The tunnels whispered now.

  Nine walked them with sword in hand, his body low and eyes sharp. His boots were bloodstained, shoulders squared, and every sense alert—not for fear, but for calculation. He wasn’t just passing through anymore.

  He was learning them.

  Mapping every corridor. Marking every fork. Memorizing the echo of each step, the scent of fur and stone. He didn’t have paper—only memory. But his mind had adapted. Sharpened.

  And so had he.

  The first wolves came fast.

  A pack of three.

  Still a struggle.

  But not chaos.

  He dispatched them one by one. Sword strikes more efficient. Footwork more deliberate. He no longer braced when they roared—he listened. Moved. Cut.

  Each encounter carved experience into his bones.

  Hours passed.

  Dozens of skirmishes.

  Nine’s arm trembled with fatigue.

  His breath was shallow.

  “I need to sleep…”

  He whispered it as he leaned against the wall, sweat dripping from his brow.

  His sword dripped, too.

  He dragged a few corpses back to the mansion, butchered and cooked them by the forge fire. The taste didn’t matter anymore. It was fuel. He ate, trained, planned.

  “The Fenrir… I can’t touch it. Not yet.”

  He knew it now. Even the intelligent humanoid wolves would be a challenge on their own. So he designed a method:

  Kill the outer wolves. Train. Thin the pack. Then—hunt the elites.

  Day One

  The first day was a test.

  Three wolves. Fast. Aggressive. Teeth snapping in the dark.

  Nine blocked with his bracer, the bite grinding against metal. He ducked a second wolf’s leap and countered with the claw-knife—carving deep across its ribs. The third one caught him on the thigh before he could pivot, ripping cloth and flesh. But he didn't stop. He drove his sword through its spine before it could twist away.

  He stood alone. Bleeding. Shaking.

  But standing.

  He dragged one of the bodies home. Cooked it at the forge. Ate while his hands trembled. Trained until the blade felt light. Then collapsed into sleep.

  Day Two

  The next day was worse.

  They came in groups of six. Sometimes eight. And they were faster—smarter. They flanked, herded, tested his reactions.

  One pack cornered him against a rock wall. He feigned panic, darted left, and one slipped on blood-slick stone—opening a moment. He buried his sword into its side. Another pounced, and he rolled beneath it, jabbing up with the claw knife into its belly.

  At one point, he ran. Full sprint. Weaving through side tunnels, luring them. He dove through a crevice just wide enough for him—not for them.

  He returned later and finished the injured stragglers.

  By nightfall, he’d killed thirty wolves.

  His arms throbbed. His ribs ached. But his sword no longer shook in his hand.

  When he looked into the water that evening, he didn’t see a victim anymore. His eyes were harder. His frame sturdier. His jaw tighter. The wind didn’t make him shiver.

  Day Three

  Then came war.

  Packs of ten. All coordinated.

  He started setting traps.

  A crude spike pit here, baited with a chunk of meat. A rigged stalactite suspended above a narrow hallway. A tripwire that triggered a falling wall of rubble.

  He would wound a wolf, then retreat. Bleeding prey—bait. The others would follow.

  Then:

  Snap. A spike impaled one.

  Crunch. A falling stone crushed another.

  The rest panicked.

  That’s when Nine struck.

  He’d charge from the side. Sword cleaving through chaos. His boots splashed through blood. The cave echoed with snarls and steel.

  Some wolves tried to run. He didn’t let them.

  By nightfall, thirty more dead.

  Stolen story; please report.

  His breath came ragged. His muscles burned. But he knew more now. He felt it in every strike—the power building.

  Day Four

  Everything changed.

  The wolves weren’t scattered anymore.

  They were organized. Watching. Searching.

  Dozens patrolled the cave outskirts. The humanoid ones—their eyes glinted from high ledges. Silent. Judging.

  He wasn’t an intruder anymore.

  He was a threat.

  So Nine set up real traps.

  Bent branches with sharpened bone tips, coated in bile from a bloated corpse he’d found near the southern ridge. Spike walls hidden behind moss. Trip wires attached to boulders, just heavy enough to break bone but not loud enough to alert more.

  He lured a group—thirteen wolves, one humanoid leader.

  He left trails of blood. Snapped branches. Just enough for them to follow.

  And they did.

  The first four fell in the pit.

  Two more were crushed in the pass.

  Another impaled on a hidden wall spike.

  When the others stumbled, confused, Nine came from the dark.

  He cut them down like weeds.

  The humanoid one saw him—stared as the blade tore through its final soldier. Its mouth curled in something like a snarl… or a smile.

  “You can’t run forever, human…”

  “Yeah, I can,” Nine replied through gritted teeth, panting, “but I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

  The humanoid wolf didn’t flinch.

  Its yellowed claws twitched in anticipation, dripping with old blood and fresh venom. It stared at Nine through the veil of smoke and blood, eyes glowing with something between hunger and hate.

  The silence broke first.

  A guttural growl. Then the charge.

  It leapt with shocking speed—far faster than any beast before. Nine threw his shoulder to the side, feeling the air shift as claws carved through it. He pivoted, slashing at the creature’s exposed flank, but it twisted midair—landing with all four limbs and bounding back into the shadows like a phantom.

  Nine braced, stepping back against the cave wall. He could feel the exhaustion hammering at his bones. Every muscle screamed. His left arm was stiff, half-useless, wrapped in bandages soaked through from the last fight.

  But the sword still felt like fire in his grip.

  And then the wolves came.

  From behind the humanoid—five more, hungry and howling. The traps had failed to catch them all.

  “Too many…”

  He didn’t have time to think. Two wolves lunged from the sides—one low, the other high. Nine dropped to a knee, letting the top one sail overhead while he thrust upward into the gut of the lower. Blood sprayed across his chest as he spun to face the second, ducked its jaws, and raked his claw-knife across its throat.

  Four left.

  Another charged head-on. Nine met it with a thrust, burying his blade into the wolf’s chest—but it didn’t die instantly. It bit into his arm, jaws locking down.

  “Gah—!”

  He screamed through his teeth, kicked it away, and wrenched his sword free. The flesh of his right forearm was torn, bleeding badly. He shifted the sword to his left. Shaky. Slower.

  Another wolf bolted from the shadows—he didn’t have time to block.

  So he turned his shoulder and let it hit.

  The bracer caught the bite, metal grinding against fang. He twisted hard, breaking one of its teeth, then brought the pommel of his blade down on its skull—once, twice, until it stopped moving.

  Three down. Two more. And the leader.

  They circled now, smarter than the rest. They’d seen what he could do.

  But Nine wasn’t thinking. He was bleeding, gasping, trembling—but his eyes were locked in.

  “Come on then. Come see how this ends.”

  The humanoid growled, but it didn’t charge.

  Instead, it snapped.

  A command.

  The last two wolves rushed him from opposite angles. Nine staggered back—no more tricks, no more time. His boots slipped on blood-slick stone as he pivoted, slicing one wolf mid-air. The other clipped his side, claws tearing open his ribs. He fell to one knee.

  The humanoid leapt.

  It landed atop him, driving him to the ground.

  Nine’s blade was wrenched from his grip. His breath knocked out.

  The creature raised its claws high.

  Nine didn’t look away.

  Instead, he reached into his belt—drew the letter knife.

  As the claws came down, he twisted his body just enough, and drove the knife upward into the wolf’s side.

  It screamed—sharp, ragged.

  It reeled back. Nine rolled, grabbed a rock, smashed it into the creature’s face once—twice—three times.

  It fell.

  Panting. Wheezing. Bleeding.

  Nine crawled toward his sword. His hands shook as he gripped the hilt. Turned. Stood.

  The humanoid was rising.

  Nine charged.

  He roared—a primal, broken sound. He raised the sword over his head and brought it down with everything left in him.

  The blade cleaved through collarbone, shoulder, chest.

  The creature gurgled, twitching, then collapsed.

  It was over.

  Nine fell to his knees.

  The cave spun. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.

  But the bodies around him didn’t move.

  Five wolves. One elite. All dead.

  And Nine…

  He was barely more than a corpse himself.

  He forced himself up, dragging his leg behind him. Blood soaked through his armor. His left arm dangled like dead weight. Every breath scraped his throat.

  But he moved.

  He collected the bodies.

  Dragged them.

  Staggered back toward the mansion—toward fire, water, bandages. Toward the forge.

  That night, he didn’t train.

  He didn’t plan.

  He lay on the stone floor, armor still on, blood pooling beneath him. He stared at the ceiling, body twitching from pain.

  But he didn’t sleep.

  He couldn’t.

  “Sixty… seven.”

  He whispered it.

  A number. A mantra. A curse.

  He wasn’t done yet.

  He didn’t sleep that night.

  Not really.

  He drifted. In and out. Between pulses of pain and the crackle of forge-fire.

  When the sunless light of dawn finally bled into the sky, Nine stood.

  Barely.

  He peeled his armor off piece by piece—scraped with dried blood and caked flesh—and tossed it to the forge floor like the shell of something discarded. His body was a canvas of suffering: his left arm limp, his side torn, deep purple bruises wrapping his ribs like vines.

  But he didn’t complain.

  He didn’t even wince.

  “You’re still breathing. That’s enough.”

  He wrapped himself in fresh bandages, moved like a broken machine, and set to work.

  The forge hissed to life.

  The blood-forged weapons of fallen wolves were laid on the anvil. Claws. Teeth. Shards of armor stripped from the dead. He melted them down, refined what he could—added bone to strengthen the metal, heat-tempered it in the forge’s unnatural fire.

  What emerged was crude, but brutal.

  A new claw blade, jagged but sturdy, fitted to a leather-wrapped handle reinforced with humanoid fang. A heavy half-plate pauldron that covered his right shoulder and part of his chest. Lightweight greaves carved from dark bone.

  Every piece felt earned.

  Every piece felt right.

  He stood in front of the broken mirror in the corner of the basement—one eye bloodshot, the other hollow. His figure had changed. His body lean, muscular, scarred in a dozen places. His posture had shifted—less wild, more coiled.

  “I'm not who I was…”

  Days passed.

  He trained slowly at first, sword in one hand, claw blade in the other. He adapted to his injuries, to the shifting weight. His movements were sharper now—controlled. Less rage. More precision.

  And the nightmares stopped.

  Not because the fear was gone.

  But because fear was now a companion.

  On the fifth day after the fight, he returned to the cave.

  He walked, not ran. And the wolves didn’t howl when they saw him.

  They just died.

  Single strikes. Ambushes. Knife to throat. Sword to spine. They weren’t fights anymore.

  They were executions.

  He avoided larger groups. Stalked lone wanderers. Patrolled where he’d fought last—studying the paths they used, the rhythms of their movements.

  That’s when he found something new.

  A corpse.

  Not a wolf. Not humanoid.

  A creature he’d never seen before. Like a rat the size of a man, with tusks and gnarled limbs—slaughtered and partly eaten.

  There was something carved into its chest. Not by claws.

  By something with tools.

  A symbol.

  Circular. Geometric. Inhuman.

  He stared at it for a long time.

  “Not wolves… something else is down here.”

  That night he returned home with a different silence hanging over him.

  The kind that follows realization.

  In the mansion’s study, he took charcoal and marked what he could remember of the symbol onto the stone floor. He stared at it while the forge crackled.

  “It’s not just them. It never was.”

  He sharpened his blade, staring at the flames. His reflection shimmered in the metal—unfamiliar, fierce.

  The cave had stopped whispering.

  Now it watched.