Lord Of The Lost

In every future without the Sixth Man, the players could only manage to kill eight troupe members, nothing more.

But the moment the Sixth Man entered the picture—

Everything changed.

The Scarlet Troupe would no longer be certain of victory.

This was terrifying, because even if they faced an equal number of enemies, the Troupe should still have had the upper hand.

And yet, this one person alone could tip the balance.

The Playwright couldn't predict when the Sixth Man would act.

If he sensed the trap, he could abandon his team and disappear into the night.

After all, these weren't true comrades.

They were a ragtag group from different places, bound together by necessity, not loyalty.

There was no reason to expect them to fight like the Scarlet Troupe, who had trained together for years.

And yet—

The Playwright couldn't be sure the Sixth Man would run.

That uncertainty was unacceptable.

A true writer controlled everything within their narrative.

But when characters outside the script appear, the entire story can collapse.

And so—

She rewrote the script.

She prepared backup narratives, adjusting the storyline in real-time, weaving in contingencies and countermeasures.

Whatever happened—

The story would go according to plan.

But William didn't know any of this.

He had no idea how much the Playwright already understood.

He didn't know what kind of fate she had written for him.

And that was the true horror of this path.

The Playwright's ability could silently arrange destinies, shaping outcomes without its victims even realizing they were part of a script.

William couldn't just stand outside the story.

If he was inside the story, every move he made could push him deeper into the trap—further toward his own death.

But if his choices were between fighting and giving up—

He would always choose to fight.

He refused to die in humiliation.

Running was not an option.

The only way forward was through battle.

And he wasn't acting on blind recklessness.

The Demon Wolf's instincts guided him.

If the Playwright had truly woven him into her story, then his [Desperate Situation] ability should have activated by now.

The magic wolf's senses were attuned to danger, allowing it to sniff out impending disaster.

And yet—

When the Forum Master and the others were pushed to the brink of destruction—

There was no premonition.

No warning of certain doom.

Which meant—

There was still a way to fight back.

And William was going to find it.

The Playwright's Deadly Performance

Either the Playwright had orchestrated a danger so profound that even the Demon Wolf's instincts couldn't detect it—

Or…

There was no danger at all.

William wasn't about to take that risk.

Without hesitation, he eliminated the Lighting Technician and the Singer.

Just as he was preparing to strike again—

A sound on the stage caught his attention.

A cold presence in the darkness.

He turned.

There, standing motionless beneath the unlit stage, was the Playwright.

Her expression was unreadable, almost detached, as if what was about to happen had already been written.

Between her fingers, she held a painted card.

A scene was etched upon it:

A mountain consumed in flames.

A dwarf gazing in awe.

And above it all, a mighty dragon, wings spread wide, soaring into the sky.

The Playwright's voice rang out, calm and composed.

"Audience, please take your seats and witness the grand spectacle of the future!"

She tossed the card.

It spiraled through the air—

And for some reason, in William's eyes, it was flying straight toward him.

The theory behind the Repertoire Cards was simple:

Whoever saw the card first, it would fly toward them.

Yet, in that moment—

William was the only one who saw it.

It was as if Death itself had extended an invitation, and William was the chosen guest.

A terrifying pull gripped him.

An invisible force that sucked everything toward the card.

"Not good!"

William's instincts screamed.

In that split second—

The Demon Wolf's premonition detonated like an explosion.

That card was something terrifying.

Something he couldn't afford to touch.

He tried to move.

Tried to escape the pull.

But the space around him was frozen.

He was trapped.

The card descended upon him.

And then—

Reality collapsed.

William's body flattened, compressed as if crushed by an invisible force.

His form disintegrated, reduced to a thin, two-dimensional image.

His existence vanished—

Leaving behind only a single, delicate playing card.

Upon its surface—

A burning mountain.

A lone dwarf.

And a dragon spreading its wings over a doomed world.

Then—

William reappeared.

But he was somewhere else entirely.

The world around him had flipped upside down.

And everything was on fire.

A hellscape stretched before him—

The ground scorched black, mountains melting into rivers of lava, and above it all—

A legendary dragon soared through the inferno.

It opened its maw—

And breathed fire.

Its flaming wings sliced through the sky, each beat sending shockwaves that melted the very mountain peaks.

This wasn't just destruction—

This was the end of a world.

William's pupils contracted in sheer horror.

Had he been flung decades into the future?

Had Changhu Town already perished?

How was this possible?

The dragon's aura alone was suffocating.

Its force field was like an unstoppable tide, pressing against William with unbearable pressure.

His [Desperate Situation] ability activated instantly, sensing the absolute fatality of this moment.

But—

It was useless.

Against a being of this magnitude, William's mere three-dimensional existence was nothing more than an insect caught in a winter storm.

His mind screamed—

"Run."

It was the only rational thought.

This was not a battle he could win.

Even the Crown Prince of a kingdom would struggle to challenge a dragon of this level.

And just as that realization sank in—

The dragon descended.

And opened its jaws.

Blazing flames erupted.

A tidal wave of fire surged forward—

A tsunami of scorching death that devoured everything in its path.

Mountains crumbled.

The earth split apart.

The land melted into rivers of magma.

The heat was unbearable—

A force beyond natural disaster.

William's eyes burned red, his vision warped by the sheer intensity of the heat.

His entire body screamed in warning.

A primal terror surged through him—

Like a cat with its fur standing on end.

Like a man tied to the guillotine, watching the blade fall but powerless to stop it.

Shock. Despair. Terror.

These thoughts rushed through his mind in an instant.

Then—

It was like pouring ice water into boiling metal.

Survival instinct overpowered everything.

There were no thoughts anymore.

No strategies.

No hesitation.

Only raw, primal action.

William's pupils contracted into the deep black of a demon wolf.

His skin tingled, and soft, shadowy black fur began to spread over his body.

His form flickered—

Becoming both ethereal and real at the same time.

This was the power of the Demon Wolf Path.

And in that final, desperate moment—

He howled.

"Awoooooo—!"

The dragon's flames surged forward—

A towering wall of fire about to consume everything.

And then—

William vanished.

The War of Gods—1,600 Years Ago

A war unlike any before or after.

The War of Gods raged across the land, a battle where mortals, legends, and divine beings clashed.

Entire races were drawn into the conflict.

The gods descended one after another, their chosen champions—legendary demigods—marching onto the battlefield.

And the earth itself began to shine with the light of divine warfare.

In the heart of the Dwarven Kingdom, the Sun Temple stood tall, an architectural miracle dedicated to the Sun God.

From its core, a second sun rose above the land.

Not as an act of rebellion against the sky, nor as an attempt to replace the original sun,

but as a beacon to spread the Sun God's radiance across the world.

The war had not yet reached the point where the gods would band together to sink this second sun into oblivion.

And so—

Beneath its burning light, the first generation of Demon Wolves moved gracefully through the mist.

A second sun now blazed upon the earth.

And above, a brilliant moon hung in the sky.

The two celestial bodies competed for dominion, a spectacle that had become commonplace in the War of Gods.

But more than a thousand years ago, the moon was still distant.

Unlike in later ages, when it would draw closer to the earth, looming over the world as if about to touch the stars below.

Back then, the moon still fit within the mortal gaze—its full form visible, untouched by war.

And it was toward this moon that the first Demon Wolf leaped—

A hunting stance, his predatory form outlined against the battlefield's chaos.

It was as if he intended to bite off a piece of the moon itself.

Through the haze of divine conflict, he moved—a beast stalking through a hail of fire and steel.

Then, in that moment—

He heard the call.

A voice that was both familiar and foreign.

Something he had waited for, yet never expected to hear.

A sound that did not belong to the past—

But to the future.