Drummond led the vanguard. The werewolf, currently maintaining his human form, moved with a low crouch. His eyes burned in the gloom. He took deep sniffs of the air, his nostrils flaring as he sifted through the scents of the wilderness.

  "Iron," Drummond whispered. "Torn iron. Coal smoke. And blood. Old and new. The feral ones are close, Master."

  "Lead on," Michael said, gripping his cane.

  They moved swiftly through the bogs, easily leaping across ravines that would have broken a normal man’s ankles. After a mile of tracking, the fog thinned slightly, revealing a small, rocky depression.

  It was a massacre.

  Scattered across the crushed heather were the smoldering remains of four Syndicate Harvester Golems. The machines had been ripped apart as if their thick iron plating were made of tin foil. Gears, pistons, and shattered brass chassis littered the ground in a wide debris field.

  "Over there," Morpheus murmured, his eyes locking onto a cluster of rocks.

  Huddling in the mud behind the largest boulder, trembling violently, was a man. He wore the uniform of the Coal & Cog Syndicate, complete with a heavily decorated officer’s coat that was currently smeared with wet peat.

  As Michael’s party approached, the man flinched, raising a trembling, flintlock pistol.

  "Hold your fire," Michael said, projecting his aristocratic Count Mikhail persona. "We are a Sterling Rank party, dispatched by the Royal Society. We are here to fulfill the contract."

  The man lowered the pistol, his eyes sweeping over the party.

  Instantly, the man’s terror vanished, replaced by an expression of furious entitlement. He scrambled to his feet, attempting to brush the mud from his ruined coat.

  "It’s about damn time!" the man spat, his voice a whine. "I am Lionel! Field Commander of the Syndicate’s 1st Excavation Division! I signaled for assistance ages ago! Do you have any idea how much Syndicate capital is lying in ruins around you while you lot took a leisurely stroll through the fog?!"

  Michael stopped and stared at the mud-covered officer.

  Why? Michael’s internal monologue yelled in utter exhaustion. Why is everyone in this city so insufferable?! Is arrogance a prerequisite for a good career here?

  "The fog impedes travel, Commander Lionel," Morpheus answered. "We arrived as swiftly as the terrain allowed."

  "Excuses!" Lionel sneered, puffing out his chest. "I expect a partial refund on this contract! My Harvesters are in ruins! The beasts came out of nowhere, tore the iron apart, and—"

  A growl cut through.

  Lionel shrieked, instantly diving back into the mud behind the boulder, throwing his hands over his head.

  From the mist surrounding the depression, shadows began to coalesce. Heavy paws thumped against the damp ground. Six massive figures stepped into the clearing, surrounding the destroyed golems.

  [Feral Lycan] - Level 26

  [Feral Lycan] - Level 26

  [Feral Lycan] - Level 26

  ...

  They were nightmares that walked on two legs, hunched forward, their elongated snouts dripping with a foul, viscous saliva. Their eyes were entirely devoid of reason or cunning—there was only a glowing, rabid light.

  Michael’s mind raced. He had an audience. Lionel, despite cowering in the mud, was a high-ranking Syndicate official with eyes on the field. If Michael simply snapped his fingers and vaporized six Level 26 monsters in a millisecond, Lionel would report him to the city as a walking anomaly. Count Mikhail was supposed to be a strong, capable human battle mage—not a god of death.

  He had to choreograph this. He had to fake being normal.

  "Drummond," Michael hissed rapidly. "Do not transform. I repeat, do not assume your beast form. A Syndicate officer cannot see a monster on my payroll. You fight barehanded."

  Drummond looked disappointed, but nodded sharply.

  "Lavius," Michael turned to his Spymaster. "You are my healer. You will stand in the back. You will cast minor buffs and restorative magics. You will not engage."

  Lavius’s eyes widened in outrage. "Master! You cannot ask me to stand by while these filthy lupines—"

  "I am ordering it," Michael said firmly. He looked at the Dhampir. "Morpheus. Standard duelist swordplay. Make it look like a struggle."

  "Understood," Morpheus sighed.

  The largest of the Feral Lycans let out a deafening howl, signaling the charge and the pack surged forward, their claws tearing up the heather.

  "Engage!" Michael shouted for Lionel’s benefit.

  What followed was the most agonizingly inefficient, frustrating combat encounter of Michael’s life.

  Drummond roared, meeting the first Lycan head on. The werewolf-turned-human threw a massive, haymaker punch that connected with the beast’s jaw. The impact sounded like a cannon firing. Even restricted to his human form, Drummond’s Level 20 stats made him a bruiser. But the Lycan was Level 26, and feral. It shrugged off the blow, tackling Drummond into the mud, its jaws snapping inches from his face.

  Morpheus drew his sword, engaging two Lycans at once. He moved beautifully, but agonizingly slow by his own standards, parrying claw strikes and delivering shallow, precise cuts to their tendons, carefully whittling down their health bars instead of simply severing their spines.

  Michael raised his cane. He had to do mental math to figure out how to cast a spell weak enough not to instantly end the fight. He bypassed the Tier 10s, the Tier 8s, down past the utility spells, and finally settled on the absolute lowest combat magic he possessed.

  Tier 1: Fireball.

  A small, basketball-sized sphere of orange flame launched from his cane. He purposefully aimed slightly to the left. The fireball exploded against a rock near a Lycan, showering it in sparks. The beast howled in pain and annoyance, its health bar dropping by a meager ten percent.

  Good, Michael thought, sweating from the mental strain of holding back. Look at me. I'm a totally normal, slightly inaccurate human wizard.

  "Heal him!" Michael shouted, pointing his cane at Drummond, who was currently wrestling a massive wolf in the mud.

  Standing ten feet behind Michael, Lavius looked like a caged tiger. She was literally vibrating with repressed, homicidal rage. Her nails were digging into her own palms hard enough to draw blood.

  "Oh, blessings upon you, brave warrior," Lavius ground out through clenched, smiling teeth. She waved a hand. A pathetic green light washed over Drummond, healing a few scratches on his arms. "May the Light guide your fists."

  "Hold the line!" Michael yelled, casting Tier 2: Rock Prison.

  The earth beneath one of the Lycans shifted, forming a crude stone box that clamped around its legs, rooting it in place. Morpheus immediately capitalized, driving his sword through the trapped beast's chest.

  It took five agonizing minutes of fake dodging, underpowered spells, and theatrical grunting, but finally, the last Feral Lycan fell. Drummond delivered a brutal, two handed blow to the beast's skull, crushing it against the rocks.

  Silence returned to the clearing, save for the heavy, entirely genuine panting of Drummond. The man was covered in bruises and deep scratches, having fought Level 26 monsters barehanded in his human form.

  "Clear," Morpheus announced, elegantly flicking the blood from his blade before sheathing it.

  From behind the boulder, Commander Lionel slowly peeked his head out. Seeing the six corpses, he climbed out of the mud, brushing his lapels with an expression of profound irritation.

  "Sloppy," Lionel sneered, looking down his nose at Michael. "Incredibly sloppy footwork. I was told a Sterling Rank party was efficient. You took entirely too long to cast those basic incantations, Count. If my Harvesters hadn't already softened them up, you likely would have been slaughtered."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Michael stared at the man, completely dumbfounded by the sheer, suicidal arrogance.

  Behind Michael, a terrifying sound echoed. It was the sound of a porcelain mask cracking.

  Lavius’s eyes shifted from their human violet to a demonic purple. Her manicured fingernails instantly elongated into razor sharp talons. She let out a low, inhuman hiss, her body leaning forward, preparing to launch herself at the Commander and peel the skin from his bones.

  Michael reacted with max level agility.

  He dropped his cane and lunged backward, grabbing Lavius’s left arm. At the exact same moment, Morpheus materialized on her right side, his dignified composure gone as he clamped both hands onto her right arm.

  Lavius snarled, her heels digging trenches into the dirt as she strained against them.

  "Woah, easy there, my lady!" Michael laughed loudly, his voice incredibly strained as he physically wrestled his demonic Spymaster. "The... the adrenaline of battle! It gets to the best of us! Deep breaths, Countess! Deep breaths!"

  "Stand down, Lavius," Morpheus hissed into her ear.

  Lionel, entirely oblivious to the fact that he was three seconds away from being violently dismembered, scoffed. "Hysterical women shouldn't be brought to the Moors, Count. Keep your healer on a tighter leash."

  Lavius let out a sound that resembled a boiling kettle.

  Ignoring them entirely, Lionel scurried over to the shattered remains of the Harvester Golems. He kicked aside an iron plate and retrieved a lockbox. He popped the latch; inside, glowing with a blue light, were dozens of raw Mana Crystals.

  "The Syndicate claims the bounty," Lionel announced, hugging the lockbox to his chest. "I will file the completion report at the gate. You'll get your coin."

  Without another word, the cowardly Commander turned and sprinted back into the thick fog, heading straight for the safety of the border wall, leaving the party alone in the clearing.

  Michael and Morpheus finally released Lavius. She stumbled forward, gasping for air, her talons retracting. She glared in the direction Lionel had fled, her chest heaving.

  "I will find where he sleeps," Lavius whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "I will turn his dreams into an endless labyrinth of glass and fire."

  "Later," Michael panted, picking up his cane. He looked at Drummond. The werewolf was wiping a smear of blood from his split lip.

  "Morpheus," Drummond asked genuinely, tilting his head. "How does a man so weak, who cowers in the mud, become a Field Commander?"

  Morpheus let out a sigh.

  "Because, Drummond," Morpheus replied, "hiding behind golems and shouting orders is a skill in its own."

  Drummond frowned, not entirely understanding, but accepting the wisdom and turned his nose back to the wind. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened.

  "Master," Drummond said. "There is another pack. Deeper in the Moors. Much larger than the first."

  Michael looked around and scanned the radius for miles around them. They were entirely alone in the Grey.

  Michael raised his cane and pointed it into the fog.

  "No more holding back," Michael commanded. "Show them the night."

  Lavius let out a sound of joy.

  They moved deeper into the Moors, the terrain growing more treacherous, the heather giving way to ravines of stone. The fog swirled violently as they approached a narrow canyon.

  From the shadows, they emerged. Ten Feral Lycans. They were massive, their fur standing on end, saliva dripping from their jaws as they caught the scent of intruders.

  They didn't even get the chance to howl.

  Lavius moved first. As the two lead Lycans charged her, Lavius stopped. Her jaw unhinged and her mouth expanded, tearing through the illusion of her human face, opening into an impossibly wide, moon-sized cavern lined with hundreds of razor sharp, needle-like teeth. The ether of her throat glowed with purple hellfire.

  She lunged forward with serpentine speed. Before the two Level 26 beasts could even raise their claws, Lavius's jaw snapped shut around them. She swallowed both of the massive, eight-foot-tall werewolves entirely whole in a single display of demonic gluttony.

  Her jaw snapped back into place, her human face perfectly restoring itself. She delicately dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lace handkerchief. "Much better," she sighed happily.

  Morpheus vanished.

  There was no blur of motion, no sound. He was standing next to Michael, and in the next millisecond, he was standing fifty feet away, directly behind three Lycans. With three precise, impossibly fast strikes of his bare hands, the Dhampir’s fingers sliced through fur, muscle, and bone. The three Lycans stood perfectly still for a moment before their heads simultaneously slid off their shoulders, hitting the dirt with three thuds.

  "Fascinating anatomy," Morpheus murmured, inspecting his spotless gloves.

  Drummond let out a deafening roar.

  His bones snapped and realigned, his human skin bursting as grey fur appeared on his body. He grew to a towering eight feet, his jaw elongating into a terrifying, wolfish snout. He was finally in his true element.

  Drummond charged the pack leader, a massive, scarred Lycan whose eyes burned with feral madness. The two titans collided in the center of the canyon, a violent clash of claws, fangs, and roaring muscle.

  But as Michael watched the fight, he noticed the reality of the power scaling.

  Drummond was a Thrall, yes, but he was only Level 20. He had raw, incredible potential, but he was essentially a newborn in this form. The Feral Lycan was Level 26, hardened by the brutal ecosystem of the Grey Moors.

  The feral beast absorbed Drummond’s strikes, its rabid ferocity overwhelming Drummond’s lack of technique. The Lycan’s jaws clamped down on Drummond’s shoulder, its claws digging deep into his chest, forcing the younger werewolf to his knees with a pained yelp.

  Before the Lycan could tear Drummond’s throat out, Morpheus materialized.

  The delivered a crippling, precise kick to the back of the Lycan’s knee, shattering the joint. The feral beast roared, its grip loosening as its leg gave out.

  "Focus, Drummond!" Morpheus commanded. "Rage is not a weapon; it is a fuel. Control it!"

  Taking the opening, Drummond roared, surging upward. He drove both of his claws directly into the Feral Lycan’s chest, piercing its heart. The beast went limp, and Drummond threw the corpse to the dirt, panting heavily, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He looked at Morpheus, a sense of humbling realization in his eyes. He still had much to learn.

  Only one Lycan remained.

  It was badly wounded, limping backward, its feral mind finally registering the overwhelming terror of the predators it had engaged. It snarled weakly at Michael, who was walking slowly toward it.

  He looked at the broken beast, and an idea formed in his pragmatic mind. They were in uncharted territory. They needed a guide and he needed to expand his House.

  Michael stepped up to the snarling Lycan. The beast lunged, but Michael’s hand shot out, grabbing the werewolf by its throat with unbreakable, Level 100 strength. He forced the massive beast to its knees, pinning it to the rock.

  Michael leaned in and let his fangs slip past his lips.

  He drove his teeth deep into the Lycan’s neck and consumed the beast's feral life force.

  Target has been fed upon.

  Leveling limits unbound.

  Status Effect: Feral Madness [Purged].

  Level up!

  Level up!

  Level up!

  …

  The transformation was violent. The Lycan screamed— a human scream of agony. Because it had started at Level 26, the Progenitor boost skyrocketed the beast. It blew past the Level 30 threshold, its body convulsing as Michael rewrote its DNA.

  When the screaming stopped, the beast was gone.

  Lying naked on the rocks, gasping for air, was a rugged, heavily scarred human man. He was Level 36.

  The man slowly pushed himself up on trembling arms. The rabid light was completely gone from his eyes, replaced by clarity. He looked at his human hands, touching his own face in disbelief.

  "The... the madness," the man choked out, tears mixing with the mud on his face. "The noise... it’s gone. I can think. I can think again."

  Michael unclasped his coat and threw it over the shivering man’s shoulders.

  "Your name is now Robert," Michael said. "And you belong to House Sabwat. Breathe, Robert and tell me what happened to you."

  Robert pulled the coat tight around his body.

  "We are not naturally feral," Robert wept. "We... we had a home. Deep in the Moors. A village. Gare."

  "A sentient Lycan settlement?" Morpheus asked, his brow furrowing slightly. "Fascinating. We were led to believe the Moors were entirely devoid of civilization."

  "We hid from them," Robert replied, a flash of bitter hatred crossing his face. "We just wanted to be left alone. Our Alpha... Daizen. He is a Berserker. A rare bloodline. Level 28. He kept us safe."

  Robert pointed a trembling finger back toward the border wall.

  "Then the machines came," Robert said. "They stripped the earth and dumped their toxic waste into our bogs, poisoning our water. They leveled our hunting grounds. When my people tried to protest... the machines crushed them."

  Drummond let out a whine, stepping closer to his newly turned kin.

  "Daizen lost his mind," Robert continued, staring hollowly at the dirt. "He realized we couldn't fight the machines with claws. We needed to be fearless. We needed to be monsters. So, he used his Berserker aura. He... he forced the curse upon us. He took the peaceful men and women of our village and forcefully possessed our minds, turning us into mindless, feral biological weapons to throw at the humans. My wife and little girl were the first to go. I wasn’t far after."

  Robert looked up at Michael, his eyes pleading. "I didn't want to be a monster. He forced it on me. He took my mind and left me to die in the fog, just to break a few machines."

  A somber silence fell over the canyon.

  Morpheus adjusted his cuffs, his expression grim. He let out a dry sigh. "The human industrialists slaughter the innocent to fuel their economic greed, and the indigenous Alpha enslaves his own people to fight a desperate war they cannot win. What a delightfully morally grey situation we find ourselves in."

  Lavius scoffed. "Burn them both. The humans and the lupines."

  Michael stood silently, leaning on his cane and looked out into the fog of the Grey Moors.

  A simple monster hunt had just turned into a geopolitical nightmare. If he walked away, the Syndicate would keep destroying the environment, and Daizen would keep enslaving his own people to fight them. It was a chaotic, bloody, inefficient mess.

  And Michael, down to his very core, hated messes. He hated the arrogant CEOs like Charles and Lionel, and he hated leaders who abused their own people.

  He had the power to fix this. To clean it up.

  But he was also a Vampire Lord and had an image to maintain.

  Michael looked down at the weeping man.

  "Robert," Michael said. "Stand up and lead us to the village of Gare."

  Michael’s eyes glowed bright red in the fog.

  "It is time we settled this dispute."