The trees rustled beneath the night sky.
The forest was dark—scary and silent—except for the distant hooting of owls and the chilling howls of direwolves. The wind blew fiercely, sending a cold shiver down the spine of anyone foolish enough to enter this cursed territory. Panting loudly, blood smeared across his face and armor, the man ran through the forest without looking back. He did not dare to. His feet pounded against the earth as he fled, driven by pure fear. His party was gone—brutally murdered. He knew he had to retreat. He had no choice. He could not face the king. A defender must never retreat, the motto echoed in his mind.
He didn't care. In fact, he was glad. He wanted to quit. He never wanted to step foot in the dark territory again. Breathing heavily, he ran as fast as his broken leg allowed. Pain shot through him with every step. He clutched his left arm, cut clean above the elbow, blood pouring relentlessly onto the forest floor. He was being chased. He couldn't see what followed him, but he could feel it—its presence pressing closer with every heartbeat. Summoning what little strength he had left, he pushed forward, desperate to reach the other side. The light. It was only about five meters away. A low roar tore through the forest. He heard it—and turned.
His foot caught on a rock. He crashed hard onto the ground, his head striking the earth with a sickening force. Dizziness washed over him, his vision blurring as pain surged through his body. He tried to stand, but his muscles refused to obey. Through the haze, he could still see it—the other side. Alcon. Where the light shone. The light shone brightly, and he tried to rise. Barely, he managed to get onto his knees—when he heard it again. A low, terrifying roar. He looked back and saw it: a direwolf. Massive. Black as midnight. It stood on all fours, towering at nearly ten feet. Red eyes glowed from its savage, snarling face. Its claws and teeth gleamed, and its presence radiated pure bloodlust. Fear gripped the defender as he noticed the red flame that surrounded the creature. A scar ran across its right eye, marking it as something ancient and deadly.
The defender's back pressed against a tree as the direwolf charged, approaching faster with every heartbeat. It lunged. At the last moment, the defender grabbed a huge stick, thrusting it between the creature's snapping jaws. The teeth of the direwolf gnawed closer, but he held firm. Pain seared through his arms as the beast tried to crush him, but he would not let go. Anger surged. He shouted, and the stick ignited with a brilliant red flame. But it did not burn. Some magical energy within him refused to let it die. The flames seared, yet the direwolf howled in pain and released its grip on the stick. The defender struggled to stand, panting heavily. He knew he couldn't outrun it—not with his broken leg. He had no choice but to face it, relying on the last bit of magical energy he had left.
The Defender stilled his breathing, his body settling into a low, predatory crouch. Around him, the wind began to howl, whipping into a violent cyclone that seemed to answer the crimson glow blooming in his eyes. In his hand, the simple wooden stick ignited—not into ash, but into a searing, eternal flame that defied the laws of nature. Across the clearing, the direwolf shook off its daze. It fixed him with a sharp, murderous gaze before letting out a roar that vibrated through the very earth. A wave of pure bloodlust radiated from the beast, a psychic weight so heavy it could likely be felt for kilometers in every direction. The air between them turned electric, thick with the scent of ozone and ancient malice.
With a snarl, the direwolf charged. It moved like a blur of grey shadow, closing the distance faster than a human eye could track, its jaws unhinging to deliver a killing blow.
"AWAKEN... HELL FLAME!"
The Defender's voice cut through the roar of the wind. He swung. The stick collided with the beast's skull with the force of a falling star, driving the wolf's head deep into the dirt. Upon impact, the creature didn't just break; it ignited. White-hot flames erupted over its fur, spreading with unnatural speed until the wolf was a thrashing pyre. It wailed in agony, rolling frantically against the earth to quench the magical fire, but the heat only grew.
The Defender didn't stay to watch. Agony flared in his own body; he was running on a broken leg, fueled by nothing but sheer adrenaline. Every step was a gamble, his pace faster than any healthy man should be capable of. He glanced back once. The wolf was still a pillar of fire, but it wasn't dead.
The forcefield shimmered in the distance—his finish line. Just one more meter.
A low, guttural growl echoed behind him. He looked back a second time and his heart sank. The wolf was no longer burning; it had become the fire. A creature of living flame, it tore through the undergrowth in silent, lethal pursuit. The Defender pushed himself harder, lungs screaming, until he crossed the shimmering threshold. The wolf skidded to a halt at the very edge of the Dark Territory. It paced the barrier, snarling at the sunlight that bathed the forest beyond—a light that acted as a wall the monsters could not breach. The Defender heaved a ragged sigh of relief, his legs finally giving out. He had made it. He was safe.
Woosh... tch.
The world tilted. Sudden, numbing cold bloomed in his back. He collapsed into the dirt, the strength draining from his limbs as if a plug had been pulled. He couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel the wind—only the terrifying certainty that an arrow was buried deep in his spine. Alcon was so close. He could see the silhouettes of the town ahead, but his vision was blurring into a hazy gray. The silence of the forest felt heavy, hovering somewhere between peace and death.
He tried to crawl, his fingers clawing uselessly at the soil, moving only inches before a shadow fell over him. A strange figure stood there, silhouetted against the light. The Defender tried to look up, but his neck wouldn't obey. All he could see was the curve of a bow and the steady hands of a hunter. Helpless and bleeding out, the Defender felt himself being gripped by the shoulders. He was dragged backward into the gloom, leaving a dark, jagged trail of red across the forest floor.