Lord Of The Lost

As William felt the surge of power ripple through him, a new awareness settled in his mind.

[Your talent draws on the werewolf's fighting instincts, forming a skill - Intuition]

His body tensed instinctively, a predator's awareness heightening his senses, making every shift in the wind or rustle of leaves feel like an impending threat.

[Intuition: The powerful fighting talent of the werewolf race, your sense of danger is greatly enhanced.]

A sharp clarity cut through his thoughts, revealing the true nature of his evolving abilities.

[Your talent has absorbed a fragment of the extraordinary werewolf characteristics.]

[Werewolf Traits: A racial trait possessed by a mixed-blood werewolf. Although incomplete, it is a shortcut to becoming a pure-blooded werewolf. With potential to purify the bloodline, this trait transforms its bearer into a mixed-blood werewolf.]

William felt his heart race. The path of becoming a werewolf, though tantalizing, came with dark promises.

[Werewolf Tips: They are immensely powerful, swift as lightning, cold-blooded, and merciless. A natural fighting race - they awaken in the darkness, and it is time to hunt!]

A shiver ran down his spine as the weight of this transformation settled in. The world of the werewolves was ruthless, and he was now standing at the edge of that brutal world.

[Game Tips: Werewolves, creatures of the night, once drew power from the moon. Now, it is both a source of strength and a curse. Exiled from their former glory, they now find shelter under the guidance of a dark witch.]

William clenched his fists. The tension between the two forces within him felt like a coiled spring ready to snap.

[Job Transfer Tips: Accumulate five werewolf characteristic powers of the same type to complete the job transfer task and become a pure-blooded werewolf.]

[Werewolf Characteristics: 1/5]

A realization hit him hard.

"Could these two extraordinary powers... clash inside me?" William wondered, his heart pounding.

This transformation was more dangerous than he had first anticipated. The werewolf traits were potent, raw, and chaotic. But strangely, for now, they lay dormant within him, waiting. William could feel the quiet storm in his blood but, thankfully, it hadn't yet erupted.

The next steps were clear. He needed answers before the witch hunt began in earnest.

Bandaging his still-bleeding wound from his last encounter with the werewolf, William let out a breath as the pain dulled. The blood slowly soaked through the bandage, but to his surprise, his vitality surged; his body already beginning to heal faster than it should.

After securing the werewolf's body into his pack, he pushed forward, knowing he couldn't afford to linger. The sense of impending doom gnawed at him, his newly gained intuition telling him that more werewolves were near.

The Wasteland Group Hunting Grounds. He had heard stories of it; dangerous, desolate, and home to the cruelest of hunts.

"Group hunting… what a mess."

Fate, it seemed, was guiding him toward an inevitable encounter. But this place? It was no grand, noble battlefield. It was a pit of survival, where moral lines blurred and the only rule was strength. If the pack of werewolves found him here... the outcome would be nothing short of brutal.

He would be prey, nothing more. The very thought made his stomach churn.

"Damn it," William muttered, frustration building. He had no choice now but to keep going. He was lost in this mist-filled forest, its cold whiteness stretching out in every direction, concealing the dangers that lay ahead.

With no other option, he trudged forward, cautiously taking each step, every nerve in his body on high alert.

After ten long minutes of walking, something caught his eye.

Signs of a struggle.

Shattered branches, deep claw marks in the earth, blood splattered across the trees, and scattered wolf fur. William knelt down, his fingers brushing against the torn ground.

It was fresh.

The battlefield spanned a large area, chaos carved into the landscape as though a terrible storm had passed through. Thick trees lay shattered, their trunks splintered like fragile twigs under the force of the conflict.

He moved forward carefully, tracking the signs of the battle.

Whatever had happened here, it was far from over.

As William continued through the forest, the traces of battle came and went like fleeting shadows. Some areas showed signs of massive destruction, trees torn apart, earth gouged with deep claw marks; while others had only faint traces, a few drops of blood or disturbed foliage. The inconsistency puzzled him, but his imagination filled in the blanks.

He pictured the scene. This wasn't the kind of head-on clash you'd expect from beasts fighting for dominance. No, the werewolves were smarter than that. They hunted their prey like wolves, but with a cunning far more dangerous.

This was group hunting in the wilderness, not a single strike but a relentless pursuit. The werewolves would close in on their prey, biting at its heels, surrounding it, wearing it down bit by bit, not allowing a moment's rest. The prey would be consumed by exhaustion before the final strike even came.

"Even regular wolf packs divide the work," William thought grimly. "But werewolves... they're intelligent, organized hunters."

He bent down to pick up a broken trap from the battlefield. The steel clamp was twisted, almost torn apart by brute force, with a scrap of flesh still caught between its jaws.

[Trap: A temporary trap made by a veteran hunter, now damaged]

William stared at the piece of werewolf flesh clinging to the trap. "A hunter?" he muttered to himself. "What kind of hunter is worth all this trouble for a pack of werewolves?"

The pieces didn't fit. Werewolves were rare in Border Town, according to what William had learned from the Scarecrow. The last recorded sighting was over a decade ago, during a time of strange disturbances in the Black Forest. Rumors had circulated about werewolves being spotted in the chaos, but they had largely stayed away from the borders since then.

And Border Town had plenty of hunters. But what would bring one into the Misty Forest, a place that was all but forbidden? Even the most experienced hunters steered clear of its thick, disorienting fog. The local superstition claimed the Misty Forest was alive, that it "ate" those foolish enough to wander too deep. It was a place where paths vanished, and time seemed to stand still.

Ordinary people never set foot here. Except for the players.

As William pondered, he pushed forward through the mist, his senses on high alert. The faintest sound reached his ears; the distant howling of wolves. His body stiffened, instincts kicking in.

The sound came from about two hundred meters ahead. He knew the forest's dense vegetation and complex terrain could muffle even a loud cry, reducing it to nothing more than a whisper after fifty meters. But the wolves... they were close. Closer than he liked.

He continued forward, each step deliberate, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. At a distance of one hundred meters from the source of the howls, he stopped. Any closer, and he risked being noticed. A werewolf's sense of smell was far too sharp. The mist might offer some cover, but not enough to fool creatures born of the darkness.

From here, he could hear more clearly; the unmistakable sounds of a fierce battle. His blood quickened. The werewolves were hunting, that much was clear. But their prey wasn't going down easily. The snarls and growls of the werewolves were mixed with sounds of struggle and pain, as if they, too, had suffered injuries.

William closed his eyes, focusing on the noises filtering through the forest. There was chaos ahead, a battle between predator and prey, but this prey was strong. Strong enough to wound the werewolves, making them circle and fight in fits, trying to end the struggle before it became too costly.

He didn't know exactly what was happening ahead, but he could sense the tension in the air. The werewolves were not in control of this hunt. Not entirely. Their prey had pushed back, and now the werewolves were pacing, wounded but still dangerous, waiting for the right moment to strike.

William gripped the hilt of his weapon tighter. Whatever was up ahead, it wouldn't be an easy encounter. And soon enough, it would be his turn to face the pack.

The chilling howls of the werewolves echoed through the forest, but they were not just random cries. William noticed the rhythm to them, a coordinated call-and-response led by a deeper, more powerful howl. This was no ordinary pack; they were being directed. The werewolf leader, judging by the ferocity and authority in his voice, was orchestrating the attack from the shadows.

William strained his ears, picking up the distinct growls of the leader as he barked orders with unnerving calm. He wasn't in the thick of the fight, but patrolling the outskirts, like a general overseeing his troops.

"Young hunter!" the werewolf leader snarled, his voice dripping with malice. "We will tear you to pieces!"

But the only response was a monstrous roar from deep within the mist. It wasn't human; far from it. The sound was raw, wild, and filled with a dangerous fury, as if some beast was cornered, fighting with the last of its strength.

The werewolf leader, unfazed, continued to taunt, his voice cruel and filled with venom. "You have violated the taboos of the Black Forest! You're trapped now, in a hopeless situation! You cannot stop the wolves from hunting you! Your blood will be our sacrifice, and this is only the beginning!"

William could easily picture the leader, a towering, muscular werewolf with cold, calculating eyes; pacing the edges of the battlefield, watching as his pack closed in on their prey. He wouldn't rush in for the kill. No, he was waiting for the perfect moment, toying with the hunter's nerves, letting fear and exhaustion do half the work.

Suddenly, a bone-chilling roar pierced the air, this one filled with desperation and rage. It was inhuman, the cry of a beast cornered with no way out. The hunter was trapped. He lashed out, fighting with all his might, but the werewolves were too many, too fast, too relentless. They darted in and out of the shadows, always just out of reach, wearing him down with their deadly coordination.

Werewolves, agile and strong, were built for this kind of hunt. Their teamwork was seamless, and their prey stood no chance. They were natural-born killers.

William's mind raced. "Taboos of the Black Forest? Young hunter?"

Suddenly, a name surfaced in his memory. Little Bob. The young hunter who had ventured into the Black Forest during the last full moon... and never returned.

"Could it be... him?" William thought, his heart pounding. The Misty Forest was far from the Black Forest; what could have driven Little Bob so deep into these dangerous woods?

There wasn't time to dwell on it. The realization hit William hard: this group of werewolves was far too dangerous to challenge head-on.

"Seventeen werewolves could easily wipe out a village." He thought grimly, backing away slowly. There was no sense in getting involved in this fight. His mission was to hunt the witch, not a pack of werewolves. Engaging them now would only invite disaster.

William's mind was swirling with questions. What had Little Bob done to violate the Black Forest's taboos? Why was his roar so animalistic, so... otherworldly? Something dark had befallen the young hunter, but whatever it was, William had no intention of sticking around to find out.

He heard the anguished howl of the trapped hunter again, but this time, it was different. The madness had faded, replaced by a sorrowful, almost resigned tone. It was as if the hunter had accepted his fate; ready to sacrifice himself to the beasts that surrounded him.

Just as William turned to retreat, another howl sliced through the air. It wasn't from the battlefield. It came from a different direction, sharp and unexpected, like the strike of a blade.

It was not the primal roar of a fully-grown werewolf warrior. No, this howl was different. There was a strange innocence to it; n unmistakable childishness, yet full of determination. It cut through the chaos of the battle like a clear note in a discordant song.

William froze in place, his senses on high alert. This new sound; this unexpected presence, had just shifted the balance of the fight. Something else had entered the fray, and it wasn't just another werewolf.

What, or who, was this new force?