The woman lounging in the iron chair noticed the headlights first.
Dust drifted through the beams, hanging thick in the air, turning the light into a hazy glow. She tilted her head slightly, lips stretching into a slow, satisfied smile that showed more teeth than necessary.
A short man with a burn scar hooked down the side of his neck jogged toward her. His boots crushed gravel underfoot as he leaned close, voice hushed but brimming with excitement.
"Boss, you were right. They actually came!"
She didn't even glance at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the approaching car, smile deepening.
"They believed a fake location would deceive me?" she said softly, as though explaining something painfully simple.
A low growl vibrated from one of the werewolves standing near the thick bridge ropes. His ears twitched forward, yellow eyes narrowing.
"Boss. Someone's coming. A woman is walking straight toward us."
The woman in the chair finally shifted her gaze. Vane was already halfway across the open stretch of dirt. Her steps were steady, unhurried. The wooden staff rested loosely in her hand, swinging faintly with each stride.
The woman let out a short, sharp laugh.
"It's one bitch," she said flatly. "Go kill her and have your fun for tonight."
Three werewolves broke away instantly. Claws flexed. Muscles rolled under coarse fur as they lowered into half-crouches and surged forward.
Hermit moved at the same time. The flintlock came up in one smooth, practiced motion. His white-gloved hands were unwavering as he aimed at the heyuman with the old brown rifle—the man still standing carelessly as if the road belonged to him.
The shot cracked through the night.
Bright and violent. Smoke burst from the muzzle, thick and bitter, stinging the air.
The rifleman jerked in shock—but before the lead ball could reach him, the woman in the chair lashed out.
Her boot slammed into his side with a brutal thud. The impact folded him instantly, his body crumpling to the dirt. The rifle flew from his grasp and skidded across the road.
The shot tore past empty space and blasted into the wooden bridge post behind him, splintering it apart in an explosion of cracked timber and flying shards.
The woman never spared the fallen man a glance. Her attention snapped straight to Hermit.
Her tongue flicked briefly across her lips. Her head tilted, and her face broke into a wide, delighted grin full of pure arrogance.
Hermit stood still for a fraction of a second, smoke curling from the barrel of his flintlock. His eyes widened slightly behind the fading haze.
Hermit's expression tightened. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he lowered the smoking flintlock. In one smooth motion, he flipped it barrel-up with practiced ease and reached for the pouch at his belt. Powder. Ball.
His white-gloved fingers moved quickly now—precise, efficient. The faint metallic scrape of the ramrod sliding down the barrel rang clearly in the brief, stunned silence left behind by the gunshot.
Across the dirt road, the three werewolves charged. Their claws tore shallow trenches into the ground as they sprinted, growls blending into something thick and feral.
Vane widened her stance. Both hands tightened around her staff. The rough grain pressed into her palms. She let out a slow breath, calm settling over her shoulders.
"Blood Type Combat," she murmured quietly, just loud enough for herself. "B."
The first werewolf lunged straight at her, jaws stretched wide, aiming for her throat.
Vane shifted her hips slightly. Her staff snapped upward in a tight, brutal arc.
The heavy end slammed into the side of his skull with a sickening crack, the sound sharp and wet. His head jerked sideways. Blood sprayed across his muzzle as his ears flattened in shock.
Before he could steady himself, she stepped forward into the space he left open and drove the butt of the staff hard into his solar plexus.
Air burst from him in a broken bark. His body folded. Knees struck the gravel.
The second werewolf attacked from her left, claws slicing through the air toward her face. Vane dropped low, ducking beneath the swipe. The rush of it stirred her hair as it passed inches above her.
She rose instantly, pivoting on one foot. The staff spun in her hands and swept wide in a powerful horizontal strike.
Wood collided with ribs. A loud crack echoed from inside his chest. The force sent him flying backward—straight into the third werewolf who had been mid-leap.
Both crashed into the dirt in a tangle of limbs and snarling fur. Vane didn't hesitate. The moment they hit the ground, she was already advancing. The staff rotated once through her fingers, fluid, natural—an extension of her arms.
The first werewolf—the one she struck first—was trying to push himself up. He shook his head violently, blood dripping from his mouth.
Vane stepped in close. She planted the tip of her staff firmly into the ground beside his paw, using it for leverage. Her body lifted in a swift vault—
Both boots slammed into his jaw. His head snapped backward. Teeth clattered together with a dull crunch. He collapsed flat onto the gravel.
And this time, he didn't move.
The remaining two werewolves tore themselves apart from the tangle on the ground. They began circling her now, boots and claws shifting over gravel, breathing rough. Their eyes gleamed—rage mixed with caution.
One of them darted left in a quick feint.
Vane didn't react. The real strike came from her right. Claws angled to rip her open from the stomach up.
She dropped her weight instantly. The staff swept upward from near the ground in a sharp diagonal arc.
Wood collided with claw and forearm. The impact shuddered through the air with bone-rattling force.
The werewolf howled, his arm bending wrong at the joint. Before he could recover, Vane reversed the motion fluidly, spinning the staff back around and bringing the opposite end crashing down across his shoulder.
The strike landed heavy—like an executioner's blow. He crumpled to one knee, injured arm dangling uselessly at his side.
The last werewolf roared and charged her head-on. No technique left. Just weight and fury.
Vane waited. At the final second, she stepped aside. His bulk thundered past her. Her staff hooked cleanly behind his ankle, and she yanked hard.
His balance vanished. He pitched forward, face-first into the dirt with a harsh thud. Before he could twist or rise, Vane's boot came down onto the back of his neck.
He thrashed once. Twice. Then his body went slack beneath her heel. It had taken less than fifteen seconds.
Dust still floated in the air around them. Vane stood among the fallen bodies, breathing steady. Her staff returned to a vertical rest, both hands loosely wrapped around it. A thin trail of sweat slid down her temple.
Her gaze lifted toward the bridge. The woman in the iron chair hadn't stood. But her eyes had widened—just slightly—when the first werewolf fell.
Now a slow smile curved at the corner of her mouth. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, watching Vane with open interest.
"BTC user, huh…"
Nearby, the rifleman had already pushed himself back to his feet. He coughed once, brushing dirt from his cheek, then lifted the old brown rifle and aimed straight at Vane's chest.
Before he could steady it, the boss's hand shot out. Her fingers wrapped around the forestock.
She shook her head once. No words. Just that small motion. The rifleman froze. The barrel lowered an inch.
She jerked her chin toward another man in the group—a tall heyuman wearing patched leather armor, a heavy cleaver already resting in his grip.
"You. Go."
The tall heyuman didn't pause. He lunged forward, boots pounding the dirt, cleaver rising over his shoulder as he closed the distance in three heavy strides.
The boss tilted her head slightly, eyes sliding back to the rifleman.
"Point your gun a little to the side."
He blinked, the scar on his neck tightening as confusion flickered across his face. Still, he obeyed. The rifle shifted left, aimed toward empty darkness—toward a twisted, gnarled tree standing twenty yards off the road.
The cleaver came down. All his weight and strength. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whistle.
Vane raised her staff with both hands and caught the strike dead-center. Metal shrieked against wood.
The impact slammed through her arms, vibrating up into her shoulders. Her teeth clenched from the jolt. Her boots scraped backward in the dirt—one step, then another—as the man leaned in, muscles bulging beneath patched leather, forcing her to give ground.
She let him push. Step by step she retreated, staff braced against the cleaver, until her back nearly touched the tree behind her.
Then she moved. A sharp twist of her hips. A sudden shift of weight.
The cleaver slid off the staff and bit deep into the tree trunk beside her shoulder with a brutal thunk. Wood splintered outward.
Vane ducked under his arm and slipped inside his guard. The end of her staff drove straight into his stomach. A rough grunt burst from him as his body folded.
She spun away immediately, putting distance between them. Back near the bridge, the boss's smile widened.
"Shoot."
The rifleman didn't hesitate. The gun cracked, the sound rolling across the ravine.
The bullet flew flat and fast—aimed precisely where Vane would have been if she'd continued stepping back in a straight line.
And she was airborne.
The force of the struggle had lifted her slightly off the ground. Her body twisted mid-air, side facing the bridge.
The lead round streaked toward her ribs. Vane snapped her staff into motion, spinning it in a tight circle. The wood met the bullet at just the right angle.
A sharp metallic ping split the night. Sparks flared briefly in the dark.
The bullet ricocheted. It reversed direction in a savage arc, hurtling back toward the bridge nearly as fast as it had come.
The boss's hand flashed upward.
Her fingers closed around the spinning lead mid-air as if catching a tossed coin. Heat didn't faze her. She flicked her wrist and kicked the bullet aside.
It buried itself into the dirt with a dull puff. She clicked her tongue softly.
"Tch…"
Inside the car, Azrean leaned forward, both palms braced flat against the dashboard. His eyes didn't blink. His breathing turned shallow, uneven.
"That woman is bad news…" he muttered under his breath, voice low and strained.