After walking for an hour deep into the forest, his instincts caught something.
In a small clearing among the pine trees, he found it. A Shadow Wolf—a jet-black wolf as tall as an adult's waist with glowing red eyes that looked like burning embers. This monster was known for its speed, capable of tearing out a prey's throat before the prey even realized it was being attacked.
Grrr...
The wolf growled low, the fur on its neck standing up as it realized a small human was in its territory.
Calian didn't draw his wooden sword. Instead, he spread his arms wide, puffed out his chest, and baited the monster with calm arrogance.
"Come on!" he challenged. "Try to bite me. Don't hesitate."
GRAAA!
The wolf didn't waste time. It shot forward like a black shadow. Its sharp, yellow fangs aimed straight for Calian's throat.
At the crucial last second, Calian shifted his body slightly to the right. Not to dodge completely, but to change the point of impact. He let the fangs tear into his left shoulder instead of his neck.
Zrash!
Sharp, hot, stinging pain exploded in his shoulder. Fresh blood spurted, warm and red, soaking his black robe instantly. The smell of iron filled the air.
The wolf landed behind him, claws digging into the dirt, preparing to turn for a second, lethal strike.
Calian winced, his legs wobbling slightly. He grabbed his torn shoulder. The flesh was open, his collarbone visible white amidst the red blood. The pain was real, making his head spin and his vision blur slightly. But in the midst of that suffering, his lips curled into a crazy smile.
"Good!" he hissed, enduring the pain. "This is deep enough. This is the perfect fatal wound for an experiment."
As the wolf leaped again, its mouth wide open ready to finish its prey, Calian raised his intact right hand.
"Stasis."
Zing.
Time stopped completely for the wolf. Its massive body froze mid-air, fangs bared just inches from Calian's face, droplets of saliva hanging motionless like ice crystals.
Calian ignored the frozen monster as if it were just a decorative statue. He focused all his attention on his own shoulder. He placed his blood-stained right palm onto the gaping wound.
"Reversion."
A familiar cold sensation spread from his palm. It wasn't the warm, comforting healing sensation of a temple priest's light magic. This was the cold, mechanical sensation of rewinding.
Calian felt his flesh move backward, like a movie played in reverse. Severed muscles found their partners and reconnected. Ruptured blood vessels closed. Torn skin knitted itself back together. The pain was pulled out of his nerves as if it had never existed.
In three seconds, his shoulder was smooth again. Pure white without a scratch. Even the spilled blood on his robe evaporated, returning into his veins through his pores.
Calian rotated his shoulder, testing it. No stiffness. Perfect.
"Experiment successful." Calian whispered with satisfaction.
He then looked at the wolf still frozen in the air. his gaze was flat. He felt no need to kill it. He wasn't a bloodthirsty hunter without reason. He had already gotten what he wanted.
Calian walked away, moving out of the wolf's path. Once he was at a safe distance of about ten meters, he snapped his fingers without looking back.
"Release."
Behind him, a loud thud was heard as the wolf crashed to the ground because its jump momentum was cut off, followed by a confused howl because its prey had simply vanished from sight.
Calian continued walking through the forest, feeling satisfied but also increasingly empty. This power was incredible, but for what? Just to heal himself from masochistic experiments? Was this his fate? To be an eternal doctor for himself?
He walked further, his feet unconsciously leading him toward a small lake at the eastern border of the forest. That place was usually quiet, a favorite spot for deer to drink at night. But tonight, the air there felt heavy and oppressive.
The smell of blood was very strong, carried by the night wind. And the smell was different. This wasn't animal blood. It was much sharper and metallic.
Calian frowned. His instincts sharpened. This is the smell of human blood.
He slowed his pace, moving from one tree shadow to another. He approached the lake's edge carefully. There, under the bright light of the full moon, he saw a sight that made him hold his breath.
It was the aftermath of a brutal battle.
Several large trees were snapped like twigs. The ground around the bank was scorched and pitted. And most shockingly, three carcasses of Ogres—moss-green giants three meters tall—lay dead in gruesome positions. The slash wounds on their necks and chests were clean, deep, and precise.
"Ogres?" Calian thought, shocked, his eyes widening. "Who could kill three Ogres alone in this forest?"
His brother, Alaric, might be able to with the help of a squad. But the fighting style here was different. There were no traces of explosion magic or troop formations. This was the trail of a wild, fast, and desperate one-versus-many fight.
Calian's eyes swept the area quickly, looking for the winner. his gaze finally stopped on a figure lying near the water, half-submerged in mud, leaning weakly against a large rock.
It wasn't a human.
The figure wore all-black combat gear that was now tattered, revealing skin full of wounds. But what caught Calian's attention were the pointy black furry animal ears atop its head twitching weakly, and a bushy black tail lying limp on the muddy ground.
A Beastfolk, the beast-human race.
Calian's heart beat fast. In the Empire, Beastfolk weren't a banned race, but they were viewed with negative stigma and high suspicion. Their physical strength was far above ordinary humans, and their reflexes were on par with wild beasts. Because of that, many nobles were afraid to hire them, or conversely, paid high prices on the black market to make them fighting slaves or elite mercenaries for dirty work.
The presence of a Beastfolk in Larvin territory—a family obsessed with purity and human military strength—was always bad news. If his father knew, this creature's head would be chopped off by tomorrow morning.
Usually, Beastfolk wandering here were enemy spies or lost assassins.
Calian knew he should leave. He should let the creature bleed to death or report it to the border guard post tomorrow morning. That was the rational action, the safe action for someone in hiding.
But Calian's footsteps stopped. His eyes were fixed on the way the Beastfolk was lying. Alone. Surrounded by much larger enemies that were now dead. Severely wounded, alone in a foreign land, yet its right hand still gripped the handle of its black sword tightly, as if refusing to let go of its pride even at death's door.
There was a strange similarity of fate that shook Calian's heart. A resonance about fighting alone against a bigger world.
Calian sighed deeply. "Damn it!" he cursed softly.
He stepped out of his hiding place. He approached slowly, his boots making a soft squelch in the wet mud.
The Beastfolk looked young, perhaps Calian's age or a little older. Its face, half-covered by wet black hair, was deathly pale, almost gray. There was a terrible wound on its left abdomen—a large hole from an Ogre's club strike that had likely crushed some internal organs. Blood flowed heavily, dyeing the lake water dark red.
"He's dying." Calian analyzed coldly, standing over the body. "His life mana is leaking very fast. His heart is beating with its last remaining strength."