There was no time to dwell on whether the earlier clusters of two or three magic wolves had truly been stragglers—or merely scouts from this larger pack.
While the wolves still hesitated outside his barricade, Duncan moved fast. Beside his tent he'd stacked spare torches, and now he planted them upright in a rough ring, feeding the firelight as aggressively as he could.
Zald had hammered it into him: in the wild at night, a human's advantage collapses to almost nothing. Light was non-negotiable. These torches had been meant to last until the end of his trial, but this wasn't the time for restraint. If he lived, he could always make more.
The firelight flared brighter and brighter. The wolves—clever as they were—either didn't understand or didn't care that burning torches like this would drain his stock quickly. The only thing they knew was that the one thing they feared was multiplying.
Finally, they snapped.
Three wolves surged over the fence and launched themselves at Duncan.
The instant they crossed, Duncan charged forward instead of retreating. He'd carved out this open ground precisely because dense forest made offense and defense impossible—but open ground was just as bad if you let yourself be surrounded.
If it were Zald, he could afford to let them enter and slaughter them all at once. Duncan didn't have that kind of absurd power.
So he struck first—in midair, where their bellies were exposed.
His short sword ripped into the first wolf's underside with ease—an attack he'd performed hundreds of times until it was muscle memory. Without even looking to confirm the damage, he snapped his shield hand hard, slamming the wolf's midsection and flinging it aside, then lunged forward to widen the gap from the wolf behind him. In the same motion, he finished the wounded one on the ground before it could recover.
A tearing rush of air came from behind.
Duncan dove right without turning his head—barely escaping claws and teeth. The stench of saliva brushed his senses, close enough to feel like breath on his skin.
But that was all the wolf got.
With the element of surprise gone, a magic wolf fighting one-on-one was no match for a Lv.1 capped-out status like Duncan's. He might still be ten years old in body, but a god's Blessing had given him strength and speed that didn't belong to his age.
In seconds, all three attackers were crippled or dead.
That efficiency visibly shook the pack. Three wolves, neutralized while Duncan remained unscathed—one strike to maim, one strike to kill. Even with their limited intelligence, the wolves began to weigh whether hunting this "thing" was worth the cost.
Duncan didn't waste the pause. Still alert, he backed to the tent and drew out a second short sword.
His original supplies—besides water and rations—had included three spare short swords and shields, plus a simple tent, whetstone, and other tools. The first sword had already been ruined early on—partly from inexperience, partly from chopping trees and building barricades. Magic wolves weren't just fast; their claws, teeth, and even hide were hard enough to ruin a blade unless you hit vital points cleanly.
Now he had only two weapons left.
Every strike had to count.
Across the fence, the pack went still.
Red eyes stared. Several wolves even lay down, as if settling in for a siege—like they meant to outwait him.
Duncan let out a quiet laugh.
A line from a school text drifted through his mind: the wolf pretends to sleep to lure the enemy. Wolves were treacherous in any world.
Unfortunately for them, Duncan wasn't a storybook traveler. He was prepared.
Pretending to relax, he shifted his true focus behind him.
He'd deliberately kept five or six steps away from the tent to avoid damage to it—and, more importantly, to keep his vision open. When he sharpened his attention, he caught it: a faint movement, light as a whisper.
His barricade formed a full circle. No matter how careful they were, any wolf trying to cross it had to expose itself.
Duncan surged forward and dealt with the backline ambushers the same way he'd handled every leaping wolf—cutting into exposed bellies, smashing with the shield, executing without hesitation.
When repeated probing and sneak attacks failed, the pack finally gave up on subtlety.
From every direction came a chorus of howls—low, ugly, and blood-chilling.
Duncan tightened his grip on the sword. His shield locked in front of his chest. His eyes burned forward.
The wolves' growls rolled through the silent forest like a declaration:
You can't escape.
After the howls, several massive wolves leapt in first—larger bodies, heavier muscle, claws flashing pale in the moonlight. These weren't the same as the earlier ones. Even at a glance, their status in the pack was obvious.
Duncan sidestepped and slammed his shield up.
Claw met metal with a shriek of friction.
He pivoted with the impact, his blade snapping out like a snake—driving into a wolf's flank. It screamed, blood spilling, but it didn't fold. It fought even harder, madness surging through its movements.
Duncan didn't get a breath. Another wolf struck from the side.
He stepped back, raised the shield at an angle, stopped the bite—then punched his blade out from beneath the shield line in a lightning thrust, straight for the throat.
Steel cut. Blood erupted.
The wolf crashed down, twitched twice, then went still.
The pack didn't retreat. It tightened.
Now three attacked at once, from different angles.
Duncan made the call instantly: he rammed the shield into the one ahead, forcing it back. His sword swept sideways to drive off the left attacker. The right wolf seized the opening and lunged—
There was no time to recover his guard.
Duncan rolled, barely escaping the killing bite.
He sprang up—trained into him by weeks of brutality—then drove his blade into the wolf's exposed neck from behind and ended it.
His breathing turned ragged. Sweat ran down his face into his eyes.
But his mind didn't wobble.
Out here, hesitation was death.
He inhaled once, hard. Shield high. Sword turning in his grip. His movements stayed sharp, economical—each swing a committed attempt to finish, not posture.
The fight blurred into pure instinct.
Magic stones began to pile up—dozens of them.
And at last, after staying untouched through so many kills, Duncan got clipped.
A heavily wounded wolf went all-in, trading its life for his blood, raking its claws across his right shoulder. The pain detonated, and warm blood soaked into his ruined clothing.
Duncan bit down.
The pain didn't slow him—if anything, it spiked his adrenaline and dulled the edge. His shield and sword kept moving. Each strike carried the same decision:
live.
How long the melee lasted, Duncan couldn't tell.
Eventually, the last wolf that had breached his perimeter collapsed at his feet.
Silence returned to the forest.
Duncan stood there, panting, sword trembling in his hand. Cuts and gouges marked his arms, shoulder, and legs. The Blessing's minimal recovery was already helping clotting and slowing the bleeding—enough to keep him from dying of blood loss—but nowhere near enough to erase the accumulated damage.
He couldn't afford to pretend otherwise.
He discarded the blade in his hand—its edge had already rolled and failed. He drew his final short sword.
The wooden shield was long since shattered. The "shield" he still held was only half of one—his last piece of protection.
After rearming, Duncan stared into the darkness beyond the firelight.
A pack this large didn't exist without a leader.
A wolf king.
He hadn't seen it yet. Which meant it was somewhere in the shadows, watching, waiting—because that was what real predators did.
Duncan was certain of one thing:
It would strike when he was weakest.
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