An explosion erupted, dust and shattered debris thrown wildly into the air, but the ruckus it caused was quickly drowned out by raw, guttural cries of agony.
"Arrggh—! Arrgghhh…!"
The werewolf's voice tore from his throat, the sound of his own pain warping into something closer to a feral howl than a human scream.
He was hunched on all fours, his right hand clamped desperately around his left arm. A few meters ahead of him, half-buried beneath dust and broken stone, a severed, fur-covered hand lay twitching faintly, blood steadily pooling around it.
A split second before Alex's attack landed, the werewolf had forced his battered body to move, shoving both himself and his companion out of the strike's path… or so he believed.
In that final instant, his instinct screamed that he hadn't been fast enough — but realization came far too late. The black slash had already passed, severing his hand from his arm with merciless precision.
Now he howled through clenched teeth, gripping the ruined stump as blood slipped between his fingers despite his efforts to contain it.
'Fucking animal instinct!' he snarled inwardly, veins bulging in his reddened eyes. 'Fuck… fuck… fuck…' The curses repeated in his mind, a desperate attempt to drown the scorching agony crawling up his arm.
Yet beneath the rage and pain, he blamed no one but himself.
Not his companion.
And certainly not his opponent — who had simply seized the opening placed before him.
This was his mistake. His failure. And he knew it.
The truth was that as impressive as their transformation looked — granting greater strength, speed, and heightened senses — it was far from perfect. For one, he wasn't a true werewolf despite his appearance. True werewolves were a race born with the innate ability to shift between human and beast forms, their bodies naturally adapted to the transformation, allowing them to retain their reason, fully synchronize with their instincts, and benefit from powerful abilities without the instability or strain that plagued artificial or incomplete transformations.
Meanwhile, he had been born human and raised as one. The only reason he could assume this form was because of the experiments the Night "scientists" had performed on them. The same was true for him, the rhino man, and every other member of Night capable of transforming into something that existed between human and beast.
They were little more than lab rats.
Night's scientists weren't gods though. All they had done was splice human DNA with carefully selected animal or beast DNA. The process was extremely dangerous — the ninety percent mortality rate was proof enough — and even the rare survivors were left to deal with a multitude of long-term consequences.
Most of those consequences were either physical or behavioral. There were also a few particularly nasty side effects, but those were far less common.
In the werewolf's case, the problem was behavioral, rooted deep within his instincts. On one hand, the fusion granted him senses and reflexes far sharper than any normal wolf's; on the other, it occasionally drove him to act in ways that clashed with his original personality.
After his DNA successfully fused with that of a wolf, he developed an overwhelming urge to hunt — something completely foreign to the man he once was, someone who wouldn't even raise a hand against another unless absolutely necessary. As time passed, he gradually became carnivorous, and worst of all, he developed a powerful instinct to protect those he regarded as companions, allies, or even subordinates.
It was that very instinct that pushed him to shield his ally from Alex's attack instead of prioritizing his own safety.
It was also the reason he had lunged at Arcanor when the latter's back was turned. In a clear state of mind, he would have recognized how suspiciously perfect that opportunity was — and avoided it. But instinct rarely listened to reason.
When prey exposed its back to a predator… would the predator stop to question the situation, or would it leap without hesitation to tear into its target?
That instinct had overridden his judgment, driving him to attack without thinking — and now he was paying the price with a severed hand.
He was the one to blame for his stupidity, he knew that. But that didn't mean he didn't resent Arcanor for it. Fault or not, the pain, the humiliation, and the rage were all real. More than anything, he wanted to tear that bastard apart with his own claws.
The second hooded man, standing over his companion, scratched the back of his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but one glare from the werewolf was enough to make him swallow whatever words were about to come out.
The werewolf took several deep breaths before slowly pushing himself back to his feet. He retrieved a few healing potions from his space ring and chugged them down without hesitation.
They were nowhere near strong enough to heal the wound on his severed hand or the other injuries covering his body, but at the very least, they dulled the pain and steadied his breathing.
"We should retreat," the hooded man finally said after a brief moment.
The werewolf shot him a sharp glare, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Don't even think about it."
The other frowned. "Have you seen your condition? How exactly do you expect us to defeat him when you can barely—"
Growl.
"Keep your damn voice down!" the werewolf snarled, his tone laced with menace. They were relying on the lingering smoke to stay hidden, and if this idiot kept raising his voice, that advantage would disappear.
What he didn't know, however, was that Alex's sharpened senses had already pinpointed their location. The only reason Alex hadn't acted yet was because of two things.
First, he needed time to recover from the werewolf's last strike. As much as he hid it well, that attack had cut deeper than he wanted to admit, and the dull ache spreading across his torso was proof enough.
Second… he wanted to hear what they were planning.
"Do you seriously think we can escape from him?" the werewolf continued in a lower voice. "At best, I might be able to get away using my wind ability… but I can't carry both of us. And you? You're in no condition to flee. Even if you were, what about the mission?"
The hooded man fell silent. He knew the werewolf was right. Retreat meant failure, and failure was not something they would be allowed to walk away from.
"What do you have in mind?" he finally asked.
"We'll use your ability," the werewolf replied without hesitation.
The hooded man's eyes widened. "What? No. There's no way we're doing that. I can't risk it!"
In the next instant, his collar was seized and he was lifted off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
"Listen to me," the werewolf growled, his grip tightening. "We don't have a choice. It's that or we die here. So you will do exactly as I say. Understood?"
The hooded man glared back, jaw clenched. "If I use it, then you better finish him. He can't escape, or—"
"Watch what comes out of your mouth," the werewolf snarled. Then, after a brief pause, his voice dropped into something colder. "Besides… I already intend to kill him."
He released the man, who landed lightly on his feet as if nothing had happened.
Not far away, Alex narrowed his eyes, his expression tightening.
'What are they planning?' he wondered, his vigilance rising instinctively.
Whatever it was, now that he knew they were preparing something, he would not let his guard slip.
Seconds later, the dust finally settled, revealing the three of them staring directly at one another.
The silence lasted only a heartbeat.
The moment the werewolf's eyes locked onto Alex, he lunged forward.
He was the most injured among them, bleeding, exhausted, and missing a hand…
Yet he was the first to charge — without the slightest trace of fear.
Alex's grip around his scythe tightened, the muscles in his forearm tensing as he prepared to meet the werewolf head-on. Even so, he didn't focus on him alone. Part of his attention remained locked onto the hooded man in the back.
Whatever they were planning, it didn't matter.
He would see through it.
And when he did, he would retaliate tenfold.