Realizing there was no way to dodge, Glen’s arms fully transformed into those of a werewolf—swelling with power—as he met the descending blade with his bare hands.

  The massive sword crashed down, only to be caught between two clawed palms. The force transmitted through the weapon made Glen’s expression harden. Even a fourth-tier knight would crumble before his current strength, yet the pressure he now felt revealed the terrifying might of this spell.

  The black ichor dripping from the shattered greatsword hissed with venomous corrosion, searing his skin with pain. But within less than a second of being stopped, the formidable magic dissolved completely. Clearly, its duration was brief—a single devastating strike, and then nothing.

  Black Sword’s eyes bulged wide in disbelief at the sight. But his shock quickly turned to panic as he realized he had struck an iron wall. He began a rapid incantation, summoning the Windborne Spell to flee.

  Glen, however, would grant him no such chance. The instant the phantom sword vanished, he lunged forward.

  Before Black Sword could finish his chant, Glen was upon him.

  “Darling, save me!”

  The eerie black raptor on his shoulder shrieked and shot forth, its form expanding midair until it grew to the size of a griffin. With a thunderous roar, it opened its beak wide toward the onrushing Glen.

  “What in the world—?”

  There was no foothold in the air for Glen to dodge. He shot straight into the creature’s maw, vanishing within.

  One step—and into the stomach.

  The raptor’s beak snapped shut. Instantly, its body shrank back to its original size and fluttered obediently to Black Sword’s arm.

  The old gentleman smoothed his coat, a smirk tugging at his lips— Then the bird convulsed violently. A moment later, a clawed arm burst from its chest, impaling straight through and driving into the mage’s heart.

  The arm grew in size as it emerged, until the wolfish talon that pierced through Black Sword’s back was full-sized.

  The mage coughed blood, eyes wide with disbelief and desperate hunger for life—then crumpled, lifeless.

  Glen tore his way free from the mangled bird’s corpse, his body shrinking back to human form.

  And here I was hoping I wouldn’t need to change clothes this time… he thought wryly, shaking off the blood and stomach fluids clinging to him.

  Having witnessed their strongest ally die so grotesquely, Snoke and the remaining three mercenaries were paralyzed with terror.

  “I—I understand now. We never should’ve crossed you, friend. It was all a misunderstanding! Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen. Honestly, I’ve never liked those fools from the Punk family anyway. Let us go, and I swear we’ll cut all ties with them! You’ll never see us again!”

  Snoke’s ability to yield when the situation turned dire served him well; his earlier fury evaporated as he groveled for mercy. The other three mercenaries followed his lead, each stammering promises and desperate bargains.

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  Glen said nothing. He simply walked toward them, step by step.

  When they saw he wasn’t responding, Snoke’s eyes hardened—he gave a discreet signal. The others understood immediately.

  Just as Glen neared them, Snoke hurled a strange-looking sphere to the ground.

  Boom!

  A muffled explosion erupted into a dense black smoke that blanketed the clearing.

  Glen halted.

  The next instant, a dagger wreathed in magic burst through the haze, aiming straight for his throat.

  With a casual motion, Glen swatted the weapon aside, then reached into the smoke and grabbed hold of something solid.

  He yanked out a muffled mercenary who struggled furiously—until Glen silenced him with a single punch that shattered his skull.

  As the smoke began to clear, the remaining three charged in from different angles.

  Glen stepped forward, seized one man’s weapon mid-swing, and swept both blade and wielder aside. Using that momentum, he pivoted and drove a kick into another attacker.

  Two bodies flew through the air; the third’s neck snapped beneath his hand.

  The ones thrown—Snoke and the curved-blade fighter—hit the ground hard and scrambled to flee.

  It was useless. Glen caught up in an instant and ended them both with a claw through the heart.

  And thus, every assailant that had come for him perished before dawn.

  He searched their corpses, pocketing anything of value. The mage’s belongings, especially, held many strange artifacts—all of which he kept.

  The only disappointment was the absence of any spatial storage ring. Whether such things didn’t exist in this world, or the mage simply didn’t carry one, Glen couldn’t tell.

  He turned toward Nighthowl, lying nearby with its tongue lolling weakly.

  The beast was gravely wounded. A closer inspection showed the injuries were healing slowly but not fatally. Glen allowed himself a breath of relief.

  “You’re rather fragile, aren’t you…” he muttered.

  Nighthowl whimpered softly, eyes filled with helpless apology.

  Glen crouched beside it and pressed a finger into one of the still-unhealed wounds.

  After a moment’s silent observation, he withdrew it and sighed. “As I thought—no good.”

  The werewolf venom within Nighthowl isn’t mine to command. Forcing a replacement might kill it… he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  Finding no safe way to strengthen the creature, Glen finally gave up for now. “Rest here and recover. When I discover a method to empower you, I’ll make it happen. For now—clean up the bodies.”

  With that, he departed.

  Fortunately, Nighthowl had chosen to fight far from the pigpen, leaving it untouched. Glen was pleased—he’d be sure to reward the beast generously in the future.

  ———

  Morning came.

  A persistent knock roused Glen from sleep. He rolled out of bed and opened the door to find Tia standing there.

  “Mr. Glen, Master Laville and the elf have been asking me to wake you. They said they’re waiting for your instructions. I’m so sorry to disturb your rest.”

  Rubbing his tousled hair, Glen replied, “It’s fine. Tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

  The little maid curtsied and left.

  Closing the door, Glen ran a hand over his face and hair. Thanks to the werewolf venom, he could freely control his body hair, so he never worried about shaving or haircuts.

  Still, his hair always got messy while sleeping. After a moment’s thought, he shortened it—cropped just a little longer than a crew cut.

  “No mirror… guess I’ll never know if it suits me,” he murmured.

  He washed his face, then headed downstairs.

  Laville sat in plain commoner’s clothes, gazing absently at the ceiling. Gotaia leaned by the doorway, staring into the morning light.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, my employees,” Glen said, his tone lightly teasing. “Come with me—I’ll assign your duties.”

  “Employees?” Gotaia frowned, finding the term distasteful. Laville, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind.

  Glen led them to the pigpen, explaining to the elf girl the same tasks he had once given Laville.

  The moment Gotaia saw the place, she wrinkled her nose. When she heard the details, she sprang up indignantly.

  “You—you expect a great elven warrior like me to do this?”

  “What of it?” Glen shrugged. “Can a warrior not raise livestock? I’m stronger than you, yet I do it all the same.”

  “Stronger than me?” she scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Killing a few mercenaries doesn’t make you powerful. If I hadn’t been trapped, they’d never have stood a chance against me!”

  “Then how did you end up captured?” Glen asked, looking at her as though she were an idiot.