Within the illusionary realm, a towering divine effigy crowned with a resplendent diadem loomed over the battlefield.

  It had been conjured by two mages working in unison—a technique they had never before employed. The statue’s presence exuded an oppressive aura that drastically weakened Glenn’s resistance to magic. Behind the idol, four arms extended outward, each grasping a sacred relic, every one capable of delivering a blow strong enough to rend the flesh of a fifth-tier werewolf.

  Around it, the warriors unleashed their own hidden powers, their combat prowess surging to new heights.

  The rhythm Glenn had painstakingly mastered was once again broken—he found himself pushed onto the defensive. Yet no fear stirred in his chest. This was precisely as he had foreseen.

  For as their strength grew, their coordination waned. Each warrior, drunk on newfound might, abandoned the careful synergy that had once made them formidable. Glenn had subtly led them into that very trap, feeding them the illusion that each could defeat him alone.

  A ten-meter bone whip crackled with lightning as it lashed across Glenn’s back, tearing open flesh and fur in an instant.

  He merely turned with a snarl, one clawed hand seizing the whip despite the searing agony of electricity scorching his hide. With a powerful yank, he dragged its wielder toward him.

  Just as he was about to deliver the killing blow, the shield-bearing tank roared and rammed into his side, knocking him off balance. Somehow, the man’s strength had swelled to rival even that of a fifth-tier werewolf.

  Before Glenn’s feet touched the ground, the earth beneath him rippled and twisted, transforming into a mire from which countless tentacles rose to greet him.

  Splash—

  The massive wolf’s body plunged into the swamp and vanished.

  The surface stilled soon after, eerily calm.

  Those who had been preparing to strike halted at the edge, staring in confusion.

  “Did he just… fall in?” one dim-witted brute muttered.

  “There’s no way it’s that easy! Who cast the swamp spell? Get rid of it—he’s recovering in there!” another shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

  Their eyes darted around until one of the mages began dispelling the magic. When the swamp receded, only a vast crater remained—empty, barren, not a single strand of wolf fur to be found.

  “He must have burrowed underground! Hey, you cultists—the illusion is yours, isn’t it? Force him out!”

  “Yeah! Drag him out!”

  The warriors shouted toward the crimson-robed figures standing silently upon the high walls. But no answer came—nor could it.

  Had those fools possessed a shred of sense, they might have realized that if the red-robed ones could freely control the illusion, there would have been no need for mercenaries at all.

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  A few of the mages, barely suppressing their irritation, hurried to explain this to the enraged fighters, sparing the cultists from becoming the next targets of misplaced fury.

  Then, the divine effigy at the center of the arena began to hum with golden light. Threads of brilliance wove through its form, and the entire coliseum trembled violently. Jagged fissures split the ground—and from one of them, Glenn’s body was hurled upward by an unseen force.

  Even before he could regain his footing, several attacks lanced through the air toward him.

  With no ground to anchor himself, he extended his claws, lengthening them severalfold, and swept them in a mighty arc. Most attacks were deflected, though a few ethereal strikes found their mark. Yet with his vitality restored, such wounds were trivial—his regenerative powers already knitting them closed.

  Landing on all fours, he roared. The warriors surged forward.

  Glenn slammed both claws into the cracked earth and heaved with feral might. The ground convulsed, and massive slabs of stone erupted upward, flinging the attackers off balance.

  Just then, one of the warriors’ magical auras flickered and began to fade. Glenn’s preternatural senses caught the weakness instantly. With a predator’s precision, he shifted his focus and lunged.

  Dust clouded the battlefield, obscuring the view—no time for distant spellcasters to react. Glenn closed the distance in an instant.

  A single, unadorned strike—raw, devastating power.

  The man’s body burst apart, scattering armor and gear across the dirt.

  Another comrade dead. From ten—four mages, six warriors—only four warriors remained.

  Terror flashed across their eyes, but these were veterans forged in blood and chaos. Fear did not break them—it merely tempered their resolve. The arrogance they once flaunted had vanished.

  But it was far too late. With two opponents gone, Glenn no longer needed to restrain himself.

  His strength and speed surged, overwhelming the remaining fighters before they could adapt. Though their stamina remained, they were hopelessly outmatched—crushed beneath his relentless onslaught.

  “He wasn’t even fighting at full strength before!”

  “You deceitful beast! Such cunning ill befits a true warrior!”

  “Hey, you mages! Do something! If we die here, so do you!”

  “Damn it! I still have so many women waiting for me!”

  Driven to madness, the surviving warriors raved and cursed, their composure shattered.

  At a distance, the four remaining mages struggled desperately, sweat streaming down their brows. Two hurled spell after spell at Glenn, yet their magic barely slowed him. The towering statue, once radiant and divine, began to fade—its form erased as if wiped clean from a painting. The two mages who sustained it collapsed to their knees, trembling, utterly drained.

  “You damned cultists! You tricked us! That’s no ordinary fifth-tier werewolf—how could one be this strong?”

  “I want out! Keep your gold, your promises—just let me out!”

  The remaining fighters screamed, desperate to flee, but Glenn’s strikes pinned them in place. The moment they turned their backs would be the moment they died.

  From atop the high platform, the red cocoon pulsed violently, its voice cracking with hysteria.

  “No! No, no, no—it wasn’t supposed to be like this! Why can’t you just die quietly? Why!?”

  It suddenly thrust a trembling finger toward the red-robed cultists.

  “You! You are followers of my bloodline—do something! I am the last heir of our clan! You cannot let me die! To abandon me is to blaspheme against the Dark God Himself!”

  The five crimson figures, who had stood motionless like statues, stirred. In unison, they formed a complex gesture. The illusion trembled violently, and at the heart of the battlefield, a crimson vortex—thick with blood—swirled into existence.

  The very air turned corrosive, dragging everything toward the spinning maw.

  The eight mercenaries who had survived thus far had no time even to scream before their bodies dissolved into mist and were devoured.

  Glenn’s lupine body was flayed, his skin seared away—but he unleashed his final form just in time, enduring the cataclysmic pull.

  When the crimson storm subsided, silence fell.

  The illusion faded, revealing once more the desolate square.

  Around Glenn knelt five desiccated corpses, frozen in identical poses of supplication.