The corrupted wolf lunged, a snarling mass of muscle and unnatural green eyes. It wasn't just a beast; the dark mana clinging to its form twisted its very essence, granting it unnatural speed and ferocity. Malrik dodged, rolling under the snap of its jaws, the sharp stone shard clutched in his hand feeling pathetically small against its bulk.
(Internal Monologue: Too fast. Much faster than a normal wolf. The corruption... it enhances them. My body is slow, clumsy compared to this. Evasion is my only option for now. Survive the initial rush. Find an opening. Where is its vulnerability? The throat? The eyes? The joints? I need to think, not just react.)
He scrambled back, narrowly avoiding a swipe of its massive paw. The claws scraped against the earth where his head had been. The air stank of sulfur and wet fur. He needed distance, space to maneuver, but the wolf was relentless, pressing its attack, forcing him to constantly retreat.
He tried a different tactic. Focusing his internal mana, he pushed a subtle wave outwards, not as a spell, but a disruptive pulse aimed at the air just in front of the wolf's face. It wasn't enough to harm it, but it momentarily distorted the air, a tiny, invisible shimmer.
The wolf hesitated for a fraction of a second, head shaking as if bothered by an invisible fly. It was milliseconds, less than nothing to a trained warrior, but to Malrik, it was an eternity. He lunged towards the beast, sliding low, aiming for the soft underbelly with his stone shard.
The shard connected, a shallow gouge that drew a yelp and a spray of dark blood. But the wolf was too quick, twisting away, its teeth tearing a ragged line across his arm as he pulled back. Pain flared, hot and searing. He gritted his teeth, focusing mana inward, not to heal, but to dull the worst of the agony, to keep his mind clear.
(Internal: Damn it! That hurt. Deeper than it feels... The mana is helping, but it's not a shield. This body is fragile. I need to end this quickly or I will bleed out. It's angry now. More predictable? Or more dangerous? It's favoring its side... aim there again.)
The wolf, enraged by the wound, charged again, less calculated this time, driven by pure fury. Malrik used its predictability against it. As it lunged, he threw the length of cordage. It wasn't a skilled lasso throw, just a desperate attempt to entangle its legs. It snagged for a moment, tripping the beast just enough.
It stumbled, giving Malrik his chance. He surged forward, knife in hand this time, aiming for the injured flank, driving the blade deep. The wolf roared, a terrible sound that echoed through the ancient trees, and thrashed violently. Malrik clung on, the animal's struggles throwing him around like a rag doll, teeth and claws scraping against him.
He felt another searing bite on his leg, a crushing pressure that made him cry out – a silent, internal cry that only he could hear. Mana flooded his limbs, giving him a momentary surge of strength, allowing him to twist the knife, seeking a vital organ.
The struggle was a blur of teeth, claws, and ragged breaths. His arm was bleeding heavily, his leg felt like fire, ribs ached from impacts. He could feel the mana reserves dwindling with the constant internal demands.
Finally, after what felt like an hour but was likely only minutes, the thrashing subsided. The wolf collapsed, a heavy weight, the unnatural green light fading from its eyes. Its breath hitched, gurgled, and then stopped.
Malrik lay sprawled beside it, panting, the scent of hot blood and spent mana thick in the air. He was a mess of dirt, blood, and throbbing pain. His borrowed knife was slick and warm. He had done it. His first kill. His first real test of combat in this body, using his unconventional power.
A small, grim sense of satisfaction flickered through him. He had faced a corrupted beast, one far stronger and faster than him, and survived. He had used his mind, his limited tools, and his hidden mana to overcome a physical superior. It was a victory, albeit a costly one.
(Internal: One down. Injured, exhausted, but alive. I need to get back, bind these wounds. Assess the damage. This wasn't sustainable. One wolf brought me to my knees. How am I supposed to face the creatures the war will unleash? This training is necessary, but it's slow...)
He pushed himself up, wincing as his injured leg took his weight. His vision swam for a moment. He glanced at the dead wolf, a dark, still shape on the forest floor. It was large, formidable, but... alone?
The thought, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of exhaustion and pain. Wolves don't hunt alone. Not pack animals like these, especially corrupted ones. They rely on numbers, on coordinated attacks.
Why was this one by itself?
(Internal: Options. It was cast out? Unlikely, given its strength and ferocity. Or... it was a scout? A diversion? A bait? The most logical answer, given their nature...)
Just as the chilling realization settled in his mind, a primitive, bone-deep instinct screamed a warning. It wasn't a thought; it was a raw, terrifying feeling, a cold shiver that ran down his spine, the kind of visceral terror that bypassed reason, a primal alarm bell from a life lived on sharper edges than this one.
He didn't hesitate. Years of accumulated instinct, honed in a different, equally brutal reality, took over. He threw himself sideways, a clumsy, desperate lunge fueled by pure survival instinct.
Something whistled past where his head had been a split second before. Not an arrow, but faster, silent. A blur of shadow and teeth.
He landed hard, rolling onto his back, scrambling away from the unseen attacker. He looked up, knife still clutched in his hand, breath catching in his throat.
They emerged from the deeper shadows of the trees, silent, spectral shapes gathering at the edge of the small clearing. Not one. Not two. A dozen or more. Corrupted wolves, larger than the first, their eyes burning with the same unnatural green fire, but this time, there was something else in their gaze.
Intelligence. And something far more disturbing. As they stepped into the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy, a sound reached him, low and guttural, but unmistakable.
Laughter.
It wasn't the baying of wolves; it was a dry, rattling sound, like stones tumbling in a hollow cavity, coming from their throats. They weren't just looking at him; they were looking down at him. Their posture, the tilt of their heads, the predatory gleam in their eyes spoke of amusement, of cruel expectation. The first wolf hadn't been a scout. It had been the lure.
(Internal: Oh, you fools. You underestimated me. You think this is a game? You think I am merely prey to be toyed with? This is not over. Not while I still draw breath. Mana... focus the mana. Every drop. This is the real test. Survival.)
Surrounded, bleeding, and exhausted, Malrik faced the pack. The laughter of the corrupted wolves echoed in the ancient forest, a chilling prelude to the fight for his life. His first kill was just the opening act. The main performance, it seemed, was about to begin.