The wolf does not know the meaning of loneliness, for the pack is all it has ever known. To be alone is to be incomplete—a truth that cuts deeper than any claw.
The second mission came faster than Kaito expected.
They had barely returned to the safe house in Aobara, Kaito's shoulder wound bandaged by Chie's steady hands, when a new assignment arrived by messenger crow—a sleek, intelligent bird with a small tube of paper tied to its leg.
"A village in the northern mountains," Chie read aloud, her brow furrowed. "Three travelers vanished on the mountain pass in the last week. The local authorities found traces of a struggle—blood, torn clothing—but no bodies. They've closed the pass, but the villagers are terrified. They've requested Vanguard assistance."
"The northern mountains," Kaito repeated, a chill running down his spine. That was the direction of his home village. Of Kosugai.
"It's likely a single Hollowed," Chie continued. "Probably established a territory on the pass. You'll need to track it to its lair. The terrain is treacherous—dense forest, steep ravines. You'll be traveling through wolf country as well."
"Wolves?" Ren's voice cracked. "We're going to fight wolves?"
"The Hollowed is the priority," Kaito said, his mind already working. He knew those mountains. He had grown up in them. If there was a Hollowed hunting on the pass near Kosugai…
He thought of the villagers—the faces he had known since childhood. The shopkeeper who always gave him an extra sweet. The farmer who had taught him to recognize edible mushrooms. Hanako, the girl with the perpetually tangled hair, who had teased Yuki.
"We leave at dawn," he said.
The journey to the northern mountains took two days. As they climbed, the air grew colder, the trees thicker, the light more filtered. Kaito felt the familiar weight of the mountains settle over him, a comfort and a challenge. He knew these slopes, these valleys, the way the streams ran clear from the snowmelt. But he also knew the darkness that lurked in their depths now.
They reached the pass on the afternoon of the second day. The site of the first attack was marked by a Vanguard charm, a strip of white paper with black characters fluttering from a tree branch. The ground was churned, the undergrowth trampled, and there was blood—dried, rust-colored, spattered across the fallen leaves.
"It's strong," Ren said, his voice low. He was crouched by the bloodstains, his good ear tilted toward the forest. "Whatever did this… it wasn't a newborn. It's been feeding for a while."
Kaito nodded, his hand on his sword. He could feel it too—a presence in the forest, a wrongness in the air. The birds were silent. The insects were still. The mountain was holding its breath.
They followed the trail deeper into the forest, the signs of the Hollowed's passage becoming clearer—broken branches, gouges in the bark of trees, the lingering scent of decay. The sun was beginning to set, the shadows lengthening, when Kaito heard it.
A scream.
Not human. Not Hollowed. Something in between—a cry of rage and pain and something almost like grief.
"That way," Ren said, already moving.
They broke into a clearing, their swords drawn, and stopped.
The clearing was a slaughterhouse. Three dead wolves lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, their bodies torn open, their throats ripped out. In the center of the clearing, a figure was crouched over the largest of the wolves, its back to them, its shoulders shaking.
It was not a Hollowed. Or rather, it was not only a Hollowed.
The figure wore the pelt of a wolf—not as a garment, but as a second skin. The massive grey head sat atop its own, the empty eye sockets seeming to stare into nothing, the jaws framing a face that was half-hidden in shadow. Its body was lean, corded with muscle, clad in ragged furs and leather. Two Sunstone Blades, serrated and brutal, were strapped across its back. Its hands, wrapped in bloodstained bandages, were curled into fists.
It was a boy, Kaito realized. Perhaps his own age. Perhaps younger. And it was weeping.
"Who—" Ren began.
The figure spun.
The movement was animal-fast, a blur of grey fur and pale skin. One of the serrated blades was in its hand, the metal a deep, rusty red—a Sunstone Blade that had been forged to the color of dried blood. The blade came down in a savage arc, aimed directly at Ren's head.
Kaito moved on instinct. His own sword met the descending blade with a clash of steel that rang through the clearing. The force of the blow drove him back a step, his arms jarring.
The wolf-masked figure stared at him through the empty eye sockets of its pelt, and Kaito saw its eyes—wild, amber, burning with a fury that was both human and not.
"Get out," the figure snarled, its voice a low, guttural rasp. "This is my territory. My kill. My pack."
"We're not here for the wolves," Kaito said, his blade still locked with the stranger's. "We're hunting a Hollowed."
The figure's eyes narrowed. For a moment, something flickered in their depths—recognition, perhaps, or the faintest spark of reason. Then it was gone, replaced by the same feral rage.
"The Hollowed is mine," it growled. "I found it first. I tracked it. I will kill it. And if you get in my way, I will kill you too."
It wrenched its blade free and lunged.
The fight was brutal and chaotic. The wolf-masked warrior—Tetsuya Kiba, though Kaito did not know his name yet—fought like an animal, all instinct and aggression, his serrated blades seeking flesh with relentless fury. He was fast, incredibly fast, his movements unpredictable, his style—if it could be called a style—a savage blend of clawing, biting, and slashing that left no opening, gave no quarter.
Kaito met him blow for blow, the Flowing River Style adapting to the chaos. He was not trying to win—he was trying to survive, to find a moment of clarity in the storm of steel and fury. Ren hung back, his face pale, his hands shaking, his blade half-drawn but not yet committed.
"Ren!" Kaito called out, blocking a two-handed slash that drove him to his knees. "A little help!"
"I—I can't!" Ren stammered. "He's too fast! I'll hit you!"
The wolf-masked warrior laughed—a harsh, barking sound that was more snarl than mirth. "Pathetic! Both of you! The Vanguard sends whelps to do the work of wolves!"
He drove Kaito back with a flurry of blows, each one harder than the last. Kaito's arms were numb, his shoulders screaming, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was losing. He knew he was losing.
And then the Hollowed came.
It emerged from the trees without warning—a massive, twisted thing, its body a mockery of human form, its limbs too long, its joints bending in directions that should have been impossible. It had been watching, waiting, using their fight as a distraction. Now it struck, its clawed hand sweeping toward the wolf-masked warrior's exposed back.
"Tetsuya! Behind you!" Ren shouted.
The name—Tetsuya—seemed to snap something in the warrior. He spun, his blades crossing to block the Hollowed's attack, but the force of it sent him crashing into Kaito. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs and blades.
The Hollowed loomed over them, its maw gaping, its breath a foul wind of decay. It was massive—easily eight feet tall, its skin a mottled grey, its eyes two pits of absolute darkness. It was grinning, its teeth rows of jagged needles.
"Three little swordsmen," it crooned, its voice a wet, bubbling whisper. "The Master will be pleased."
Kaito shoved Tetsuya off him, scrambling to his feet. His sword was still in his hand. Beside him, Tetsuya rose, his amber eyes no longer wild with rage, but sharp, focused.
"We finish this," Tetsuya growled, "then we finish each other."
"Fine," Kaito said.
They attacked together.