[Item

  Consumed: Royal Glider Feast]

  [+40% Psyché regeneration (8 hours)]

  [+30 HP Stock]

  [+15% Corruption resistance]

  [Psyché: 79% → 82%]

  Three

  points in one go. The best dish Melo had ever made. — He’s

  trying. For me. He’s really trying. — And Vincent, contrary to

  what one might expect, had no problem with that.

  The

  problem arrived during the fight. It wasn't a scripted encounter—not

  a boss, nor an elite creature. Just three players emerging from

  between the skin-trees with very clear intentions and very empty

  eyes.

  A

  tank in improvised heavy armor. A ranger with a bone bow. A mage with

  a staff pulsing with a sickly greenish glow. The tank—a massive guy

  with a username floating above his head: BrutalKnight—smirked. It

  wasn't a friendly smile.

  — Well,

  well. A camp. You look quite comfortable. Do you mind if we borrow

  some resources? Nothing personal, it’s just the law of the jungle,

  you understand.

  Melo

  raised his hands in a gesture of peace. — Hey, we don't have much.

  Really. Some cooking ingredients, a bit of basic loot. Nothing worth

  a fight.

  The

  ranger—ArrowStorm—sneered. — We’ll see about that ourselves.

  You two, clear out. Leave your bags and your credits, and we’ll let

  you go. Simple.

  Vincent

  felt something rumble in his chest. Not an audible sound, not yet,

  but a dull vibration resonating in his bones. — They’re

  threatening Melo. MY support. MY teammate. —

  

[Hunger:

  Vigilant → Reactive]

  [Way of the Wolf: Territorial instinct

  activated]

  [Psyché: 82% → 80%]

  Two

  points. At once. Melo placed a calming hand on Vincent’s

  shoulder—even through the translucent wax, the gesture had weight.

  — Vincent. Steady. We can handle this without violence.

  But

  Vincent wasn't really listening anymore. Golden trails saturated his

  vision, pulsing in synchronization with the heartbeats of the three

  players. And something inside him—something deep, primitive, and

  STARVING—wanted them to stop pulsing.

  The

  mage—NecroFlame—raised his staff, and a greenish aura began to

  form around him.

  — You have five seconds to decide. One... two...

  He

  never reached three. Vincent moved. Not consciously. Not voluntarily.

  His body simply acted, guided by instincts he no longer entirely

  controlled.

  

[Wolf

  Form: FORCED AUTO-ACTIVATION]

  [Partial transformation initiated]

  [Control: LOST]

  [The Beast takes command]

  His

  body exploded in simultaneous movement and mutation. The white wax of

  his skin cracked like glass under pressure, revealing something

  darker and denser beneath. His limbs elongated further, muscles

  swelling under a hide that was no longer quite skin but something

  between leather and bark. His black claws tripled in length, becoming

  curved blades that shimmered faintly in the grey light.

  And

  his mask—oh, his mask. The three black holes widened, stretched,

  and deformed until his entire face was nothing but a dark void

  bordered by wax fragments that looked like shattered teeth. Inside, a

  darkness that seemed to absorb light itself, where two luminous

  points glowed—not eyes, but something serving as eyes, something

  that never blinked.

  Vines.

  Briars. They erupted from his back, his shoulders, his arms,

  intertwining to form a silhouette that evoked the Briar Wolf he had

  defeated days ago.

  

[Transformation:

  Briar Wolf – Imperfect Form]

  [+50% Strength]

  [+40% Speed]

  [+30%

  Resistance]

  [ALL INHIBITORS: DEACTIVATED]

  [PSYCHé: TEMPORARILY

  SUSPENDED]

  [HUNGER: DOMINANT]

  Vincent—what

  remained of Vincent—watched from a dark corner of his own

  consciousness as his body turned into a living weapon. — No no no

  no NO— — But the Beast wasn't listening. The Beast understood

  only one thing: Territory. Pack. Threat. And threats had to be

  eliminated.

  The

  Briar Wolf moved. It didn't move with the calculated fluidity of

  Vincent fighting normally, nor with the surgical precision he had

  developed during his hunts. It was brutal, instinctive, perfect in a

  way that transcended conscious thought.

  

[Savage

  Rush: AMPLIFIED]

  He

  slammed into BrutalKnight before the tank could even begin to raise

  his shield. The impact echoed like a battering ram against a wooden

  door, and the armored player was thrown backward, his Integrity bar

  plummeting by 40% in a single strike.

  

[Targeted

  Fracture: Critical Success]

  [Enemy Stunned]

  ArrowStorm

  fired three arrows in rapid succession—precise, well-aimed shots

  that should have found their mark. The Briar Wolf dodged them without

  even looking, his body twisting at impossible angles, the briars on

  his back forming an improvised shield that deflected the projectiles

  as if they were mere twigs.

  NecroFlame

  began an incantation, his staff pulsing with necrotic green energy.

  The Wolf gave him no time to finish. [Feral Leap] activated with

  multiplied power, and he covered the distance in a single bound that

  left deep claw marks in the spongy soil. His jaws—that horrific

  void bordered by wax shards—clamped down on the mage’s arm. Not

  to kill, not yet. Just to immobilize, to neutralize the threat.

  

[Devastating

  Bite: AMPLIFIED]

  [-68% Enemy Integrity] [Limb severely damaged]

  NecroFlame

  screamed. The sound was high-pitched, panicked, human in a way that

  should have triggered empathy, pity, something. But the Wolf felt no

  such thing. The Wolf protected. The Wolf eliminated. That was all.

  From

  his corner of consciousness, Vincent was screaming. — STOP STOP

  STOP THEY ARE PLAYERS THEY WILL DIE YOU WILL KILL THEM STOP — The

  Beast didn't hear him. Or perhaps it heard him and didn't care.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  BrutalKnight

  got back up, shaking his head to clear the stun, and charged with a

  war cry that quickly turned into a cry of terror when the Wolf

  pivoted, seized him by the breastplate of his improvised armor, and

  hurled him against a skin-tree with enough force to make the tree

  groan and crack.

  

[Critical

  Impact]

  [-42% Enemy Integrity]

  [Enemy in critical state]

  ArrowStorm

  abandoned his bow and tried to flee. Fatal error. The Wolf was a

  predator, and predators hunted what ran. It was instinctive, etched

  into every fiber of his transformed being.

  

[Relentless

  Pursuit: ACTIVATED]

  He

  caught the ranger in three bounds. His claws found the legs, severing

  tendons with surgical precision born of millennial instincts.

  ArrowStorm collapsed, face-first into the spongy ground, sobbing

  incoherent words that might have been pleas or insults.

  The

  Wolf leaned in, and the Hunger—that thing that had never truly

  slept, just waited—roared. — NOW. FINALLY. FRESH MEAT. WARM

  BLOOD. TAKE. DEVOUR. IT IS YOUR DUE. — And Vincent, a prisoner in

  his own body, felt the jaws open, felt the tongue—when had he

  developed a tongue? It was there now, dark and far too long—tasting

  the air saturated with fear and blood.

  — NO.

  NOT THAT. ANYTHING BUT THAT. IF I DO THIS I WILL NEVER COME BACK. I

  WILL BE LOST. PLEASE. PLEASE NO—

  A

  sound. Soft, melodious, completely incongruous in this scene of

  carnage. A harp.

  Melo

  was playing. Standing at the edge of the clearing, his Harp of

  Forgotten Mists in his hands, he played a melody Vincent had never

  heard before. Slow, soothing, woven with something deeper than simple

  notes.

  

[Canticle

  of Recall: ACTIVATED]

  [Special Effect: Restoration of Consciousness]

  [Resistance to Transformation: +50%]

  The

  Wolf froze. Not completely—his instincts were screaming to finish

  what he had started, to eliminate the threats, to EAT. But the

  music... the music created a crack in the armor of instinct. A space

  where thought could slip in.

  Melo

  switched instruments without stopping his play—a fluid, practiced

  movement that suggested he had anticipated this eventuality. The harp

  was put away, replaced by the jaw harp, and the sound changed.

  Sharper now. More insistent. Not soothing, but... anchoring. Like a

  taut wire between the monster and the man, a lifeline thrown into the

  abyss.

  

[Anchoring

  Resonance: ACTIVATED]

  [Special Effect: Strengthening of the Self]

  [Psyché: FORCED REACTIVATION]

  [Control: Restoring]

  Vincent

  felt the Beast weaken. Not disappear—never completely—but

  retreat, like a receding tide leaving behind the debris of its

  violence. — Take back control. Take it. It’s YOUR body. Your

  will. —

  

[Psyché:

  72% → 70% → 68%]

  [Transformation: Forced regression]

  [Wolf Form:

  DEACTIVATED]

  The

  transformation reversed. The briars retracted into his skin, the

  swollen muscles deflated, the claws shortened. The void-mask

  gradually closed, becoming the familiar three black holes again—still

  unsettling, still inhuman, but at least identifiable as an

  approximation of a face.

  Vincent

  collapsed to his knees, gasping, every breath difficult as if he were

  learning to breathe for the first time. His hands—those translucent

  white wax hands with their claws and black veins—were trembling

  violently.

  — What... what did I almost do? —

  Melo

  approached slowly, the jaw harp still in hand, playing softly. His

  presence was... anchoring. Real. Human.

  — Hey. Hey, Vincent. Can

  you hear me?

  Vincent

  nodded. Or tried to. The movement was jerky, poorly coordinated.

  —

  I... they were going to... you were in danger...

  — I

  know. I know. You were protecting. It’s normal. It’s... — Melo

  searched for his words. — It’s the Wolf’s instinct. Territory,

  pack, protection. But you took back control. You listened to the

  music and you came back.

  — I

  almost killed them. I almost devoured ArrowStorm. I was a second

  away, maybe less, from... —

  

[Psyché:

  68%]

  [Status: Fragile but stable]

  [Hunger: Appeased (temporarily)]

  Vincent

  looked around. The three players were still there, still alive, but

  in a wretched state. BrutalKnight was slumped against the skin-tree,

  his Integrity bar at 12%, breathing with difficulty. NecroFlame

  clutched his mutilated arm, tears streaming down his face as damage

  notifications continued to scroll. ArrowStorm was unconscious,

  Integrity at 8%, his legs in a state that would likely require hours

  of regeneration.

  All

  three were going to survive. Barely, but they were going to survive.

  Because Melo stopped me. Because he knew what to do. Because he had

  prepared exactly the right spell to bring me back.

  Melo

  turned toward the three wounded players, his expression shifting from

  worry for Vincent to something more... professional.

  — You three.

  You’re lucky he took back control. Very, VERY lucky. Now, you’re

  going to crawl away from here, and you’re never, EVER coming back

  to this sector. Is that clear?

  BrutalKnight

  nodded feebly. NecroFlame was sobbing too hard to answer. ArrowStorm

  was still unconscious.

  — And if you tell other players there’s a

  Briar Wolf guarding this area, all the better. It’ll prevent

  other... incidents.

  The

  three players dragged themselves out of the clearing, leaving behind

  trails of blood and terror. Vincent watched them leave, his mask-face

  devoid of expression, but his mind screaming with shame and

  self-loathing.

  I liked it. For a moment, while I was the Wolf, I

  liked the violence. I liked their fear. I liked the power.

  Melo

  sat down beside him and pulled something from his bag—a translucent

  vial filled with an amber liquid that glowed faintly. — Here. It’s

  Serenity Mead. It’s expensive to make, but... I think you need it

  right now.

  Vincent

  took the vial with hands that were still shaking and drank. The

  liquid was sweet, slightly sugary, with a soothing warmth that spread

  through his chest like a campfire on a cold night.

  

[Serenity

  Mead consumed]

  [+30% Psyché regeneration (6 hours)]

  [Special Effect:

  Appeasing of violent instincts]

  [Psyché: 68% → 70%]

  They

  sat in silence for a long time. Melo said nothing, didn't judge,

  didn't condemn. He was just... there. Present. Solid. Finally,

  Vincent spoke, his voice raspy and broken: — I’m sorry. I... I

  lost control. I could have killed them. I could have put you in

  danger. I—

  — Hey.

  — Melo placed a hand on his shoulder. — You didn't kill anyone.

  You took back control. That’s what matters.

  — But

  I almost did. If you hadn't been there, if you hadn't played that

  spell...

  — But

  I was there. That’s why we’re a team. You protect me, I bring you

  back. That’s how it works.

  

[Team

  Link Reinforced]

  [Deep Harmony: +15% to all stats]

  [New Buff: Mutual

  Anchoring]

  [Effect: Increased resistance to loss of control when in a

  group]

  Vincent

  looked at the notifications, then at Melo, and something inside

  him—something that was neither the Beast nor the Hunger but

  simply... him—broke slightly.

  — Thank you. Thank you for not...

  for not giving up on me.

  Melo

  smiled, that benevolent smile that had become so familiar, so

  precious.

  — Never, Vincent. We’re in this together. And we’re

  going to get out together.

  He

  really believes in me. Despite what he just saw. Despite the monster

  I’m becoming.

  

[Psyché:

  70% → 72%]