Lord Of The Lost

Iris's voice echoed with authority, a blend of wisdom and regret. "Witches are a high-level race with the potential to ascend into high demons. Their power surpasses even that of the werewolves, but such strength touches upon the taboos of the dark. The leader of the witches feared this power. To avoid repeating the mistakes of the past, the witches and werewolves united to cultivate hope; something to save both clans."

Mott's eyes burned with intensity as he replied. "We poured our resources, our lives, and our very essence into creating Sofia. Her name wasn't chosen lightly. It belonged to the young daughter of the original moon, a princess of the moon kingdom who died tragically. That name is destined to rule this endless night!"

Iris's voice softened. "Mott, isn't that enough? Isn't it good that she exists?"

Mott fell silent, his thin, hunched frame trembling. At first glance, he looked fragile, barely over 1.8 meters tall, seemingly a mere shadow of the elite werewolves. Yet within this frail body surged a fury as vast as the wilderness itself.

Suddenly, his voice roared with anger. "No! This was not the plan! Sofia was supposed to be a vessel for inheritance, nothing more. The witches broke their oath; they tampered with her in the dark and secretly gave her a soul!"

Mott stepped forward, and the earth beneath him quaked violently, as if the ground itself recoiled in fear.

"Iris!" he growled.

The entire Black Forest seemed to respond as Iris's voice thundered, carrying an almost divine weight. "Mott, the magical ritual we performed together changed in ways we couldn't foresee. This wasn't the witches' doing! By the time we realized what had happened, it was irreversible. To ensure Sofia's survival, countless witches vanished into the darkness, one by one, as if pouring themselves into an endless abyss. And still, you call it a conspiracy? Wake up! If there were truly a conspiracy, the witches wouldn't have been exterminated by the werewolves. It would have been the other way around!"

Mott's eyes narrowed, his fury undiminished. "You're right, there is a problem within the witches. When the human king issued a transfer order, he forced the witches to guard the Black Forest. Do you understand, Iris? This wasn't just coincidence!"

He gestured wildly, his voice cutting through the air. "Why should we obey the humans? Can't you see their games? The king's orders sent the witches away, forcing the werewolves to follow! He played us, Iris! The humans used us; both witches and werewolves, as disposable pawns to protect their own lands from the chaos of the Black Forest!"

Mott's voice rose to a roar, his rage filling the wilderness like a storm. "Why should we sacrifice ourselves for them? This was their conspiracy! And yet, the witches chose to obey like cowards. They should have rallied their strength, struck at the human kingdom when it was weak, and destroyed it entirely!"

His voice cracked with frustration. "But it's too late! On the night of the Witch's Descent, Sofia arrived, a vessel meant for inheritance and she 'cried' like a human child. Ridiculous! A container of heritage, showing emotions! We had no choice but to kill those who stood in the way. Our claws were stained with blood, and we were torn apart by our own guilt!"

Mott's eyes locked onto the unseen presence of Iris, his voice cutting like a blade. "You, Iris, the highest priestess of the werewolves, were supposed to protect our future. Instead, you and your warriors turned your claws on your own people and abducted Sofia! Why? Because she has your daughter's blood flowing in her veins? What is it that you want, Iris?"

His roar echoed across the wilderness, and a violent wind swept through the frost-covered plains.

---

Iris's reply was calm yet firm, her words rippling through the night like a tide. "Mott, it is you who has strayed from the path. I have always protected the future of the werewolves. As long as Sofia lives, she carries werewolf blood in her veins and wields the witches' magic. She is the bridge between our two dying clans. Through her, neither the werewolves nor the witches will perish."

Mott's body began to change. His muscles swelled, his frame expanded, and in moments he transformed into a towering werewolf, his presence radiating a strength that surpassed even the strongest elites. His aura burned with pure, uncontrollable fury.

"It's too late for that!" Mott roared, his voice shaking the air. "Sofia should never have had a soul. She should never have had her own will! She was supposed to be a vessel, a tool! Ten years ago, a new template for werewolves was born, but since then, we've been trapped in this wasteland, dying of thirst for a way forward!"

He pointed toward the forest, his voice filled with bitterness. "Iris, open your eyes! Look at our people! They're starving for strength, stunted, desperate for salvation! Hand over Sofia to me. I will erase her mind and redefine the werewolves. We are no longer creatures of moonlight, we will be creatures of the night itself!"

The ground trembled violently as the sky seemed to split apart. A massive crack tore through the Black Forest, and from the depths emerged a colossal, decaying wolf claw, its size stretching tens of meters high.

It was like a hand rising from a grave, rotten yet terrifying, as if the earth itself were birthing an ancient monstrosity.

Mott's voice became a chilling growl. "As long as Sofia sleeps in my arms, no one will touch her!"

The wilderness trembled, the moon above casting shadows over the monstrous claw, as the battle for Sofia and the future of two races, loomed closer.

The Black Forest trembled as the earth cracked and sank, a chaotic symphony of nature tearing itself apart. It was as if the heavens and earth were colliding, and from the depths of the fractured ground, an enormous claw emerged; a wolf's claw, ancient and monstrous.

The edges of the forest rose and splintered under the force, trees and soil thrown into disarray. Plates of ground shifted violently, uprooting centuries-old trees like mere twigs. Then, it appeared, a decayed wolf of unimaginable size, its body stretching hundreds of meters. Soil cascaded from its frame, mingling with shattered wood and debris as the creature clawed its way to the surface.

This giant wolf dwarfed even the tallest trees of the Black Forest. Her fur, long eroded by time and soil, revealed sinewy, muscle-like tissue, still grotesquely intact. As she moved, chunks of rotting flesh fell from her body, splattering the earth below in wet, echoing thuds. Beneath the decay, her massive white ribs gleamed faintly, exposed like ancient relics. Her back arched and dipped like jagged mountains, her hollowed abdomen a thin, ghostly shell. Through gaps in her chest and ribs, a faint red glow pulsed; an ominous ember of life.

Amid the gore and decay, a delicate figure could be seen. Sophia, wrapped in her velvet red cloak, lay nestled in the rotting remnants of the wolf's chest, her small form cradled as if in slumber. The moonlight bathed the grotesque scene in a silvery glow, illuminating the wolf's towering form. Though decayed and weathered, she was still an awe-inspiring sight, her once-mighty frame now an eerie shadow of its former glory.

With a rumbling groan, the wolf lifted her neck high, rotten flesh cascading like rain. Her damaged throat whistled faintly, and her teeth, though loose and dulled by time, still hinted at their former ferocity. From above, the ruined forest formed a vast crater, the perfect imprint of where this monstrous creature had lain buried for a decade. Now, the earth and trees that once blanketed her were cast aside like a forgotten burial shroud.

This was the Wolf Lord of legend, risen once more from her grave of soil and roots. Though robbed of her connection to the moon's power, though her body was a mere husk of decay, she stood tall above the forest, letting out a haunting, primal howl.

"Woo…"

The sound reverberated across the land, shaking the trees and stirring the stillness of the night. The nearby border town quivered under the weight of her presence. Though they could not see her, every werewolf within miles felt her aura, a force like a tidal wave surging into the sky and toward the full moon.

Her massive frame rose on all fours, her decayed body defiant and regal. She was no longer merely a creature of flesh and bone, she was a mountain, a monument of death and power, standing against the night.

---

In a mist-shrouded forest far away, a witch's hand trembled. The vial of magic reagent in her grasp shattered, spilling its contents onto the ground. She whispered with dread, her voice barely audible.

"There's no saving this…"

---

In a distant magic castle, Calcifer, cloaked in shadow, turned his gaze from the direction of Snowstorm Fortress to the Black Forest. He muttered darkly, his tone grim and final.

"Dead… but unyielding."