw horror.

His animal instincts made him strong in battle, but didn't make him smarter.

The truth struck him: He was just a kid.

Too young to understand an enemy's tricks.

Desperate, he jammed his blood dagger into the ground, trying to drag himself forward—

But slipped in the pooling blood, falling hard.

Scrambling up, he crawled frantically, moving like a wildcat—

But he already knew.

He wouldn't make it in time.

His Tribe Leader knelt on the ground, lifeless, missing half his body.

And Kanaz, his childhood friend?

She was smiling at him—bright, happy—before she and the Alpha Moonlit Wolf disappeared into the night.

Hound's fragile balance between apathy and rage shattered.

Rage consumed him, twisting him into something savage, something that no longer cared who it hurt. He wasn't just a Barbarian anymore—he was becoming something worse.

Even as blood pooled beneath him, slick and treacherous, he forced himself up.

He ran, stumbling, falling, but never stopping.

Wrath devoured him, leaving only one desire:

Kill the beast.

But fate denied him.

The creatures lurking in the shadows closed in.

And so, another slaughter began in the Bone Orchards.