Impulsive and Arrogant Enigma

In the original story, Gris proved an invaluable asset to Rowan and Rowena due to his remarkable perceptiveness. His uncanny ability to infiltrate graveyards, extracting corpses without a whisper of suspicion, honed his senses.

He transcended the awareness of his peers, skillfully sidestepping their presence as he made his way towards the exit gate. His path crossed with the twins.

This chance encounter evolved into a collaborative alliance, with Gris assuming the role of their perceptive guide, serving as both their 'ears and eyes.'

Luckily, Gris's perception remained keen even as his body fell under someone else's influence. As arrows loosed again, he discerned their origin, swiftly maneuvering to evade their deadly trajectory by finding cover in a blind spot.

"By the gods, it's those cursed elves!"

Alaric spat as he extracted the arrows lodged in his flesh with an almost casual disdain. Despite the agony of the wounds inflicted by the arrows, his body began its gradual process of regeneration, albeit at a frustratingly slow pace.

Casting a glance at Gris, he strolled over with a purpose. "You've only got a few scratches from your nimble dodges. Why keep yourself in the shadows? We could be training buddies, you know."

Gris did not respond, his steely gaze fixed ahead despite the searing pain that radiated from his injured hand. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his right palm, a testament to his reflex to shield his head from harm.

He lowered his hand, avoiding the arrowhead's fatal trajectory toward his forehead, a potential gateway to piercing his vulnerable brain.

His agile reflexes spared the rest of his body from further harm. Only his shirt bore the evidence of the attack, torn apart by the brief brush of the arrow's edge against his flesh.

He recalled Alaric's words about the elves.

It had been said that Blayz produced children to become his supporters. Among them, Alaric stood out, but he was not alone. Other children, hailing from diverse races like the elves, gained renown for their unparalleled prowess in archery.

Their masterfully enchanted bows granted accuracy and special effects upon the arrows they loosed.

Among the illustrious members of Lux's harem, there was an ethereal presence—a skilled elf who could turn the path of losing arrows.

That was what the elves of the Silverth family were trying to do right now. From where they were aiming at the target, they lost Gris and Alaric.

"They seem to have escaped," Agnes jumped down from the tree.

Sabine remained at her spot. "I'm sure they haven't left yet. They're hiding."

"Who are they to guess our exact blind spot?" Archibald, the bald youth, wondered. "They must have good intuition."

Adelina, who was shooting arrows from below, sighed. "All I see is Alaric and the boy with bright gray hair. We'd better not get any closer. We're not very good at close combat."

They plunged into intense close combat with other children, all vying to possess the coveted bows. The problem was that Alaric stood out from the other children.

"My arrows have been smeared with poison. Alaric will need time to recover," Sabine declared, her eyes scanning her siblings for their response. It was a silent question: Would they stand and fight or choose for a swift retreat?

At the same time, Gris touched the arrow stuck in his right palm, trying to control his breathing. With blood flowing heavily, he pulled the arrow gently and carefully. Then, he took off his shirt to use it to stop the bleeding.

"It's not suitable for heavy bleeding," Alaric commented on Gris's way of treating the wound.

Instead of explaining that the shirt served as a cover to safeguard the wound from contamination and mitigate the risk of infection, Gris asked, "What stayed your hand from ending me?"

"I don't know," Alaric smirked, his eyes gleaming with enigmatic amusement. "Would you dare venture a guess?"

Gris maintained a silence, refusing to engage further. Within the narrative, Alaric's character is painted as an impulsive and arrogant enigma, his thoughts shrouded in mystery.

This realization kept Gris in a state of vigilance, his grip on the dagger unyielding even as he tended to staunch the bleeding in his hand. Alaric's unpredictable nature meant he could decide to kill him at any moment.

"They're drawing near," Alaric whispered, pressing a forefinger to his lips. With his werewolf senses, his hearing was exceptionally keen.

The elves cautiously closed in on Alaric, maintaining a safe distance. They halted upon reaching a strategic spot where the trees no longer obscured their blind spots.

"I can see them," Adelina narrowed her eyes as she focused on Alaric and Gris. "The gray-haired boy is treating his bleeding while Alaric looks fine."

Sabine cursed. "His regeneration ability makes no sense."

"That's because father gave him extra medicine when he was already strong," complained Archibald, who felt it unfair that Blayz was blatantly showing his favoritism.

"Stop talking and get ready. Since we're close enough to him, we can shoot him in the heart. Look, he's shifting into a half-werewolf."

Following Agnes' command, the elves swiftly readied their arrows. Despite Alaric's extraordinary nature, his vulnerability still lay in his heart, especially considering he was not in his complete werewolf form.

The shape-shift affected only his hands, feet, and ears. Everyone in the Silverth residence knew that he was weaker when in half-form.

"I'll do it first," Adelina said before releasing her arrow. She widened her eyes as Alaric was able to dodge it. "Damn it. He knows we're here!"

The elves cursed as Alaric disappeared from their sight.

"I'm sure he's not using peripheral vision! His hearing ability must also not be as sharp as when he was in his full form."

"Maybe his abilities have improved a lot."

"Nonsense! A few days ago, I overheard our father telling Alberic he was disappointed that Alaric's abilities couldn't improve anymore."

While guessing, the elves looked around and bet on their weapons. Alaric's peripheral vision allowed him to monitor the surroundings well.

But in half-form, the sight did not function. The elves believed he needed time to find them. All they had to do was watch in silence to avoid his keen hearing.

They arranged themselves in a tight formation, each guarding a different direction, their backs pressed together for solidarity. Gripping their bows tightly, they scanned the surrounding trees intently, attempting to discern Alaric's location.

"I don't see anything strange here," Adelina reported, followed by her two sisters.

"Neither did I here."

"I've looked around and found nothing."

Archibald scrutinized each tree in front of him. Upon detecting an unusual movement, he released his arrow, reacting precisely to the slightest hint of presence.

Emerging from the shadows of a nearby tree, Alaric surged forward with astonishing velocity. Unfazed by the arrow that found its mark in his left shoulder, he remained focused on closing the distance to his intended prey.

Executing his remarkable speed, Alaric seized Archibald's leg before any chance of escape could materialize. Without lingering, he snapped the leg and hurled him to the ground.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment."

Alaric grinned, his breath heavy, as he surveyed Archibald. His expression might seem lewd or perverse to those unfamiliar with his nature.

However, the truth was far darker. He tore into Archibald's body, relentlessly attacking until his opponent lay still. Then, he sank his teeth into the elf's ears.

"Ahhh, finally! I've got elf ears for my collection!"

The remaining three elves stood frozen in terror, their bodies paralyzed as they bore witness to Alaric's merciless slaughter of their brother. Every fiber of their beings screamed for action, but a suffocating dread imprisoned them.

Humans regarded elves as magical, mystical creatures. Nevertheless, they were naturally weakened because Blayz did not release them into their proper environment.

"It would be impressive to expand my collection," Alaric mused, casting a chilling glance toward the three trembling elves.

As the elves' screams pierced the air, Gris remained focused on staunching his bleeding. He was the one who told Alaric the exact position of the elves and whispered:

"This is my humble thanks for letting me live. Take the chance to defeat the elves. Think of the envy and praise you'll get if you win. You wouldn't want to miss that chance, would you?"