Lord Of The Lost

William was caught off guard.

It was beyond anything he had anticipated, this werewolf had somehow avoided what should have been a fatal blow. He had spent an entire day perfecting his [Piercing Attack], honing it until the charging time, once five seconds, was now compressed to just over three.

The strike had been aimed at the creature's heart with deadly precision, yet instead of the satisfying thud of a kill, all he'd managed to do was graze its left arm.

Damn it, William thought. The beast was still standing. More than that, it was still dangerous.

He could feel the weight of the werewolf's power. Despite its injury, it hadn't lost its ability to fight. The muscles under its thick fur rippled with strength, and William had to stifle a curse. What kind of twisted race is this? he fumed. They were stronger, faster; everything about them seemed designed to defy logic.

Without wasting another second, William drew his weapon, the cold steel glinting in the dim light. He couldn't afford to hesitate. He knew well enough that in terms of raw power, he was outmatched. The werewolf's physical prowess was leagues ahead, but William had an advantage; it had underestimated him.

Maybe it hadn't expected a human to match up, to be able to stand toe-to-toe with its kind, but William's physical conditioning was exceptional. His 9-point physique was the peak for human players, putting him on par with level 9 warriors. Yet, in this moment, it was painfully clear that even his peak performance was just scratching the surface of the werewolf's potential.

This wasn't a pureblood werewolf, though. That much was obvious. William's sharp eyes assessed the creature quickly; this thing was a hybrid. Calling it a hybrid was generous; hybrids often inherited the best traits from both species, but this one? It was more like a mutt, a bastard of its race. Whatever advantage it might have had was dulled by its mixed blood.

No mercy. William knew better than to hold back. The only way to handle creatures like this was to strike fast, strike hard, and never let them recover. He had fought dark creatures before, but this was no mindless demon from the mines; this werewolf had intelligence. It could strategize. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was ending it before things got worse.

"Kill!" William's voice was steady, decisive.

He didn't bother preparing another [Piercing Attack]; there wasn't time. The skill took too long to charge, and the werewolf would be foolish to give him a second chance. His advantage was in speed now, and in the werewolf's injury. Its left arm was useless, and though the beast was still formidable, its combat ability had clearly dropped. Gone was the arrogance it had displayed before.

When they first crossed paths, the werewolf had taken his attacks head-on, as if he were nothing more than an insect to be swatted away. But now? Now, it was wary, dodging his strikes with an uncharacteristic caution, scrambling to evade rather than attack.

The werewolf's form was still monstrous, though. It loomed in front of him, its body unnaturally large, with thick, fur-covered muscles shaped like an inverted triangle. Its hind legs were powerful, built for leaping and running, and its arms bulged with strength, the kind of strength that could tear a man apart with a single swipe.

But it was no longer charging at him. Instead, the beast jumped back, retreating with an incredible leap that took it seven or eight meters away in a heartbeat. William could sense the werewolf's growing desperation. It was trying to escape, trying to put distance between them. But William wasn't about to let that happen.

He surged forward, swift as lightning, his weapon flashing like a dragon's strike. The werewolf might have speed on its side, but William wasn't going to lose sight of it; not now. Not in the thick fog that shrouded the forest. Visibility was terrible, no more than four or five meters ahead. If the werewolf vanished into that mist, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

And the worst part? There was more than one. The hints had been clear; this one wasn't alone. There were others lurking in the fog, ready to pounce.

Suddenly, there was a sharp sound; the unmistakable crack of the werewolf's leap.

William's eyes narrowed. The hunt was far from over.

The spear's tip sliced through the air, barely missing the werewolf's hind legs, and struck a tree with such force that it left a deep, three-inch gash in the trunk. If the blow had been aimed at a human, they would have been cleaved in two.

William's movements were fluid and precise, his weapon a blur as he swung. The spear cut through the air with deadly efficiency, each thrust and feint simple but lethal. His technique was basic, straightforward stabs and provocative lunges, but in the hands of someone with William's enhanced physical fitness, even the most fundamental moves became devastating.

As the saying goes, great strength makes even the simplest of moves deadly.

The werewolf, despite its massive size, leaped gracefully onto a thick branch overhead. It wasn't the clumsy brute one might expect from something so large. No, this beast moved with an unsettling grace, as if the weight of its hulking body was nothing more than a feather. The sheer contrast was jarring, a reminder of the unnatural power creatures in this magical world held.

Its bloodshot eyes locked onto William with a cold, unyielding stare. There was a silent promise in that gaze; I remember you, human. The werewolf's nostrils flared slightly, taking in William's scent, and the meaning was clear: this wasn't over. Blood would be repaid with blood.

But William wasn't about to back down. In a fluid motion, he launched himself into the air, scaling the trees with ease. With a leap that carried him two or three meters high, he planted his feet against the trunk, using it as a springboard to propel himself higher. Like a parkour expert, he soared, reaching a height of four or five meters in a matter of seconds.

Midair, William twisted his body, his legs spreading wide for balance, and he swung his spear down with all his might. "Die!" he roared, his voice echoing through the forest.

The branch beneath the werewolf exploded into splinters from the sheer force of the blow, but the beast was quick, rolling off the branch and diving into the dense bushes below just in time. William didn't waste a moment. Grabbing a nearby vine, he swung after the werewolf, his body spinning in a tight spiral.

As he released the vine, his spear drilled down through the bushes like a whirlwind of steel.

Leaves and branches flew in all directions, but once again, the werewolf had managed to evade him by a hair's breadth.

Now, a dangerous chase began. Two figures darted through the thick fog of the forest; William in relentless pursuit, the werewolf fleeing ahead. Though the creature was fast, it was burdened by its massive body. While its leaps were impressive, it couldn't maintain that speed for long distances. William, on the other hand, was light and agile, able to maneuver swiftly through the trees.

The werewolf had its advantages, strength, agility in short bursts; but William was playing the long game. He knew that no creature, not even one as powerful as a werewolf, could possess every strength. And with the werewolf's left arm injured, its balance was compromised, slowing it down just enough for William to intercept its path again and again.

Each time the creature tried to escape in a certain direction, William was there, cutting it off, trapping it within a confined area and preventing it from reuniting with any of its kin.

The werewolf's frustration boiled over. It threw its head back and howled, a long, mournful sound that echoed through the trees, calling for its pack. But that desperate cry came at a cost. Howling drained energy, and every moment spent shouting for help made the beast's movements slower, less precise. William seized the opportunity.

With a powerful swing, William's spear struck the werewolf squarely in the waist, the force of the blow sending the beast flying. It tumbled through the air, crashing into the ground six or seven meters away, rolling violently before slamming into a tree. The impact shook the forest around them, and the werewolf groaned as it came to a halt, bruised and battered.

This thing had to weigh at least three hundred kilograms, William thought, watching as it staggered to its feet. The hit had clearly hurt it, but instead of fear, the werewolf's eyes blazed with fury.

"You lowly human," it growled, its voice hoarse, filled with venom. "You're courting death!"

This was the first time the werewolf had spoken, and the sound of its voice was chilling; ferocious, cruel, and filled with a deep, guttural rage. Its face twisted into a grotesque snarl, showing rows of sharp teeth as it bared its fangs.

William tightened his grip on his spear, his heart pounding in his chest. The fight was far from over.

The werewolf's instincts screamed at him: there was nowhere left to run. He could feel William closing in, cutting off every possible escape route. His companions, the ones who were supposed to provide backup, were nowhere to be found. Panic surged through him. The mission had likely already begun, and he was lagging behind.

Damn it!

If the pack thought he had abandoned them, if they labeled him a deserter, his fate would be sealed; execution on the spot. The werewolf's heart pounded with dread.

"There's no point in worrying about that now!" William's voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade.

He wasn't wrong. Any other player, any weaker human, would've been dead long ago. William's exceptional 9-point physical fitness was the only thing keeping him in this fight, barely able to withstand the werewolf's monstrous strength. The reality was harsh: this race of fighters, these werewolves, were terrifying beyond measure.

"****! ***! I'll tear your throat out!" The werewolf's voice dripped with rage, his body trembling with frustration. His proud warrior blood boiled. This, this humiliation, was unbearable.

He had been forced into this state by a mere human. A human! The once-mighty werewolf warrior, now reduced to snarling curses and barely holding on. William couldn't help but grin at the wolf's desperation, the challenge in his eyes as sharp as the spear in his hands.

"Come on then," William said, his smile mocking. "Show me just how much honor you've got left."

The air between them crackled with tension as both combatants launched themselves forward, mud and dirt flying as their feet tore into the ground. The battle was about to reach its boiling point.

On one side was William, a young man clad in battered leather armor, his spear flashing like lightning in his grip. On the other, the towering, ferocious werewolf, muscles rippling beneath his thick fur, eyes blazing with fury. The beast's innate savagery was now fully unleashed, his pride as a warrior hanging by a thread.

A human, a mere adventurer, and not even a professional; had backed him into this corner.

It was a disgrace beyond words.

If the pure-blooded werewolves ever heard of this, they would strip him of his identity, cast him out into the wilderness to fend for himself. The shame of being bested by a human could only be washed away in one way: by taking his enemy's head. Only then could he prove he wasn't a coward, wasn't a deserter.

Fueled by this all-consuming rage, the werewolf's strength and speed peaked, pushing his body to its limits. Yet, no matter how fast or furious he fought, his injured left arm betrayed him, unable to lend him the full power he needed. His earlier mistake; underestimating William, had cost him dearly, and now he was paying the price.

Anger alone wasn't enough. If it was, he'd be a pure-blood werewolf, not the hybrid outcast he was. His roar of frustration echoed through the forest. "Ahhh!!" The sound was raw, filled with disbelief and fury.

How? How could there be a human strong enough to fight me in the Misty Forest?

This backwater, this border town, should have sent any decent adventurer far away by now. And yet, here he was; facing this human who refused to die.

Their figures blurred as they fought, a whirlwind of speed and brutality. In the thick fog, surrounded by the jungle's twisted trees, their battle became a storm of broken branches, scattered leaves, and shattered undergrowth. The forest trembled under the force of their struggle, as if caught in a raging wind.

Finally, the end came.

William knelt on one knee, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his spear gripped tightly in his hand. His body was drenched in blood; some of it his own, some of it from the werewolf. His leather armor hung in tatters, shredded by the beast's powerful claws.

Even with only one good arm, the werewolf's strikes had been relentless, and no mere leather could protect him from the force of those deadly talons.

But none of that mattered now.

William lifted his head, his face streaked with dirt and blood, but his eyes gleamed with victory.

He had won.