“Xylia! Xylia!” Arlene shook the short mage. “Get a hold of yourself!” Another loud bang behind her, it was Wattyson and that wolf. Never fully exchanged blow, they were repositioning every times like they were dancing—probing the other to act first.

  “Xylia! Your sage is fighting right now! Wake up!” Her calm voice betrayed the urgency in her body.

  Slapping her, hitting her, splashing her with water magic, nothing seemed to get that delirium out of the system. The diluted pupils to Arlene felt like it was laughing, taunting at her.

  “Come on, think! Think!”

  She eyed all her surrounding and all the debris flying from the battle behind like it was going to give her any clues.

  Sucking in her own lip, she crawled and hoisted up a large jagged rock with both hands. Lifting with ease, she rotated it around to the blunt side facing down.

  “Forgive me, Xylia.” She dropped the rock onto her foot. If pain snapped Arlene back, maybe it would do the same for her.

  A loud thud and cracking noise. Xylia’s eyes reformed into proper brilliant purple. Fingers twitched around the wands. Her widened jaw slowly closed.

  She didn’t scream out of pain, instead broke down panting. “W-W-What happened?!”

  Arlene quickly brushed the rock away and shook her then hug. “You’re okay. You’re okay! Focus! Hold onto yourself!”

  Xylia felt the hard adamantine-palladium armour pressed against her, yet it was warmth—human’s warmth. Tears streaked down from her eyes. That stubbing pain on her foot finally caught up. “Ow…” she winced softly.

  Arlene quickly pushed her back, and sat her down after noticing she was struggling to stand. “Take a bit of rest, then begin firing off your magic. Wattyson is holding back that thing back right now.”

  Xylia’s pupils widened, her hand trembling. “W-What is that?!” She already pointed the bundle of wands to the wolf, clutching to it ever tight.

  “I don’t know, but for now we need to fight it to the point we can escape or kill it. Join us after you rest!”

  She quickly raced back, hopping off the uneven rocks like a stepping stone.

  Blue sparks trailed behind as she raced to the wolf. “Wattys!” She called with sword already drawn. “I saw Rinea with Naciv! Tell me the wolf’s weakness! I’ll help!”

  Wattyson who had been stalling shot another fireball making it dodged again to buy time. “It’s lower body! You see its legs? Its small enough to wound easily. Only aim for its body if you can’t for the legs.”

  Arlene nodded and charged, sword lowered tapping on the ground below. She leaned so far down as if to gain speed.

  The Wolf was slowed. That shortsword was still embedded into its arm, the pain continued to throb. Wattyson continued assault and fire exploited it, preventing it to take out the sword. It didn’t detect the lightning speed of Arlene.

  It groaned again and thrashing into the ground, slamming its entire weight. It didn’t catch Arlene she was already racing back to Wattyson’s side.

  It stood back up then yelped immediately—the sound was half-human, half beast. The blood was spilling out of one of its knee. The wound healed and patched up soon after.

  “What?!” Arlene was shocked.

  “You need silver… this thing is weak to silver.”

  “My sword is adamantine!”

  Wattyson pointed with his sword. “You see that shortsword? That thing is silver, take it out and use that one.”

  “Easier said than done, Watty!”

  “Well, got any other plans if you intend to fight it?”

  She thought of swinging harder, but with her hit and run tactic right now… it probably wasn’t ideal. “I’ll try.”

  Not another moment of respite, the wolf threw pebbles like a scattershot against them. Arlene stomping her foot and chanted gale, blasting the rocks away. Though it didn’t blast the Wolf charging at it, claws extended out to clamp them both.

  Wattyson thrusted his sword forward, his footwork nearly made him slip into the uneven crack. It managed to deter the Wolf. The Wolf immediately followed up with both claws slamming onto them.

  Arlene pierced her sword upward, stabbing its claw. Her legs kicked up, using the wolf as surface as she hopped off and took the shortsword off the other arm, shaking it before pulling out to rub the pain in.

  Then she stomped off the wolf as it waddled back from all the pains. She had two swords in hand now.

  Quickly sheathing her main longsword, she chanted out an ice breeze to capitalize on its stumble. The ice proved no effect.

  Wattyson shot out his fireball again at the new open wound where the shortsword was. It rubbed the flame in, making the wolf recoiled.

  It quickly steady itself and ran away on all four, yet its path suggested it wasn’t leaving. It was trying to circle around.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Wattyson took her arm. “We need to go! Is Xylia okay?”

  Arlene was surprised by the sudden jolt. “Y-Yeah? She’s not in delirious right now. What about you?” She eyed to his chest. “You’re wounded.”

  “Not the time. Xylia!” he shouted loudly and without looking. “Regroup with us at Naciv!”

  The loud thumping sounds already returning. “Damn it!” Wattyson hurled Arlene forward and quickly turned around. His sword barely caught the wolf’s claw.

  It roared at him, the smell of rotten flesh flowed out like pestilence. Both it and Wattyson was in a struggle. The silver wasn’t burning the wolf. Its claw was the only part not affected by it.

  Arlene quickly regain her footing and aimed for its foot. Blade steadied for that heel.

  The Wolf saw that girl going for it again. It tried thrashing last time and it didn’t work. This time, it conceded the struggle and kicked off the rock as it jumped back. Arlene didn’t get to strike.

  It was on all three and lifted an arm up toward them. Creaking sounds came from its unwounded arm as it turned brown then small branches growing out with leaves. Then it cracked open, sharply rang in the floor. Small white moths formed then flew out in a single direction, toward them.

  Seeing the horde of moth toward them, Arlene tried to chant out a barrier.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Wattyson pulled her as he dived to the side, landing her on top.

  The horde of white moth like flame flew passed, leaving cricket and buzzing noises—contradicting to its species. It went all the way to the pillar afar. After the horde dissipated, there was a huge smooth hole in that pillar.

  “MAGIC MISSILE!” A high pitched voice roared as a purple orb exploded into a spiral of tentacles, all racing toward the wolf. Piercing it into place.

  Arlene didn’t linger long on that hole, just a mental note to keep it in mind. She quickly got up from him and rushed to the wolf. A strike to the heel or anywhere near its knee would struck its mobility down. She needed to land a hit.

  Those magic missiles didn’t stay long. The mana dissipated quickly after and the wounds healed. Noticing that girl, it raced forward intending to meet her head-on.

  It looked like a clash, but Arlene wouldn’t win head-on. That thing was way above her weight class. She exhaled and steadied her breath. The cold winds brushed against her hair as the warm floor settled into her face. She casted all the humid feeling out.

  Closing in, the wolf jaw widened and claws ready to pierce sideway if she were so much to move to the side. Arlene chose not to do that.

  “TIAMET’S TEMPEST!” She chanted out a high mana spell, forming a vortex ripple beneath her before blasting out rubbles, debris and hidden bones out all over. She too flew upward.

  The wolf missed its mark, and Arlene landed on its back. She grabbed hold onto its fur, and felt the wet like texture on it red spots—blood. In her other hand was the shortsword, she stabbed it with extreme prejudice, thrusting it in and rubbed it further—blood began to spill out violently over her bracers and her armours. Her cape behind caught it too.

  She then had to hold onto the sword with both hand. It was her only anchor. The Wolf was moving wildly, claws reaching back and continued thrashing and jumping just to get it off. It didn’t want to thrash its entire back into the ground. That sword could plummet further if it did so.

  Seeing a figure rushing to her, she figured it was Wattyson. “Aim for the legs!”

  That figure wasn’t Wattyson. Her running form was too shaky—too panicky. She held the shortsword with two hands like she was about to stab someone in the alleyway while sprinting. That horned girl’s eyes shaking as her breath jagged.

  “The legs. The legs. The legs.” She kept repeating like it was the only mantra to keep herself stable—the order she must complete or else. Being closer to the werewolf, she felt her body betrayed more and more. Her speed slowed and her breath slowly become still. Her vision blurred and almost blind.

  “The legs. The legs. The legs!” She roared out one last defiance to the delirium. Swooping in low, taking advantages of her lean figure, her arm flailed once she was under. Slashes multiple, at both legs. Knees. Limbs and foots. All made contact. She tried for more, but quickly got kicked in the gut off to where Naciv was in its painful dance.

  Arlene took this chance to rubbed the sword in more. Pushing with both hands, she screamed out “SUNLANCE!” Light converged to the sword and bursting out the tip… while inside the wolf. It blew out a chunk of the wolf.

  She quickly wrenched the sword out and jumped off, quickly sprinting to where Rinea and Naciv were.

  The wolf roared in pain as its tear flowed like river. That wound slowly patched up, but not in flesh—in wood. It lifted the arm to shoot out that moth again where Arlene was running off to.

  “You will not!” A fire ball reached for that wooden patch, burning it up entirely before patching again. The Wolf recoiled as its mouth vibrated from the pain.

  Wattyson didn’t allow it to fully heal. He slashed downward, burning on its shoulder.

  The Wolf ignoring the sizzling wound and now completely filled with adrenaline swung its arm against his face. It punched him on his cheek, turning him nearly to the ground as he spitted out blood. Yet Wattyson still stood. The strength in the werewolf was failing.

  Wattyson quickly turned to it, pulling his sword up and hitting the wolf in its jaw with a pommel. Using the momentum, a quick slash directed to its leg.

  He was then punched and sent flying to where Rinea and Naciv were too. The wolf couldn’t capitalize. Its legs were too wounded and even worse, it was stuck in the crack from the uneven debris.

  “BY THE LIGHT OF CELES’IRA! BY THE WILL OF LUNA!” A surge of mana converged and formed into a singular ball of blue light by the tips of bundle of wands. Air from it flew against the floor’s winds. Xylia’s voice increased in pitch and raw. “MOONBEAM!”

  The pale blue light beam enveloped the beast in its brilliance, but Xylia isn’t done.

  Standing, panting, and clearly slumped, she was determined to continue. “BY THE BLESSING OF HELIOS,” she shouted again but her voice wavered, “OF ITS FLAMING BRILLIANCE!” She swiped the bundle of wands high. “RADIANT DAWN!”

  Immediately, a small spark of light shot out high then shone like a second sun… much to Naciv’s fear—his body weakened… before stabilized again. Wattyson limped in front blocking the light.

  That second sun collapsed onto itself then blew out spears like projectiles sized of a needle in hundreds flying toward the wolf still in pale blue light.

  Each time it landed, a sharp scorching sound of metal being melted echoed and there were hundreds.

  Xylia stumbled and eyes barely opened. “Take… that… you bloody monster… I’m the… best…ma—“ She collapsed soon after.

  The beams and bombardment still continued. Arlene stared in awe. Such power, such high usage of mana… even she who had unlimited amount wouldn’t stack too much at the same time. It would drain her own stamina.

  She quickly raced to Xylia in case she was in danger.

  Wattyson didn’t follow. He limped toward the whole epicentre instead. Sword dragging across the uneven ground.

  The beam cleared with the bombardment finished. Clear scorching spots flared all over the metallic ground with spots all over. At its centre, the wolf lived on its knees. Furs burned all over and some area exposed flesh and brain. It was still healing, but slowly. The heat slowed it down.

  It looked to the coming hunter. It couldn’t do anything. All of its body failed. Its organ refused to work… it was still healing. Yet… it still managed to growl. Its two arms creaked into woods, ready to release that moth again.

  Wattyson didn’t give it the chance. Sword steady onto its chest and then slowly, but surely he thrusted it in, stabbing it in the heart. Slowly, painfully, he watched that wolf’s expression—from primal rage to unsettled to shocked and then… still. Its transforming arms ceased, stuck between flesh and wood.

  Wattyson took the sword out and kicked the wolf, tumbling its body down. It was only then he allowed himself to sit… and the pain finally settled in. That wolf was dead.