There were few signs of struggle at the scene, suggesting that both Night Howl and Miss Gotaya had been subdued in an instant. No trace of their blood lingered in the air—they were still alive. Glen, regaining his composure, swiftly analyzed the situation.

  Without another moment’s pause, he dashed toward his home.

  The moment he neared his house, his keen senses caught the scent and number of intruders. He also saw Night Howl lying outside, bound like a mummy. Only three? he thought in surprise.

  For just three men to overpower both Night Howl and Gotaya spoke volumes about their strength.

  At that same instant inside the house, the three men were rummaging through his belongings, plundering like bandits. But suddenly, all movement ceased—they turned simultaneously toward the door.

  “Well, it seems the master of the house has arrived,” the leader said with a low chuckle, signaling to his subordinates. One of them understood immediately, hoisting the two hostages onto his shoulder and stepping out the front door.

  As the door opened, the two sides came face to face.

  Glen stood silently, his gaze cold and still as a stagnant pool, watching them file out of his home one by one.

  “Well, well… so you’re the one who killed two of my men? You don’t look the part,” the leader drawled, his tone dripping with arrogance. “And yet—you seem rather pleased with yourself, my friend.”

  Glen didn’t reply. His eyes shifted toward the captives; confirming they were unharmed, he turned to Gotaya. “Miss Elf, didn’t you claim to be formidable? How did you manage to get caught again?”

  Gotaya’s eyes blazed with fury as she twisted against her bonds, desperate to speak—but the gag clamped her mouth shut, rendering her words inaudible.

  Ignoring the indignant elf, Glen looked to Tia, whose tear-filled eyes met his. “Don’t be afraid, Tia. I’m here. They won’t lay a finger on you.”

  His calm assurance washed over her like sunlight through storm clouds, and her fear began to fade.

  The leader’s face darkened at being so blatantly ignored. “Hey, brat,” he growled, “do you even know who you’re talking to? What’s the matter—get a taste of werewolf power and suddenly think you’re invincible?”

  Glen’s gaze flicked to him. “You talk too much.”

  Before the words had even left his lips, the furious leader lunged forward, a punch driving straight toward Glen’s face. Glen tilted his head slightly, dodging the blow, then bent his arm and countered—a solid strike to the stomach.

  The man spat bile as his body was sent flying backward. “Boss!” his two subordinates cried in alarm.

  The leader raised a hand, signaling them to stay back. After two or three seconds, he broke into a strained laugh. “Hah… impressive. I didn’t expect such power from a low-tier mutt like you. Tell me—was it Baggins? Or Dodori? Whoever turned you should be proud.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Before he could finish, a stone whistled through the air and struck him squarely between the legs. A wave of indescribable pain surged through him as he clutched his groin with a muffled groan.

  “Idiot,” Glen said with mocking calm.

  “You’ll die for that!” the leader roared. The agony faded quickly—werewolves healed fast—but the rage that followed was all-consuming.

  Dropping to all fours, he exploded forward, tearing up the earth beneath him as he launched like a cannonball toward Glen.

  Most werewolves were creatures ruled by emotion, their savagery evident even without transforming. Seeing their leader lose control, the two subordinates instinctively stepped back.

  Faced with such a wild, primitive assault, Glen only sneered in contempt. He twisted—spun—then delivered a powerful upward kick.

  Boom! His heel crashed squarely into the attacker’s jaw.

  The leader’s head snapped back as his body was flung once more across the street. Glen absorbed the recoil with a few effortless backflips before landing lightly on his feet.

  The other man skidded along the cobblestones, blood spilling from his lips as he finally staggered upright. “Impossible!” he bellowed. “A mere low-grade werewolf—defeating me?! I’m a fourth-tier!”

  Driven by disbelief and rage, he hurled himself at Glen again—punches, kicks, grappling wildly. The gray-haired leader fought like a beast relying solely on brute force, while Glen’s movements were fluid, efficient—artistry in motion.

  To the two subordinates watching, it looked almost comical. How could their boss—their boss—be toyed with like a child’s plaything? Was this really happening?

  The hostages saw it differently. Tia’s face shone with joy and relief, while Gotaya watched as though witnessing a masterpiece unfold before her eyes. What magnificent technique… such elegant precision… how utterly beautiful! she marveled inwardly.

  The battle raged on. The leader’s body was now covered in bruises; each wound healed only to be reopened moments later. At last, unable to bear the humiliation, he leapt back with a snarl. “Enough! I’ll tear you to pieces!”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than his expression twisted in pain. Bones cracked and shifted beneath his skin, gray fur sprouting across his body. In moments, he had transformed into a towering gray werewolf.

  Glen watched, eyebrows raised. “That transformation of yours… looks more like childbirth than power.”

  But the beast no longer understood words—only the burning urge to kill. He let out a thunderous roar that shook the nearby houses.

  Feeling the surge of raw energy radiating from his foe, Glen’s demeanor grew serious. At equal rank, few could rival a werewolf’s sheer strength and ferocity; even knights famed for power dared not face them head-on.

  Since he lacked magic, Glen knew he had to meet force with force. He stripped off his shirt—and in the blink of an eye, his body shifted.

  First-stage transformation.

  A gryphon knight had once described this form as that of a third-tier werewolf—one level below the leader. But Glen found it more than sufficient.

  The smoothness of his transformation left the two subordinates stunned, their minds teetering on disbelief. Was this still the same world they knew?

  The two beasts collided with a deafening crash, their fight now a storm of claws and blood. Yet once again, the outcome was the same—the leader was being utterly overpowered.

  The transformed battle was fiercer by far—blood splattered in crimson arcs through the air, every drop belonging to the leader.

  Silver-lined claws slashed in dazzling flashes, and the feral roars shook the air like thunder. Under Glen’s merciless control, the leader’s body seemed no longer his own—a puppet repeatedly torn apart.

  Finally, the two subordinates realized what was coming. If this continued, their leader would fall—and when he did, their own fates would soon follow.

  With grim resolve, they too underwent the agonizing change—transforming into werewolves slightly larger than Glen, yet smaller than their leader—and hurled themselves into the fray.