Suddenly, as if from the void itself, a pack of wolves emerged, surrounding the mercenaries from all directions. There were nearly forty of them, led by a massive beast that stood out from the rest—it was clearly the alpha. Its glowing eyes watched the humans in heavy silence.
Zakros, the deputy commander, narrowed his eyes at the towering wolf and said grimly,
"Be careful… That one's a First-Level Shifter."
His voice held a note of reverence, as if that rank meant more than just a physical transformation. In their world, such changes weren't random—they were steps along a path called Ascension, a path from which the weak never returned.
Before anyone could respond, the wolves attacked with sudden ferocity, shattering the silence with chaos.
Arnold, the mercenary leader, shouted as he unsheathed a massive black sword—one and a half meters long and ten centimeters wide. A sinister black skull was carved into its hilt, glinting in the firelight.
"Kill them all, you bastards! I'll handle the shifter myself!"
He lunged at the alpha, launching a brutal duel.
Meanwhile, Zephyr sat by the fire, trembling, his hands shaking violently as he watched the bloodshed unfold with wide, terrified eyes. He saw a wolf sink its fangs into a mercenary's arm, only to be stabbed in the side by the man's dagger. Another mercenary was dragged down, a wolf gnashing at his throat—until a comrade came from behind and decapitated the beast, blood spraying across the sand in bright crimson streaks.
A mercenary wielding a bow darted across the battlefield, loosing arrows at incredible speed. Zephyr couldn't even see them fly, only heard the howls that followed each shot. Their precision was deadly.
Then he noticed something odd—some of the mercenaries moved unnaturally fast, as if the air itself parted for them, their bodies unnervingly light.
As Zephyr sat paralyzed in fear, a voice shouted beside him,
"Watch out, kid!"
He turned just in time to see a wolf pouncing toward him. He collapsed to the ground near the fire, frozen in terror, a helpless scream escaping his lips. Just before the beast could sink its fangs into him, an arrow struck its right eye. It howled in agony, but pain only fueled its bloodlust.
In a moment of sheer desperation, when even the weakest cling to life, Zephyr's survival instinct kicked in. His trembling hand reached for a burning log near the fire. With all his strength, he swung it at the wolf's head.
The blow caused only superficial burns—but it was enough to disrupt the beast's focus. In that instant, a towering man appeared. Dark-skinned, thick-bearded, and wielding an iron mace, he swung with terrifying force, bringing it down on the wolf's skull.
The creature's head exploded with a sickening crunch. Bits of its brain sprayed into the air—some splattered on Zephyr's face, the rest hissed as they landed in the flames, filling the air with the nauseating sound of sizzling flesh.
Zephyr sat frozen, expecting death. Blood clung to his eye. His face was smeared with the warm, disgusting remains of the beast. He stared, horrified, at what was left of the monster that nearly killed him—its shattered skull now a blood-soaked mess.
Elsewhere, Arnold was locked in savage combat with the Shifter. The beast was wounded—deep gashes covered its body, the most serious across its back. Realizing its end was near, the wolf did what any intelligent predator would: it ran.
Arnold growled,
"You think I'll let you escape?!"
He sprinted to a fallen mercenary, grabbed a spear, and hurled it with every ounce of his strength. The weapon pierced the wolf's back, exited through its neck, and drove its head into the sand—killing both the beast and its last hope of escape.
With their leader dead, the remaining wolves scattered in fear. A few were badly wounded. Some mercenaries lay injured, but none had died.
One of them laughed loudly,
"Ha! Tonight we feast on roasted meat!"
Zephyr was still in shock when the bearded giant grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the battlefield. The man looked him dead in the eyes and said,
"You would've died because of your cowardice… What's a kid like you doing out here in the middle of a desert?"
Zephyr trembled, unable to speak. The crack of the wolf's skull echoed in his mind… the spray of brains… the certainty that death had arrived.
He suddenly doubled over and vomited onto the sand, gasping for air.
"Hah… hah… hah…"
Then came the pain—his broken arm, his bruised shoulder—it all rushed back, burning hot. He screamed.
"Why does it hurt this much?!" he thought. "When will this nightmare end? I was just going to work… How did I end up here?!"
The bald man patted him on the back and said,
"Calm down… Pull yourself together. Come sit by the fire, and tell us your story."
Zephyr moved without thinking—whether from fear or gratitude, he didn't know. But when he saw the shattered skull of the wolf again, he had to look away, barely suppressing another wave of nausea.
"Move, kid!" barked the man again.
Zephyr obeyed, circling the fire to sit on the far side, away from the corpse. He looked around at the aftermath—bodies of wolves, severed limbs, scattered entrails. His eyes were wary, disgusted.
What caught his attention most was the same man who had spoken to him upon waking. The bearded warrior approached the alpha wolf's body, gripped the spear that had impaled it, and yanked it free from the sand and flesh.
Zephyr watched in disbelief.
"How did he kill that giant beast so easily… and without even a scratch?"
The man sat down next to him and said calmly,
"Alright, kid… Tell me your story. How the hell did you end up in this desert?"