Fenris spat out blood as he crashed into the grass.
"Augh—" He coughed up more as his intestines slowly healed. He didn't have time to rest.
His ears twitched as he heard something descending from above.
Quickly, he rolled to evade. In his former spot, debris and dust exploded upward, briefly shielding the figure before slowly settling—revealing Beowulf, smiling menacingly, his glowing eyes and fangs fixed on Fenris.
"You're better than I thought," Beowulf said coldly.
Fenris shifted back slightly, bringing his claws out, expecting another attack.
Not that he could do much to defend against this… berserker.
Beowulf dashed toward Fenris.
Fenris clawed at him. Beowulf evaded, tackling the dark-skinned wolf and locking him in a bear hug.
Beowulf lifted Fenris into the air and squeezed.
"AAAAHHHHHH!" Fenris screamed as he felt his spine crack from the waist down.
"Damn you!" he cursed, biting down on Beowulf's neck on instinct, not caring whether the bulky werewolf lived or died.
But something was wrong. Fenris didn't feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Instead, he tasted something thick, matted with fur.
His hide. A partial transformation that only happened when the moon was out.
Beowulf squeezed tighter, causing Fenris to release his bite.
Their eyes met. Fenris showed unfathomable anguish, while Beowulf showed glee.
He was enjoying this—maybe a bit too much.
"I'll give you something to smile about," Fenris said spitefully.
He extended his claws, ready to gouge out Beowulf's eyes.
Instead, his head recoiled. His skull cracked, blood dripping down his face to his neck.
'What… what happened?' Fenris thought, dazed.
His torment was far from over.
In chaotic, unending blurs, Beowulf headbutted Fenris, his blood spilling everywhere.
"Hey!" Buck said, agitated. His claws and fangs slid out as well, and he dropped low, almost on all fours, ready to pounce at Beowulf. "That's enough!"
"Relax, Buck," Beowulf said, ending the attack. He held Fenris by the neck in one arm. Fenris' body seemed limp, his eyes rolled white, and he began muttering incoherently.
"Your friend still lives." Beowulf tossed Fenris like a ragdoll, sending him crashing far away.
Fenris spat out his old teeth as new ones grew in. His skull mended, and his consciousness slowly returned.
Reluctantly, he rose, staring ragefully at Beowulf.
Their entire fight had been like this. Fenris had barely managed to get a hit on Beowulf.
Beowulf may have seemed like a brute, and he was. But his fighting style revealed more.
He had had enough.
"What's the point of all this!?", Fenris screamed, frustrated. "You're just beating me to a pulp for no reason."
"You are wrong," Beowulf said boldly. "This training is to see what kind of fighter you are."
"I would say you're slightly below average."
"Below average?" Fenris said, pissed, unsure why.
His fighting abilities weren't something he had ever taken pride in. But still, he had won his fair share of fights. His lycanthropy had been heavily involved in them, but he still won.
Beowulf approached Fenris, not running but walking slowly, and yet somehow his movements were still intimidating.
'How does he do that?' Fenris thought, backing away, fangs and claws ready.
Fenris recalled when the two first struck each other—they hadn't.
Beowulf had grabbed him by the wrist and delivered a devastating punch over and over again.
That was their entire battle so far. Beowulf had a combined fighting style of grabbing, locking, and attacking.
Quite the annoyance—one Fenris saw no way to counter.
He thought back even further.
'Have I ever faced a hunter like this before?'
As much as he tried to search his memory, he couldn't find anything. Beowulf wasn't just large and strong—he was also extraordinarily quick.
Too quick for a werewolf, even one under the moonlight.
A memory popped into his mind. Actually, two memories that could be used as a reference.
He had fought two hunters, not at the same time or place, but each had a characteristic Beowulf possessed.
A Faith mage worshiping a god of strength, and a hunter using runed armor for immeasurable speed.
Beowulf dashed towards Fenris.
A luminescent vision of the Faith appeared right next to Beowulf, synchronized.
Fenris crossed his arms into an X.
He didn't crash. Instead, he skidded across the grass.
He felt a numbing sensation in both arms—they were broken.
Like the unrelenting monster he was, Beowulf's strikes continued toward Fenris.
Each blow, harder than the last.
Or maybe that was Fenris' pain worsening despite his healing.
Beowulf's strikes didn't just come from Fenris' front.
Left, right, back, front.
All over, never-ending—haphazardly, Beowulf's punches landed everywhere.
Memories flashed through Fenris' mind of the runed armored knight.
Their attacks had almost hurt as much as Beowulf's hits.
He couldn't dodge them, but he could wait for the right moment to strike.
Beowulf punched—
"Now," Fenris thought, excited.
Fenris swiped.
Lines of red appeared on Beowulf's chest, halting him for just a moment.
Fenris swiped again and again, rageful and violent.
"AAAAHHHHH!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Beowulf backhanded Fenris.
He rolled but quickly stood on all fours, growling at his aggressor.
Fenris looked different from usual. The sides of his face were covered in grey fur shaped like a mane. His eyes glowed, more narrowed. More fangs elongated—not just his incisors—and his dark curly hair turned into rough grey fur, extending far beyond his neck.
"Took him long enough," Buck commented with a sly smile.
Fenris' senses clashed—human vs. beast, instinct vs. intellect.
He hadn't slipped into this form earlier, despite the moon being out, in order to retain his sanity.
But Beowulf's constant beatings and attacks had pushed him to this. Whether it was his choice or the wall slowly crumbling down, he wasn't sure.
Still, in this form, Fenris didn't attack Beowulf just yet.
His senses may have been fighting over which would take control, but they both agreed on one thing: Beowulf was dangerous, even injured.
Beowulf ran his fingers over the claw marks on his chest. They weren't deep, but they were plentiful—and they weren't healing.
An effect of werewolves using their claws and fangs when fighting one another.
Beowulf chuckled, then laughed loudly.
"Wonderful! Wonderful! Your first successful strike against me."
"And your last," he voiced, deeper.
Fenris' fur stood on end, but the animal in him refused to show fear. He growled threateningly at Beowulf.
Beowulf simply smiled, as if he were watching a puppy trying to seem more deadly than it really was.
"Your assessment is over, Fenris. I know what kind of fighter you are now."
Fenris' eyes shot up. His human mind felt relief that it was over; however, the beast in him refused to drop its guard or attention. The intimidating aura from Beowulf hadn't disappeared.
"However…" Beowulf continued, grinning sadistically. "I think it's appropriate I show you a glimpse of what your training will be."
Beowulf closed his eyes and let his inner beast overtake him.
Fenris' sensitive ears picked up the faint sounds of bones cracking.
Beowulf enlarged to nearly twice his size. Dark patches of fur spread across his body, similar to Fenris'. His claws were longer and sturdier.
Beowulf was already a figure one would consider a giant in height. Now he looked like a giant from nightmares.
Beowulf roared, and it was thunderous.
"What the hell is that?" Fenris said, absolutely terrified.