As chaos engulfed the village, a lone figure stood undisturbed near the ruined church. Cloaked in black robes, his presence radiated an unnatural stillness, as if he was merely observing rather than participating. His hood concealed most of his face, but his lips curled into a slight smirk.
His gaze swept over the battlefield—the werewolves rampaging, the knights struggling to avoid killing them, and Leonhardt carving a path through the madness.
"Fascinating…" His voice was smooth, almost amused.
With a flick of his wrist, his fingers danced through the air, tracing invisible runes. As he moved, several werewolves jerked unnaturally, their bodies convulsing before charging again with renewed aggression.
He was controlling them.
Then, his eyes locked onto Leonhardt.
"Let's see how far you can go."
---
Captain Muller, sword in hand, scanned the battlefield. The werewolves kept coming, and though they were still resisting the transformation, their movements were growing more feral.
He clicked his tongue. This wasn't sustainable.
"Reiner! Garrick!" he barked. "Focus on knocking them out! I don't want unnecessary bloodshed!"
The two knights exchanged glances before nodding.
Reiner parried a claw strike and swiftly slammed his shield into the werewolf's skull, knocking it out cold.
Garrick, using his sheer strength, dodged a charging werewolf and caught it mid-motion, locking its arms behind its back before slamming it into the ground. Another lunged at him, but he simply sidestepped, using his gauntlet-covered fist to deliver a crushing blow to the ribs, knocking the air out of it.
Their priority was not killing—but neutralizing.
Meanwhile, Captain Muller tightened his grip on his sword, cutting down incoming attacks with precise, controlled movements. His role was to hold the frontline.
But then—
His sharp eyes caught Leonhardt pushing forward, dodging past the werewolves instead of fighting them. His target was clear.
The robed figure standing near the church.
Captain Muller made a quick decision.
"Leonhardt, go! Take him down!"
Leonhardt gave a firm nod before sprinting ahead.
---
Leonhardt's Advance – Cutting Through the Storm
The moment Leonhardt broke formation, a werewolf lunged straight at him.
He ducked under a claw swipe, using his momentum to slide past.
Another beast charged from the side—Leonhardt pushed off the ground, flipping over it mid-air.
A third snapped its jaws at him—he twisted his body just enough to avoid the bite before landing.
Every movement was precise, calculated. He wasn't fighting them—he was flowing through them.
The robed figure watched with interest.
"You refuse to strike them down… how naive."
Leonhardt ignored him.
With a final burst of speed, he closed the gap and slashed straight at the enemy's chest.
But—
The blade hit nothing.
The robed figure blurred—his body shifting as if he had never been there.
Leonhardt's eyes narrowed. Not teleportation… something else.
---
Leonhardt vs. The Figure
"You'll have to try harder than that," the figure chuckled.
Leonhardt lunged again, this time feinting his attack before twisting mid-air. His blade adjusted at the last second, predicting the enemy's movement.
And yet—he still missed.
The air rippled around the enemy's body, like a mirage shifting out of place.
Before Leonhardt could react, dark tendrils erupted from the ground, aiming straight for him.
Leonhardt flipped back, slicing through them in midair. The tendrils dissipated into black smoke, but more replaced them instantly.
This isn't good. The longer this dragged on, the more mana the enemy could channel.
Leonhardt's mind raced. He needed an opening.
Then—
A silver flash cut through the battlefield.
---
Sylvaine's Arrival
Before the enemy could react, a dagger sliced through his sleeve, barely missing his arm.
Leonhardt's eyes widened. That technique—
"Tsk… I can't leave you alone for five minutes, huh?"
Sylvaine landed beside him, twirling her dagger in her fingers. Her golden eyes burned with focus.
The robed figure frowned, gripping his wounded arm.
"You—!"
But Sylvaine didn't wait for him to finish.
She raised her dagger, mana crackling around the blade as she enchanted it.
Leonhardt noticed something strange—this wasn't normal enchantment. The blade pulsed, carrying something… extra.
Then—
She vanished.
For the first time, the enemy looked startled.
Sylvaine reappeared behind him—her dagger slicing clean through his wrist.
"ARGH—!!"
The moment the severed hand hit the ground—
Every werewolf in the battlefield collapsed instantly, unconscious.
Leonhardt's sharp eyes darted to the cut-off hand.
A dark, pulsating seal was embedded in the flesh.
The werewolves… they were linked directly to him.
Sylvaine flicked the blood off her dagger, clicking her tongue. "You're lucky I only took the hand."
The enemy gritted his teeth, pain and fury mixing in his expression. But before he could react—
Leonhardt moved.
He grabbed the enemy's shoulder.
Twisted his body down.
And slammed his knee into the back of his neck, forcing him onto the ground.
The fight was over.
Leonhardt and Sylvaine exchanged glances before tying him up.
Now, it was time for answers.
The night was far from over.
Leonhardt, Sylvaine, and the remaining knights stood in silence as the special unit arrived—a group of elite enforcers clad in black armor, their insignias bearing the emblem of the Aurelis Kingdom's intelligence division.
Without hesitation, they took custody of the robed figure, his severed hand carefully placed in a containment box inscribed with sealing runes. He was barely conscious, his breathing ragged from the wound Sylvaine had inflicted.
"Transport him to the royal prison," the unit's commander ordered, his voice firm.
Leonhardt and Sylvaine exchanged glances but said nothing. They had done their part. Now, it was time for answers.
---
Royal Prison of Aurelis – The Interrogation
A cold, dimly lit chamber. The air smelled of damp stone and iron.
The robed figure sat on a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles shackled in enchanted restraints. His black robe had been removed, revealing his thin yet unnervingly composed frame. His purple eyes flickered with something unreadable, and his jet-black hair fell messily over his pale face.
Across the table sat an inquisitor—a high-ranking interrogator of the Aurelis Kingdom, donned in silver-trimmed black robes. Leonhardt and Sylvaine stood behind him, observing.
"State your name," the inquisitor demanded.
The man remained silent. His gaze shifted slightly, studying the room rather than responding.
Sylvaine's patience wore thin. She stepped forward, slamming a dagger into the table.
"We don't have time for games. Who are you?"
Still, the man said nothing. But then—
A low chuckle.
He tilted his head, looking directly at Leonhardt.
"You think you've won… but you haven't stopped anything. They will come and make the king regret!"
Leonhardt's eyes narrowed.
"Who are 'they'?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.
The man's smirk faded. His fingers trembled slightly against the restraints.
"They…"
He barely got the word out before a violent cough racked his body.
Blood splattered onto the stone floor.
The inquisitor's eyes widened. "What's happening to him?!"
The prisoner gasped for air, his body convulsing. More blood poured from his mouth, staining his chest and the floor beneath him.
His purple eyes darkened. His breaths turned ragged.
Leonhardt took a step forward. "Shit—he's been cursed!"
The prisoner's body stiffened. One final, shuddering breath—and then stillness.
Dead.
Silence filled the chamber.
Sylvaine clenched her jaw. "Damn it."
Leonhardt stared at the corpse, mind racing. Whoever 'they' were—they had just silenced their own man.
This was far from over.
End of Chappter 12.