Lord Of The Lost

William shook his head, his hearing slowly returning after the deafening roar that had nearly destroyed him.

The moon loomed larger in the sky, its silver light dominating the heavens and blocking out half the stars. It seemed impossibly close, as if it were descending toward the earth itself.

But this was no cause for alarm to the world's inhabitants, it was simply the way of Full Moon Night.

The wind howled, carrying the scent of blood and decay across the battlefield, where corpses and broken bodies littered the ground.

William rose to his feet, his body covered in dust, his breaths ragged. He stepped forward, planting a foot gently on Sophia to keep her from crawling toward Iris.

Despite his disheveled appearance, a spark of determination ignited within him. His lips curled into a smirk, and for the first time, his spirit flared.

He laughed loudly, his voice defiant against the overwhelming despair.

"Come on, then!"

Shattered pieces of his dragon scale armor reassembled on his body, glowing faintly as they took form.

Before the towering, undead Wolf Lord, William stood insignificantly small, but his courage burned brighter than ever.

William's laughter echoed briefly across the battlefield before being swallowed by the vast wilderness. Yet, there was no hint of retreat or fear in his voice, only raw defiance and an untamed spirit.

Mott's voice rumbled, low and knowing. "Ah, I see it now. You're one of those 'players.' And the one who became a werewolf... you call him the Butcher, don't you? Fitting name."

He continued, his tone calm, almost conversational, though his words carried a chilling weight.

"I never used to concern myself with newcomers. For five centuries, werewolves have struggled. Our strength has waned, and fresh blood has been hard to come by. But now... now I pay closer attention."

Mott's exposed skull gleamed under the pale moonlight as he stepped forward.

"After my brother Mutu died, his corpse was used by Roca to create a pure-blooded werewolf. But recently, Roca did something strange; he gave his wolf blood to a human. He said this human's body was uniquely suited to becoming a werewolf. Perhaps even capable of rising to 'my' level someday."

Mott's voice dipped into a growl. "So I met him, the Butcher. At first, he was reluctant to speak, but werewolves are pack creatures. We are bound by hierarchy. No werewolf can disobey the orders of the Wolf Lord."

He paused, as if savoring the memory. "I explained this to him, and eventually, he told me everything. About the sequential game. About other worlds. About 'players' like you."

Mott leaned closer, his tone a mix of curiosity and menace. "You come from a distant world. You are not real; mere illusions. To you, death is nothing more than a brief nightmare, not a final descent into oblivion.

"It surprised me at first, but the extraordinary and mysterious world is always beyond comprehension. Even the Wolf Lord must approach such things with humility."

Mott's hollow sockets seemed to gleam as he fixed William with a piercing gaze. "I smell the Butcher's blood on you. So, you killed him?" He chuckled darkly. "I'm not surprised. Nor am I saddened. He'll be back in a few days. But tell me, did he swear vengeance before he died? Did he curse your name?"

William snorted, his voice sharp. "How can you be so sure the Butcher will return?"

Mott's expression didn't change, his tone steady. "Oh? He can't return? Perhaps you killed the real Butcher in your world. Or perhaps you've merely delayed him. But you don't have the power to erase him completely, not yet."

William stared coldly at Mott, his blank expression hiding the storm of realization within.

The Wolf Lord wasn't just a brute. He was far more cunning and perceptive than William had anticipated.

Mott's voice took on a mocking edge. "You stand before me with such fearlessness, convinced you're untouchable because you're just an illusion, a phantom. You flaunt your bravery and faith, thinking death is a temporary inconvenience.

"But if you knew I could wound your 'true' self, destroy your soul and cast you into a place where even you cannot recover; would you still be so bold? Would your legs not tremble? Would you not break under the weight of real fear?"

Mott's words hung in the air, heavy with menace.

"Your path is shrouded in fog, full of secrets I can almost see. Hand over Sophia, and I might just let you walk away from this."

William remained silent, his gaze locked on Mott's towering, grotesque form. The Wolf Lord's exposed bones gleamed in the moonlight, his melting flesh dripping like tar.

For a brief moment, doubt crept into William's heart. The overwhelming power of the Wolf Lord pressed down on him, threatening to crush his resolve.

Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, William shattered the silence.

"I am alone! I have lived gloriously, and I will die gloriously!" he shouted, his voice echoing with fierce determination.

"I will not be bound by rules in life or in death. I will never live in vain!"

Under the bright moon, the disheveled young man roared like a beast and charged forward with unrelenting fury.

Mott barely moved. With a simple swipe of his paw, the Wolf Lord struck William mid-air.

Crack!

William's armor shattered instantly, fragments scattering like broken glass. Blood sprayed from his body, painting the battlefield under the pale moonlight.

The wind howled as William fell to the ground, his broken form lying still amidst the desolate wilderness. The bright moon watched silently, its cold gaze unyielding.

Bang!

William's battered body hit the ground with a sickening thud, his cracked skin shattering like fragile porcelain. Blood splattered across the dirt as he landed just inches from Sophia, his broken form a pitiful sight.

[Hint: You are cursed by the Wolf Lord]

Mott sneered coldly. "You don't know when to give up, do you?"

William, coughing violently and spitting blood, lay on the ground in agony. Yet his laughter persisted, loud and defiant, as if mocking his own plight.

Sophia stood frozen, her wide eyes locked on the scene.

"Mott," came a raspy voice.

The Wolf Lord turned sharply. Sophia's trembling voice was not the source.

It was Iris.

From her shattered remains, her half-skull lay still, the broken jaw quivering as if speaking through sheer will.

"Bullying a child doesn't make you brave," she said. "Your time is over."

Mott's gaze narrowed. Despite his towering power, an uneasy chill crept over him as Iris spoke.

"What are you saying, Iris?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"Look at the moon," she whispered.

Mott instinctively turned his gaze upward.

The full moon loomed impossibly large, its silver glow dominating the sky. It hung so low it seemed it might touch the earth at any moment.

"What trick is this?" Mott's voice cracked slightly, a flicker of fear breaking through his defiance.

Iris's voice, faint but steady, continued. "For ten years, I have guarded the Black Forest. For ten years, I have endured and weakened. Do you think you defeated me so easily by your own strength? No, Mott. You survived because of this moment."

Mott growled, irritated, though he couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him.

"You fought against the inevitable, Iris. And now you will pay the price for meddling in forces far beyond you," he said, trying to regain his composure.

But the unease deepened.

It felt as if the air itself had thickened, growing heavy and sticky. Even the wild winds of the wilderness had vanished, leaving an eerie stillness.

Mott suddenly froze. His sharp instincts screamed danger.

The wind was gone.

If his fur hadn't already been burned away, every strand would have stood on end.

"Iris!" he roared, his voice tinged with panic. "What have you done? What is happening?"

The fear in him rose like mercury in a boiling thermometer.

"The night of the full moon," Iris said softly, her voice frail yet unyielding, "is a time of judgment."

Her words carried the weight of inevitability, the finality of a death knell.

"Only on this night," she continued, "can the forbidden power of the Black Forest weaken enough for me to regain even a shred of control."

Mott's disbelief turned to fury. "You're saying the Moonlight Goddess is watching? Nonsense! I refuse to believe it!"

"You don't have to believe it, Mott," Iris rasped. "But the magic tides that swell on a full moon… they are real. They've always been real. And they cannot be stopped."

Mott's frustration boiled over. "Enough riddles! Speak plainly!"

Iris chuckled weakly, the sound chilling in its resignation. "Mott, did you truly believe I could hold back the Black Forest alone? Did you think my burial here stopped the spread of its forbidden power?"

Mott faltered, confusion clouding his eyes.

"You've been clever, Mott. Cunning enough to keep the truth of the Black Forest hidden and survive all these years. But you missed one crucial truth."

"What truth?" Mott barked, his voice desperate.

Iris's voice grew softer, her words dripping with bitterness.

"Burying myself in the Black Forest did nothing but delay the inevitable. For ten years, I've made the smallest of contributions. A mere bandage over a wound that cannot heal. You thought too highly of me, Mott."

Her voice wavered, but her resolve remained. "You thought the Black Forest's power could be contained. But it has only been biding its time. And now, the judgment of the full moon has come."

As the moonlight grew brighter, bathing the battlefield in an ethereal glow, Mott's unease turned to pure dread. He could feel it, the shift in the air, the weight of forces beyond his comprehension.

For the first time in centuries, the Wolf Lord felt fear.