The alchemical cellar had become Fyrion's true sanctuary.
It was warm, orderly, and smelled of success. Stacks of silver from the 'Common-Brick' trade lined one wall.
New, high-grade glassware, purchased from a Southern merchant at an exorbitant price, lined another. He was in the process of a complex refinement, distilling the crude pine resin for his new luxury soap line, when the heavy cellar door was slammed open, rattling the glass vials on his workbench.
"Master!"
Fyrion didn't flinch, his hand steady as he measured a drop of oil. "I told you not to interrupt me during a refinement, Silas. If you've ruined this batch, I'm docking your pay."
"B-but Master, it's—" Silas's voice was a high-pitched squeak.
He was shoved aside. A man, one of the new guards, stumbled into the room and collapsed, clutching a shoulder that was ripped open to the bone.
"Gods... gods, help us... wolves," the man gurgled, blood frothing at his lips.
Fyrion's gaze instantly locked onto the wound. It wasn't a clean cut.
It was a ferocious imprint...almost beastly seeing the wounds on his body Fyrion's mind instantly lit up, 'This is emergency!'
"Master Fyrion!" The man grabbed his tunic. "They're at the sheep pens! A whole pack! They... they aren't real, my lord. They're made of... of shadow!"
Before Fyrion could respond, the thunder of heavy boots echoed from the hall.
"Silas! Sound the alarm! Grom's sons, front line, shields and spears! The rest of you, to the walls!"
Watch Captain Gregor burst in, his old plate armor already strapped on, his one good eye blazing. He took one look at the wounded man and the strange, shadowy wound.
"Cursed beasts," he spat. He looked at Fyrion. "My lord, this is not a human threat. Lock yourself in this cellar. My men and I will handle this."
Fyrion stood up, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He looked at the mangled guard, then at Gregor.
"No."
Gregor paused, his hand on the hilt of his massive steel sword. "My lord?"
"You're a soldier, Gregor. You're trained to fight men. You see a threat, you form a shield wall. How many men will you lose to a pack of monsters you don't understand? Five? Ten? All of them?"
"We will hold the line!"
"You will die," Fyrion corrected, his voice flat. "
Your men are a resource. I've spent a month feeding them, paying them, and training them. I will not have my investment squandered on a pack of rabid dogs."
He walked past the stunned soldier, grabbing a long, steel-bladed Northern sword from the rack by the door.
It felt heavy and awkward in his hand, a stark contrast to his delicate glass tools.
"Silas," Fyrion ordered. "Fetch my alchemy pouches. The ones labeled 'Volatile'."
He was grandmaster in the past, he had faced countless battle situations, healed people, trapped enemies, did genocide without blinking an eye.
A pack of shadow wolves?
Pathetic opponents.
"Master!" Gregor protested, stepping in his way. "I cannot allow this! You've trained, yes. You're strong. But you are not a beast hunter. This is suicide!"
"Gregor," Fyrion said, looking up at the old, scarred soldier. "For the last four weeks, you've been beating me half to death in the yard. You've taught me how to take a hit. How to hold a line. How to fight."
He strapped the leather pouches of refined powders to his belt.
"It's a test. I need to know if your training was worth the silver I paid for it. And do you really think I am honourable swordsman or knight? I have my own way of fighting come out and witness it."
The smile on his lips grew, the ideas, the visualization everything he had done in his previous life can now be finally implemented.
'I will show him how a alchemist fill fight!'
He didn't wait for a reply. He walked out of the cellar and into the frozen twilight, alone.
The sheep pens were a scene of butchery.
The high wooden fence had been torn apart as if by an explosion. The snow was a grotesque, churning mess of white, red, and a strange, oily black.
Fyrion smelled it before he saw it: blood, wool, and a sharp, crackling scent, like ozone or a forge-bellows filled with static.
He saw them.
GROOOOOOWWWWWWWlllll--
There were five. They were massive, bigger than any Northern wolf, with fur so black it seemed to drink the light. Their paws didn't just rest on the snow; they sank into it, leaving smoking, shadow-stained footprints. Their eyes were points of burning red embers.
'Magical constructs. Not true flesh.'
One of them, the Alpha, was easily the size of a small pony. It was standing over the carcass of the killed sheep, its shadowy snout dripping black. It raised its head, its red eyes locking instantly onto Fyrion.
It didn't just growl. The sound was a low, vibrating thrum that Fyrion felt in his bones. It recognized Fyrion not as a threat, but as competition. The new alpha of this territory.
It lowered its head and charged.
WHOOOOSHHHH---
It was a blur. A streak of living, impossible shadow.
Fyrion's mind screamed.
'Too fast! He's faster than Gregor! [Stance Five: Northern Wind]! Block!'
His body, honed by a month of brutal, agonizing training, moved. His Aura Core flared, reinforcing his arms. He raised his sword in the defensive form Gregor had drilled into him until his arms bled.
It wasn't enough.
The Alpha was too fast. It wasn't just physical. It was magical speed.
It ducked under his clumsy parry. It was inside his guard.
Fyrion's mind saw the next ten seconds in agonizing slow-motion: the wolf's claws extending, the snap of its jaws, the feel of his own throat being ripped out.
He had failed. His body was still, still too slow.
'No. If the sword fails...'
His other hand, his alchemist's hand, shot from his belt pouch. It wasn't holding a weapon. It was full of a fine, gray powder.
'...the formula won't.'
As the wolf's fangs lunged for his face, Fyrion threw.
He didn't aim for the eyes. He aimed for the air in front of its face.
"Ignite!" he roared.
It was a precise mixture: powdered iron, pure sulfur, and a dash of magnesium.
The moment the alchemical dust cloud hit the super-charged magical aura radiating from the wolf's body...
FWOOOOOOSH!
The world went white.
A brilliant, blinding, silent flashbang erupted in the wolf's face. The magnesium and iron ignited, creating a miniature sun.
AWOOKKKKKHHH---
The Alpha shrieked—a high, piercing sound of pure terror and pain. Its red, ember-like eyes had been instantly vaporized. It reared back, its head thrashing, its lunge ruined, completely blind and disoriented.
"Now, take my attack!!"
Fyrion's rage, his fear, and his killer's instinct all converged.
He didn't use a proper stance. He didn't aim for a vital point.
He let out a raw, guttural roar and charged, his aura flaring not with control, but with pure, killing intent.
He plunged his steel sword deep into the blinded wolf's chest.
It wasn't a clean kill.
The monster shrieked and thrashed, its claws tearing deep gashes in Fyrion's leather armor. It was strong. It was dying, but it was taking him with it.
"DIE!" Fyrion screamed. He put his boot on the wolf's neck, pushing it to the ground. He yanked the sword free from its ribs—a wet, sucking sound—and stabbed it again.
And again.
And again.
He hacked and stabbed with a desperate, ugly brutality, his alchemist's precision gone, replaced by the frenzied desperation of a man who refused to die a second time.
Finally, the massive, shadowy beast went limp, dissolving into a foul-smelling black sludge.
Fyrion stood over the corpse, his entire body shaking, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. He was covered in black ichor.
He looked at his sword, bent and chipped. He looked at his hands, bloody and shaking.
A slow, terrifying grin spread across his face.
"Yea, that how I will kill the queen, but with more brutally."
The wolfs under the command were all shocked, their majestic Alpha who instructed them to stand by was now gone, they scrambled not knowing whether to attack or retreat.
"SOLDIERS!! ATTACK!!!!!!!!" Gregor bellowed form the pack, they had just witnessed their lord's true strength, he wasn't just a weak alchemy boy.
"Yea, let's finish this mess up!"
He was a killer and acold ruthless lord.