The old man’s agony seemed to come and go in a fleeting instant. His expression soon steadied as he rose from the ground, his breath ragged but composed. “These men,” he said hoarsely, “I had to kill them myself.”

  “Understood,” Glenn replied, then pointed to the hollow in the old man’s chest. “What is that thing?”

  “My contracted demon.”

  “A demon?” Glenn frowned. “The price for such a pact is said to be… steep. You—”

  “I can bear the cost,” the old man interrupted, already striding toward the direction their enemies had fled.

  What kind of hatred drives a man to such lengths? Glenn thought silently and followed without another word.

  “Was it knights… or magi?”

  Inside a crude wooden hut, a hunched figure with bony wings muttered to himself. His hair was the color of dried straw, his mouth nearly toothless, his skin cracked and weathered like parchment left under the sun. One hand rested upon a gnarled staff; before him, a cauldron of eerie green light simmered and pulsed.

  “Neither knights nor magi should’ve been able to find this place,” said a shadowy middle-aged man in plain clothes—a dark sorcerer who had once exchanged places with Murphy.

  “A pity,” the old creature sighed. “Those puppets had served me well… such a waste.” His eyes flickered. “The others haven’t returned yet, have they, Dyke?”

  “They’re still being hunted by knights,” Dyke growled in frustration. “Fools, all of them.”

  “Heh… they brought it upon themselves. Still, I’ll have to trouble you, Dyke—go and deal with our uninvited guests. Being disturbed like this is rather unpleasant.”

  “Tch. How troublesome!” Dyke snapped, pushing open the creaking door. “They’ll soon realize stepping into this place was the stupidest mistake of their lives.”

  “Old man, aren’t you afraid they’ll run off if you walk so slowly?” Glenn asked, watching the broad-shouldered figure move at an unhurried pace ahead of him.

  “They won’t run,” the old man replied with quiet confidence. “To them, we’re nothing more than reckless intruders.”

  Boom!

  A surge of purple-black mist burst from the dense forest ahead, shooting straight toward the old man.

  He dodged instantly—almost as if he had been expecting it—and the blast missed him by a hair.

  The attack veered toward Glenn.

  He tilted his head slightly, letting it pass by without effort.

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  “You’re unfortunate,” a cold, contemptuous voice echoed as Dyke emerged, cloaked in the suffocating aura of darkness. “Meeting me will be the most painful mistake of your short lives.”

  “A… fourth-tier Dark Magus?!” the old man’s tone grew grim, his face hardening with rare seriousness.

  “Is that supposed to be impressive?” Glenn asked curiously.

  “I loathe ignorant mortals like you!” Dyke roared before the old man could answer. “I, the great Dyke, Fourth-Tier Dark Magus, shall show you true power!”

  He raised both hands, chanting a spell that took shape in mere seconds. A glowing sigil spread beneath his feet, pulsing with malice.

  “Careful!” the old man shouted.

  Glenn felt a sudden sense of being locked onto—a predator’s gaze fixed upon prey. In an instant, he lowered his stance and shot forward like a cannonball, charging straight toward the dark magus.

  “Foolish!” Dyke sneered as the ground beneath them erupted.

  From the earth sprouted a young sapling that exploded in size, engulfing both men within its twisting branches.

  Glenn felt a thousand needle-like vines pierce his skin, each one drinking greedily from his veins.

  But instead of panicking, he focused—the wolfbane within him surged outward, flooding through the parasitic roots, tearing the monstrous tree apart from within.

  Dyke’s eyes widened as his creation began to crack and splinter, a thousand tiny fractures whispering their doom.

  In the next breath, the tree exploded into fragments.

  Glenn emerged unscathed—but before he could move, Dyke had already conjured another spell. Lightning coalesced into a searing whip that lashed toward Glenn’s waist.

  With a powerful kick, Glenn twisted aside, the electric chain slashing past him and obliterating a swath of forest behind. He retaliated—the fur along his right arm thickened, claws extending like obsidian blades as he slashed through the air toward Dyke’s face.

  The thunderous roar of the chain smashing trees drowned out the shriek of claw against magic barrier.

  “A werewolf? Hah! You think those feeble claws can—”

  Dyke’s mockery died mid-sentence.

  Glenn’s movements blurred, afterimages overlapping until his claws seemed to fill the magus’s entire vision.

  From the first strike, Glenn had gauged the strength of the magical barrier—it wasn’t unbreakable. All it required was persistence.

  The relentless rhythm of claw against shield filled the clearing, a torrent of metallic shrieks that made Dyke’s composure unravel.

  He poured every ounce of power into maintaining his defense, unable to cast another spell. His lack of battle experience was painfully clear—born a genius, sheltered all his life, he had never once faced a real fight.

  Even after his fall into darkness, his arrogance had shielded him from hardship. Now, that same arrogance was breaking him.

  “This… this is impossible! I’m a Fourth-Tier Magus! You can’t defeat me!” Dyke’s voice cracked as panic consumed him.

  “Is that all?” Glenn sneered. “What a pitiful child.”

  With a final, savage strike, his claws tore through the barrier. He seized Dyke’s face, covering mouth and nose, and slammed his head into the earth. Blood spurted through Glenn’s fingers.

  The old man approached slowly, studying the broken magus on the ground. “He still had countless destructive spells left unused,” he said quietly. “And yet, he fell so easily…”

  “Even if he’d used them, the result would’ve been the same,” Glenn replied, brushing the dirt from his hands. “I wasn’t even trying my hardest.”

  “Your transformation—this lupine form—does it alter your temperament as well?” The old man’s eyes narrowed, watching Glenn’s arm return to normal.

  “Who knows…” Glenn murmured vaguely.

  In truth, the old man’s thoughts ran far deeper. By all accounts, werewolves possessed only two forms: human and half-wolf. None had ever displayed such seamless, partial transformation.

  And their metamorphosis was said to be excruciating—yet Glenn’s was fluid, effortless, even natural.

  “Come on,” Glenn said suddenly. “That one wasn’t your real target, was he? Let’s move.”

  “No need,” the old man replied calmly. “Whoever it was has already fled. Of that, I have no doubt.”