Beramund refocused his consciousness on the task at hand, pushing aside his curiosity about the variant professional for the moment. The corruption investigation required his full attention if he hoped to trace its source and understand the pattern of its spread throughout the Borov Woods.

  He methodically expanded his awareness westward, his consciousness flowing through the network of roots and branches that connected the forest's living tapestry. Each tree, each patch of undergrowth, each flowering bush became another set of eyes and ears feeding information back to his powerful soul. The process was painstaking but thorough—only by examining every corner of his expanded domain could he hope to map the corruption's true extent.

  As his awareness reached the western borders of his five-mile radius, something immediately seized his attention. A pulse of active malice moved through the woodland like a spreading stain, too focused and purposeful to be natural. Unlike the passive corruption he'd detected at other sites, this carried the unmistakable signature of hostile intent.

  Beramund concentrated his consciousness on the disturbance, drawing information from every piece of flora in the affected area. Through their collective perception, he witnessed a disturbing sight: several wolves charging through the undergrowth toward their location with unnatural speed and aggression.

  But these were no longer the magnificent predators that belonged in these woods. The corruption had claimed them completely, transforming them into grotesque parodies of their former selves. Their once-lustrous fur hung in matted clumps, streaked with the same dark ichor that had marked the bear. Patches of their hide had sloughed away entirely, revealing muscle and bone beneath that pulsed with sickly veins of black corruption. Their eyes burned with malevolent intelligence—not the focused cunning of natural hunters, but the directed hatred of creatures no longer in control of their own will.

  Most disturbing of all, they moved with coordinated purpose, their corrupted forms driven by the same malicious intelligence that commanded the blight itself.

  Beramund's eyes snapped open as he yanked his consciousness back from the nature communion with practiced urgency. The meditation ended abruptly as he rose to his feet with fluid grace, his ancient features set in grim determination.

  "Form up!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the forest quiet with unmistakable authority. "Western approach—hostile contacts incoming!"

  The scattered escort detail reacted with the swift efficiency of trained soldiers responding to clear danger. The company sergeant—one of the Tier 1 Fighters from the second squad—immediately took charge of tactical deployment, his voice carrying the crisp authority of battlefield experience.

  "Pikemen, standard file formation! Pikes and halberds to the front!" He gestured sharply toward the western tree line. "Crossbowmen, fall back twenty paces and ready for suppressive fire! Archers, find elevation—I want eyes and arrows in those trees!"

  The organized chaos of military preparation erupted around the clearing as soldiers moved to their assigned positions. Alph wasted no time scrambling up the trunk of a tall pine tree, his enhanced agility making the climb swift despite the encumbrance of his gear. He found a sturdy branch roughly fifteen feet off the ground that offered clear sightlines toward the western approaches while providing the stability he'd need for accurate shooting.

  Drawing his short bow, he nocked an arrow and settled into position alongside the Tier 0 Scout who had claimed a neighboring tree. Below them, the formation took shape with professional efficiency—a bristling wall of pikes backed by ranged support, all facing an enemy they couldn't yet see but trusted their elder druid to have identified correctly.

  The soldiers waited with bated breath, weapons ready, for whatever was charging toward them through the corrupted woodland.

  About ten minutes passed—though it felt far longer to the nervous soldiers gripping their weapons—before the first sounds of movement reached their ears. The subtle crack of twigs and rustle of undergrowth announced the approaching threat, causing everyone to shuffle restlessly in their positions as adrenaline surged through their veins.

  The first corrupted wolf burst through the western tree line like a nightmare given form, and the soldiers caught their initial glimpse of what they faced. Several men visibly recoiled at the sight—this was no natural predator, but something twisted beyond recognition. Where magnificent gray fur should have covered its frame, only matted clumps remained, streaked with dark ichor that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life. Patches of hide had sloughed away entirely, revealing muscle and bone beneath that pulsed with sickly black veins.

  Before the soldiers could fully process the grotesque state of the first wolf, they saw several more of its corrupted kin following close behind. The pack emerged from the woodland in a coordinated rush—nearly a dozen wolves that should have been acting on pure predatory instinct.

  Instead, they displayed the kind of tactical awareness that chilled the blood. Rather than charging blindly into the waiting pikes, the corrupted pack spread out and formed a half-moon formation around the clearing's western edge. Their movements were too precise, too coordinated for natural predators. These creatures were being directed by an intelligence that understood military formations and how to counter them.

  The soldiers found themselves facing not just corrupted beasts, but an enemy that could think.

  The lead wolf fixed its burning eyes on the assembled soldiers and released a bone-chilling snarl that seemed to echo with unnatural resonance. Its corrupted muzzle pulled back to reveal teeth stained black with ichor, the sound carrying a malevolent intelligence that made several soldiers grip their weapons tighter.

  "Hold the line!" the sergeant barked, his voice cutting through the tension as the pack began to move.

  The wolves launched themselves forward in a coordinated assault, their powerful legs propelling them high enough to clear the bristling wall of pikes. But the sergeant's battlefield experience showed as he immediately countered their aerial approach.

  "Suppressive fire! Now!"

  The crossbowmen loosed their bolts in a devastating volley. While several shots went wide in the chaos, enough found their marks to disrupt the wolves' leap, sending them tumbling short of their intended targets and forcing them to retreat momentarily.

  "Pikemen, advance! Drive them back!"

  The formation surged forward with disciplined precision, their weapons extended in a deadly hedge of steel points. Several wolves who had reacted too slowly or positioned themselves too close to the charge found themselves impaled, their corrupted forms writhing on the pike heads before going still.

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  But the majority of the pack displayed that same unnatural tactical awareness, scattering to either flank in an attempt to envelope the formation and attack from the sides.

  The sergeant's experience showed once again. "Archers! Cover the flanks!"

  From his perch in the pine tree, Alph drew and released with the fluid precision of his mastered Steady Aim. His first arrow took a wolf through the throat as it attempted to circle left, dropping it instantly. His second shot punched through another's skull as it tried to exploit an opening on the right flank, the creature collapsing mid-stride.

  After their coordinated assault failed to break the disciplined formation or inflict any meaningful casualties, the pack's leader released another snarl—this one carrying a note of frustrated rage. Its form began to shift and writhe, muscles bulging and bones cracking as corruption flowed through its body like liquid fire.

  Recognizing the escalating threat as the lead wolf's transformation accelerated, Beramund finally decided to intervene. The elder druid had observed the soldiers' coordinated defense with professional interest, but the corruption's ability to adapt and enhance itself demanded direct action.

  He unlatched his gnarled wooden staff from his back, the ancient weapon humming with dormant power as he brought it around in a fluid arc. With practiced authority, he drove the staff's tip down hard against the forest floor, the impact producing a sharp clang that resonated through the clearing like a bell tolling.

  Without a word, he channeled his power into the spell.

  The response was immediate and overwhelming. Thick, thorned vines erupted from the earth around the entire wolf pack, their growth so rapid and violent that the ground itself seemed to writhe. The vegetation moved with predatory intelligence, coiling around legs, necks, and torsos with crushing force that brooked no escape.

  The corrupted wolves struggled frantically against their bonds, snarling and snapping as they fought to break free, but they were utterly outmatched. The raw willpower channeling through a Tier 4 druid's abilities far exceeded anything their enhanced strength could overcome.

  From his elevated position, Alph watched the display with a mixture of awe and recognition. He had witnessed Old Man Hemlock cast the same spell numerous times back in Oakhaven, but the fluctuation of nature energy he sensed here dwarfed those demonstrations completely. Where Hemlock's Grasping Vines had been precise and controlled, Beramund's version was a force of nature itself—raw, overwhelming, and absolute.

  The sergeant, seeing their opponents completely immobilized, wasted no time capitalizing on the opportunity. "Archers and crossbowmen, take aim! Eliminate the bound targets!"

  A coordinated volley of arrows and bolts descended upon the helpless wolves, ending the threat with clinical efficiency.

  The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency in the aftermath of the brief but intense battle, their earlier tension replaced by the methodical focus of experienced fighters cleaning up after an engagement. Under the sergeant's direction, they began dragging the bound wolf carcasses into a central pile as Beramund had instructed, though several men wrinkled their noses at the stench of corruption that clung to the creatures even in death.

  Beramund knelt beside the partially transformed lead wolf, his weathered hands moving with surgical precision as he examined the creature's grotesque form. The elder druid's sharp eyes traced the patterns of corruption that had begun to remake the wolf's anatomy, searching for whatever catalyst had triggered the transformation process. His staff lay across his knees, still humming faintly with residual power from the spell that had ended the threat.

  At the back of the loose encirclement formed by the soldiers, Alph and Lukan stood watching the proceedings. The veteran hunter's face had gone pale during the battle, and his hands still trembled slightly as he cleaned his crossbow with unnecessary attention to detail.

  "Was the bear you fought yesterday like this too?" Lukan asked quietly, his voice carrying the shaken undertone of someone who'd witnessed something that challenged his understanding of the natural world.

  Alph nodded silently, his own thoughts churning as he replayed the encounter. If these creatures were acting purely on corrupted instinct, then the timing doesn't make sense, he mused, watching Beramund's methodical examination. Why haven't we encountered packs like this before now? And if there really is a mastermind controlling them, what's the strategic value in driving these creatures to their deaths against organized soldiers?

  The tactical inconsistency bothered him more than the grotesque corruption itself. Either they were missing something crucial about the enemy's capabilities, or this attack served a purpose beyond simply killing soldiers.

  Suddenly Beramund ceased his inspection and rose to his feet with fluid grace, his gnarled staff gripped firmly in his weathered hands. The change in his demeanor was immediate and unmistakable—where moments before he had been a scholarly investigator, now he radiated the focused intensity of a predator who had caught the scent of prey.

  "Come out!" he commanded, his voice carrying the absolute authority that came with Tier 4 power. The words echoed through the forest with unnatural resonance, seeming to penetrate every shadow and hiding place within the clearing.

  The soldiers immediately stopped their work and seized their weapons, heads swiveling as they searched for whatever threat their elder had detected. The nervous energy that had begun to dissipate after their victory returned tenfold, hands gripping hilts and hafts with white-knuckled intensity.

  As the echo of Beramund's command faded, his piercing gaze fixed on a spot not far from the center of the clearing. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then swirling black smoke began to coalesce in that exact location, rising from the forest floor like oil given form and consciousness.

  The smoke writhed and twisted as it took shape, gradually resolving into the silhouette of a robed figure. But where a face should have been visible beneath the hood, only more of that swirling darkness could be seen, obscuring any recognizable features in an ever-shifting veil of shadow.

  A wave of malevolent presence washed over the assembled soldiers, hitting them like a physical blow. Several men took involuntary steps backward, their faces pale with the kind of primal fear that bypassed rational thought entirely. The very air seemed to thicken with malice, making each breath an effort.

  Alph gripped his bow with crushing force, his knuckles white against the wood. But unlike his companions, the pounding of his heart wasn't driven by fear. His Slayer instincts had awakened with savage intensity, every fiber of his being screaming at him to mark this target and end its existence. The predatory urges clawed at his self-control with such violence that he had to channel every ounce of his willpower to keep from acting on the murderous impulses flooding his mind.

  The robed figure released a sound that might have been laughter, though it resembled nothing so much as metal scraping against stone. "Congratulations on your vigilance, Elder," the voice grated, each word carrying an edge that seemed to cut at the listeners' nerves.

  Beramund's grip tightened on his staff, his ancient features set in grim determination. "Stop playing hide and seek with shadow magic and face me properly, if you truly possess power worth respecting."

  The figure made a sound of amused dismissal—a soft tutting that somehow carried more menace than any snarl. "Do not resort to such childish attempts at provocation. It does not suit a Tier 4 powerhouse such as yourself."

  Beramund grunted in obvious dissatisfaction, his weathered face showing the frustration of someone accustomed to more direct confrontations. The psychological games clearly grated against his straightforward nature.

  "What is it you want?" he demanded, his voice carrying the weight of barely contained power and growing impatience.

  The question hung in the air between them, while around the clearing, soldiers held their breath and waited for an answer that might explain the corruption, the coordinated attacks, and the presence of this malevolent entity in their midst.