As if to prove Duncan's suspicion correct, just as he wondered when the Wolf King would appear—and how it would attack—a howl rang out, sharper and more piercing than any of the others. The remaining wolves answered at once. After the slaughter they'd just endured, the pack's chorus sounded more like a funeral wail than a battle cry.
When the cries faded, a low, commanding roar rolled out from deep within the forest.
Duncan snapped around, locking onto the source.
A massive beast emerged from the shadows—far larger than an ordinary magic wolf. Its fur was as black as night, its eyes burning crimson. Its fangs were like blades. Every step carried crushing pressure, the kind that made the air itself feel heavier.
The Magic Wolf King.
Duncan's stomach dropped. He tightened his grip until his knuckles whitened.
It stood taller than a grown man. Beneath its oversized head, every tooth was as thick as two adult fingers. "Blood-filled maw" wasn't a metaphor anymore—it was a literal description. Specialized claws jutted from its limbs, and rancid drool dripped onto the ground, the stench flooding the air. The moment it appeared, the other wolves whined and shrank back, instinctively yielding space.
There was no time for deliberation.
The Wolf King lunged.
It was so fast Duncan nearly failed to process the motion. Unlike the earlier pack attacks, it charged alone—whether from arrogance, a desire to assert dominance, or simply because it didn't need help. And the pack didn't swarm after it. Instead, they kept retreating, unwilling to meddle in a clash between two "monsters."
The wolves that had only attacked under the leader's pressure seized the opening: with the king engaged, they fled, yelping, vanishing into the dark.
That should have relieved pressure.
Instead, it replaced one nightmare with another.
The Wolf King's impact drove Duncan back several steps. His iron-faced shield—his last defense—shattered under a single claw like paper. He'd anticipated that and had already pulled his arm clear so he wouldn't lose it with the shield, but the shock still numbed his whole limb.
Duncan grit his teeth, forced his footing, and stabbed out with his short sword to counter.
The Wolf King reacted instantly. It didn't meet the thrust head-on—his earlier performance had earned it caution. Instead, it slammed its forepaws down and rose upright, effortlessly letting the blade pass beneath. Then both massive claws came down from above, a guillotine of muscle and bone.
Duncan didn't retreat.
He surged forward, ramming himself into the wolf's body.
At that moment, his ten-year-old frame became an advantage—its downward strike couldn't fully cover his lower torso. And the Wolf King, having reared up, was caught in the stiffness of that posture, unable to hop back cleanly.
A sliding tackle became real.
Duncan drove under it, turning the sword into a stinger and, using the king's own downward momentum, thrust hard into its belly.
The Wolf King understood instantly: if it committed to the drop, the sword would punch straight through.
In a desperate adjustment, it threw its whole body sideways.
The maneuver cost it the attack—but it also robbed Duncan of the clean kill. The blade didn't pierce the abdomen as he'd intended; instead it carved a forearm-length gash. Blood sprayed, hot and heavy.
Duncan pressed in, merciless—finish it while it's bleeding.
He had no advantage in strength, build, or speed. The only path to victory was a lethal tempo: offense without hesitation. He was already running on fumes. If the king disengaged and rallied the pack again, Duncan would die.
Now the king was wounded. The pack had scattered. This was the best opening he would ever get.
His armor was gone. Even if he still had it, it wouldn't withstand that beast. He poured everything into attacking and evading—not you die or I die wasn't bravado. It was arithmetic.
And Duncan was frighteningly clear-headed. Even with adrenaline dulling pain, he could feel it dragging at his movements. Time was running out.
But the Wolf King was stronger than he'd imagined.
Wounded, it grew more savage—just like Duncan, it abandoned defense entirely. It even used its hardened hide as armor, taking shallow cuts on purpose if it meant securing a single killing hit.
It worked.
Its fur and bones, steeped in mana, were like iron plating. Duncan's short sword could only open superficial wounds, slicing flesh but not breaking through the structure beneath. Meanwhile, those fangs and claws were weapons of certainty: one solid hit would end him.
So even as the Wolf King accumulated injuries, the fight turned worse and worse for Duncan.
His breathing became frantic. His limbs felt filled with lead. Sweat and blood slid into his eyes. His vision blurred. Blood loss, shock, and a ten-year-old body pushed past its limit—even with the Blessing, even with will.
He couldn't drag this out.
He needed a decisive strike now, before the king came to its senses and exploited his failing state.
Duncan glanced at what remained of his camp—splintered into debris—then made a choice.
He bolted into the forest.
The Wolf King froze for a fraction of a second. In its mind, this human had abused the camp's terrain advantage, butchered its pack on open ground, avoided death again and again.
Abandoning that and fleeing into the trees looked like fear.
The king didn't think further.
It roared and pursued.
Duncan knew the terrain near the camp intimately—weeks of scouting had carved it into his memory. But for the Wolf King, this was its backyard.
Still, rage had stripped it of caution. A weak creature had inflicted a humiliating wound. This was no longer a hunt.
It was a challenge.
Minions could be replaced. Wounds could heal.
But face, in a world of predators, couldn't be lost.
A king that looked weak invited betrayal.
That was intolerable.
With another furious roar, the Wolf King charged like a battering ram—no technique, only brute momentum—plowing through trees and brush in a straight-line smash that sent Duncan flying with the timber.
He crashed hard. His chest exploded with pain; he nearly couldn't breathe.
If the trees hadn't bled off some of the impact, that single hit would have left him unable to rise.
The Wolf King gave him no time.
It lunged again—its maw snapping straight for his throat.
At the last possible moment, Duncan rolled, barely slipping out of death's bite. He scrambled up, eyes darting—
He realized he'd reached his water source.
And nearby, a protruding rock formation jutted out like a blunt spearhead.
An idea sparked.
He retreated toward the rock.
The Wolf King chased, relentless. Duncan backed up to the stone and stopped abruptly.
The king pounced—
Duncan twisted aside at the instant of contact.
The Wolf King's huge body slammed into the rock.
The stone—like a small hill—shattered into chunks. The Wolf King howled in pain.
Then its tail whipped.
It looked soft—just a tail—
But it hit like an iron flail.
Duncan's body was already too stiff to dodge. He raised his short sword defensively to one side and took the sweep head-on.
His vision went black.
His organs felt like they were being crushed out of him, and he spat a mouthful of dark red blood onto the ground.
Everything blurred.
Only one thing stayed sharp:
The grip of the sword in his hand—the proof he was still alive.
"How can I die here?"
"How can I die like this?"
"Don't screw with me!"
The last ember in his chest flared into a final, violent will to live.
Before the Wolf King could fully recover, Duncan forced his body to move—threw himself upward with everything he had, landing on the beast's head.
And then he drove his blade into its eye.
Steel pierced the eyeball. Blood erupted.
The Wolf King screamed—an earth-shaking roar—and thrashed wildly.
Duncan clung to the hilt and forced the blade down, twisting, grinding deeper. The short sword snapped inside the eye socket, but he had already done what he needed.
The king's final convulsions flung him away like a rag.
The Wolf King's struggle weakened… slowed…
Then its massive body collapsed with a crash.
Stillness.
Duncan gasped, released what remained of the hilt, and sagged. His vision swam. His ears filled with nothing but his own heartbeat.
But the conclusion was undeniable:
He'd survived.
-------
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