Sudden Change
Loretta turned to see Asher already standing at the bedroom doorway. The five-year-old boy was unnervingly calm. "Mom, what are the Predators?" Asher asked softly.
"Demons," Loretta replied succinctly, then added, "Tragic demons."
Years later, Asher would come to understand the depth of those words. But for now, Loretta had no time to explain: "Asher, we need to leave. Take your dagger, and forget everything else!"
Mother and son grabbed their essentials and dashed out the door. A blaze erupted from the direction of the town entrance, and an explosion occurred in the nearby cottages. Flames burst from windows and doors, lifting the roofs and soaring ten meters into the air!
With the blast, a powerful shockwave knocked Loretta and Asher back into their home. They tumbled to the ground, and it took a few seconds for Loretta to shake off the dizziness. She roused Asher, who scrambled up, indicating he was unharmed. As they turned to leave again, Loretta saw figures emerging from the flames a few meters away.
They were men, but not from the town. Their bodies were painted or tattooed, and they wielded chainsaws or submachine guns, slaughtering the nearby residents. One of the men looked towards the house, locking eyes with Loretta in midair.
Gritting her teeth, Loretta rushed to slam the door shut. She dragged a table against it, barricading the entrance, then hurried back to lift a patched blanket in the corner, revealing a cellar. Normally used to store food, Loretta opened it and beckoned Asher.
Asher seemed to sense what was about to happen. Trembling slightly, he remained silent. He approached, and Loretta kissed his forehead, "Hide in here, Asher. You must survive! And with that dagger, kill your father. His name is Ares. Without him, we wouldn't be cursed with this fate!"
Asher shuddered, etching a single name into his being: Ares. Inside the cellar, it wasn't completely dark. Faint light and sounds filtered through above.
The sound of the door being battered.
Then a loud crash, as if something heavy had fallen, followed by Loretta's shouts and the sound of a handgun. Asher curled up silently. Suddenly, a violent explosion roared overhead, and scorching flames swept across the cellar. The fierce light shone on the boy's face through the flimsy wooden door.
The sound of a grenade.
That night was filled with screams, roars, and explosions. In the small cellar, Asher sat motionless, not crying, just as on the night he was born. But in his bright red eyes, a mist began to form.
And in a small corner of his young heart, something grew hard and cold.
Even the longest nights pass. When Asher emerged from the house, he saw a vast expanse of charred ground. Yesterday, the streets had been covered in white snow, but now they were laid bare, pitch black. Among the charred remains, he saw a blackened silver ring on a severed finger.
Unspeakable sorrow welled up within him, but he took a deep breath to stifle his tears.
It was Loretta's ring.
Bodies littered the streets and collapsed houses—townspeople, mostly men, but also women and children. Nearby, Asher saw Moss from next door, the boy a year his senior whom he'd recently fought. Now, poor Moss was only half a body; the other half was missing.
Asher looked up, lost. The town was devoid of life, neither survivors nor the so-called Predators remained, having left before dawn. The world was vast, seemingly boundless, yet too small to contain a boy.
For a moment, Asher didn't know where to go.
Wandering aimlessly, a breeze carrying a pungent scent brushed past him. Turning, he saw a shadow leap from the roof of a house. A loud ringing filled his head, then silence. His pupils dilated, allowing him to see the shadow was a wolf.
A wolf the size of a calf.
Its gray fur covered a powerful body, its jaws strong enough to snap iron bars, let alone Asher's neck.
This was a snow wolf, a level-one Hazardous Species that hunted in winter. An experienced hunter could handle such a creature, but Asher was just a five-year-old boy!
To the snow wolf, this was easy prey. Human flesh might not be abundant, but it was delicious. The wolf couldn't wait to taste the warm blood from the tender neck. But when it saw the boy's ruby-red eyes, now surrounded by a ring of silver-gray lines, the wolf felt fear!
It was as if the predator had encountered its natural enemy, not a tender human child.
What happened next was over in an instant.
The snow wolf didn't bite Asher's neck. As the wolf pounced, Asher instinctively rolled forward, ending up beneath the wolf. His dagger thrust upward naturally, using the wolf's own momentum to slice open a long wound in its belly.
Wolf blood, intestines, and organs spilled over the boy. When Asher crawled out from under the carcass, he was drenched in blood. Before he could recover from the shock, countless green glows appeared at the street corners, on roofs, and elsewhere.
Snow wolves, typically pack hunters, surrounded Asher. There were 23 in total.
Asher's attention was fixed on the wolves, unaware that the blood on his dagger, A Devil's Praise, had vanished.
Only dark red stains remained—the blood of the dead.
The pack didn't rush to attack. Asher focused on one wolf in particular. It was the smallest, covered in silver fur, radiating a light unlike the others.
A soft, silver-white light. Cold and deadly, like the wind at the end of autumn.
The silver wolf stepped out from the pack, circling Asher. It sniffed around him with a damp nose, and throughout, the boy remained still. Though it lasted only seconds, it felt like an eternity to Asher.
The silver wolf backed away slightly, and its mouth opened to produce human speech: "Are you afraid of me?"
Asher was beyond astonished.
The silver wolf smiled a human-like smile: "Although our bodies are different, by vibrating certain muscles, we can mimic your human voices. Haven't you ever seen this before?"
The boy shook his head honestly.
A flicker of surprise crossed the wolf's clear blue eyes before it continued, "You don't smell bad, I like you. Your kind is all dead. What do you say, will you come with me? Or become our lunch?"
"If I leave with you, will you kill me?"
"Of course not. On the contrary, I'll teach you to hunt. But if you want food, you'll have to earn it like the rest of my kin."
"Then I'll go with you." Asher didn't hesitate. He hadn't forgotten his mother's last request. He must survive, even if it meant joining the snow wolves.
Survive, to fulfill Loretta's last wish!
Thus, a young boy and a silver snow wolf left the town that had just witnessed a massacre.
"By the way, I'm called Byfang," the wolf said on the way.
"I'm Asher."
The boy hesitated, then asked, "Why spare me?"
"Because you fear me, and more so, because I am lonely..."
The world doesn't stop for anyone, and the gears of time roll on relentlessly. Five winters passed in the blink of an eye.
Dawn Era, Year 433, Summer.
A squad of soldiers moved through the woods. They were a hunting party, taking on various commissions, sometimes hunting rare Hazardous Species for profit. The hunting party was small, only three members, but they were Source Energy wielders, especially the leader, Andy, a level-nine Source Energy wielder! The soldiers were hired from nearby Gallic City for their familiarity with the local terrain.
The captain of the mercenaries, Gutt, spoke up, "Chief, we're not far from the wolf den now."
Andy glanced at him, "Captain Gutt, are you sure those damned snow wolves are around here?"
"Last month, when we conducted a routine biological survey of these woods for Gallic City, we indeed found the snow wolves' lair. If they haven't moved, we're in the right place," Gutt paused, emphasizing, "Snow wolves despise summer. During this season, they usually hide in cool caves to get through the whole summer, so the chances of them moving their lair are slim."
"Excellent." Andy leaped up, his eyes gleaming with greed, "I heard there's a silver snow wolf among them. Their pelts are worth a fortune! Looks like we're in for a windfall."
As the hunting party made their way, on the other side of the woods, a stag wandered among the bushes, its antlers elaborate like a crown, its defense. It prodded the bushes with its antlers, a precaution against hidden dangers. Once assured of safety, it began to graze, extracting water and fiber from the grass to sustain itself.
Suddenly, the stag lifted its head, then leaped gracefully at the sense of danger—an almost instinctual perception that had saved it many times before. But this time was different. A flash of silver from the underbrush, and the stag trembled mid-leap, crashing to the ground with a pitiful cry.
A sharp dagger was buried to the hilt in its neck. Fear filled the stag's eyes as it felt something being drawn from its body. It didn't die immediately, its limbs flailing weakly, unable to stand, watching its predator emerge from the shadows.