Chapter 13: The Wolf

But the forest remained restless. A bad sign.

Another one? What the hell—where were all these orcs even coming from?!

She tried to get back up.

Her hands slipped slightly against the ground in her haste, her muscles still numb from the previous impact. She forced herself, searching for leverage, her breath short and uneven. Her heart was pounding too fast, slamming against her chest like a warning. She managed to push herself halfway upright, her body still unstable, every movement too slow compared to the urgency.

Too late: the next monster charged straight at her, jaws wide open, brandishing a short sword.

It burst into her field of vision like a brutal mass—heavy, uncontrollable. Its footsteps made the ground tremble, each stride crushing the distance between them with terrifying speed. Its gaping mouth revealed yellowed, uneven fangs, slick with saliva, while a guttural growl rose from its throat, mixed with a sharp, metallic stench.

Its armed arm lifted, the short sword already tracing a deadly arc. The blade, chipped but massive, caught the light in harsh flashes, ready to strike. Everything in its movement screamed impact—direct, violent, without hesitation.

She didn't have time to cast anything.

The words caught in her throat, too slow, useless against the speed of the attack. Her mind tried to keep up, to form, to trigger—but her body refused to obey fast enough. A fraction of a second. That was all she had left—and it was already too little.

A shadow passed over her: the wolf lunged, leapt, and tore the orc open with a single bite.

Everything shifted in an instant. A dark mass cut through her vision, fast, silent, like a living bolt of lightning. The wolf appeared out of nowhere, its muscles coiled in perfectly controlled motion.

Its leap was precise, calculated, a surge of raw power held until the last possible second. It slammed into the orc head-on, throwing it off balance before the blade could even fall. Then its jaws snapped shut—sharp, relentless—ripping through flesh with brutal efficiency.

The impact tore a strangled cry from the creature, immediately cut off. Its body split open with no resistance, as if the wolf's strength exceeded what matter itself could withstand. Blood burst out in thick, hot sprays, arcing wildly through the air.

The orc collapsed with a heavy thud, almost instantly lifeless, its weapon slipping from its hand with a metallic clatter.

The wolf landed with fluid grace, already turned toward whatever came next, eyes sharp, body ready to strike again—as if this had been nothing more than a simple motion among many.

Silence.

The wolf remained there, tail swaying slowly. Then Fenrir appeared, stroking the beast, which closed its eyes, satisfied. Blanche sank down against a root, drained.

"Wolves will always come to your aid, "Fenrir said. "They can sense my magic through you. Honestly, you impress me... You're climbing fast."

"Thanks, " she murmured, too exhausted to react.

She thanked the wolf as well, which didn't move. The mission window appeared in front of her.

Stats gained:

Strength +3

Agility +3

Speed +4

Wisdom +3

Intelligence +3

Drain — Level 2

Flight — Level 1

Carnage — Level 1

Objective complete.

Reward selection in progress...

"How high can stats go?" she asked.

"Infinitely," Fenrir replied with a smile." Our best player exceeds a billion in some."

She blinked. A billion? Seriously?

"And Flight, how does that work?"

Amused by her lack of manners, the god shook his head as the wolf wandered off calmly.

"For now, you can just levitate for a minute, hovering in place. At max level, you'll be able to fly freely in all directions for about twenty minutes."

A new window appeared.

Drain — Level 3

Heal — Level 1

Rest — Level 1

"Well, I never get bored with you," Fenrir said, half amused.

Blanche rolled her eyes.

The motion was slow, deliberate, loaded with exasperation she no longer even tried to hide. Her eyelids lingered shut a fraction too long, as if she were trying to suppress the reaction rising inside her. Her head tilted back slightly, a silent, almost trembling sigh slipping out, still charged with adrenaline that refused to fade.

She wanted to scream that she wasn't his damn entertainment, but... she had just escaped death again. Might as well let it go.

The words were already burning in the back of her throat, ready to burst out—sharp, violent, matching the fear she had just endured. She imagined throwing them at him, unfiltered, without restraint. Telling him everything she thought, everything she refused to be for him.

But nothing came out.

Instead, she swallowed it all down, jaw tight, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. Her heart was still racing, her body still shaken by how close she had come to dying. A part of her knew she didn't have the energy—or the desire—to turn this into a confrontation. Not now.

So she let it go. Or at least, she pretended to.

Her shoulders loosened just slightly, in a fragile, deceptive release—like a surface calm laid over something far more unstable.

Fenrir crouched behind her, invading her personal space, his warm breath brushing her neck.

She didn't really hear him approach—just felt a presence impose itself, sudden and overwhelming. The air seemed to shift around her, grow heavier, warmer. And then he was there. Too close.

Way too close.

The ground gave slightly under his weight as he crouched behind her, erasing any distance she might have wanted. His presence filled the space, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. She felt his breath before fully realizing how close he was—a diffuse warmth sliding along her skin, tracing her neck, sending an involuntary shiver through her.

Each exhale seemed deliberate, slow, almost intentional, as if he were testing the boundary—fully aware of the effect it had.

He guessed her question before she could speak.

She inhaled, ready to break the heavy silence, to put words to what she refused to let settle—but she didn't get the chance.

He answered first.

As if reading her effortlessly. As if her thoughts, her reactions, were already familiar to him.

Her lips parted despite herself, caught on a word that would never come. And for a second, she remained frozen, caught between irritation and something harder to name—the unsettling feeling of being understood without saying anything, without allowing it.

"Rest lets you heal every time you sit down. Not when you lie down, got it? If you fall and can't get back up, you're done. At this level, it heals minor wounds. At max, you can regenerate limbs, organs... even gaping holes. As fast as a lycanthrope."

Blanche raised her eyebrows, intrigued.

"Lycanthropes?"

"I'd take that one if I were you, "he cut in, ignoring her.

"Why not Drain level 3?"

"At your pace, you'll get it soon anyway. But Rest is rare. If you miss it, you might never see it again."

She sighed, exhausted but convinced. Her stomach growled at the sight of the half-disemboweled orc carcass beside her. At this point, it almost looked appetizing.

" I choose Rest."

The window vanished instantly. Fenrir tapped her head with an almost gentle smile.

"Good girl. Most women die long before reaching this point. Now... there are three of you."

Blanche froze, stunned, caught between the god's strange softness and the brutality of his words. But already, the landscape was dissolving around her.

She let herself drift, carried by Fenrir's hand in her hair, somewhere between exhaustion, relief... and a flicker of disbelief.