Chapter 8
Abigail's POV
The fight erupted with a roar.
Garrick lunged forward, his massive frame bearing down on the young woman with crushing momentum, the force of his swinging fist so heavy you could almost imagine the sound of shattering bones. The crowd erupted instantly, cheers rising and falling in waves, as if his victory was already a foregone conclusion.
But she wasn't there.
The woman simply twisted her body with nimble grace, cleanly evading his surging attack. The wind from his fist grazed her shoulder, missing by mere inches.
Garrick's momentum carried him past, his body losing balance slightly, stumbling half a step. The crowd's cheers stuttered, turning into confused murmurs.
He quickly steadied himself, snarling through gritted teeth as he attacked again. This time, having learned a slight lesson, he feinted left before driving forward with his shoulder like a wall, attempting to use his weight to pin her into a corner.
She slipped away again. Her footwork remained light as she circled, observing, using minimal effort to drain his stamina rather than being led by his rhythm.
Garrick's breathing grew heavier, his shoulders rising and falling more obviously, his attacks no longer as continuous. He was accustomed to crushing opponents in the first round of assault, using pure size and aggression to force them to collapse.
And that young woman had only just finished warming up.
Rage drove Garrick's reason further into retreat. He growled low and charged again at full force, this time abandoning even his feints, simply spreading his arms wide, planning to grab and pin her to the ground.
The crowd let out an excited scream, as if they could already see her pressed firmly into the mud.
But at the last moment, she crouched low and rolled forward, sliding under his outstretched arms. Dirt was scraped into a trail behind her. As she sprang up behind him, she lifted her leg in one smooth motion and kicked hard at the back of his knee.
Garrick's leg buckled, stumbling forward onto one knee, his thick arms flailing wildly, trying to regain balance.
In that moment, he erupted with a near-bestial roar.
His skin swelled and twisted with each breath, bones reorganizing beneath flesh with tooth-grinding cracks. Muscles bulged as if pulled by invisible hands, skin splitting at the seams, grayish-brown fur bursting through frantically.
In no more than three seconds, a massive gray wolf stood in the center of the ring. The crowd erupted again, this time not with the clamor of betting, but with the fervor of witnessing a beast revealed.
"Tear her apart!"
"Show her real strength!"
The woman's face did pale for an instant, but she didn't retreat. She slowly lowered her center of gravity, spine arching, her whole body like a drawn bowstring, ready to spring at any moment.
Garrick gave her no time to think. The giant wolf suddenly kicked off the ground, speed more than double his human form, four paws striking earth and sending dirt flying. Claws cutting cold light through the air, fangs aimed straight for her throat.
In that instant, her body moved too.
The transformation happened naturally.
Her shift was startlingly fast, the sound of bones reshaping so faint it was nearly inaudible, red fur surfacing and spreading from beneath her skin like water. Her form contracted and reshaped in the blink of an eye, limbs touching ground.
Her size was much smaller than Garrick's, perhaps only two-thirds his bulk, but her proportions were perfectly balanced, lines tight and fluid, every inch of muscle taut and coiled with explosive power.
The two wolves collided in midair.
Garrick's weight advantage showed immediately. One paw struck solidly against the red wolf's shoulder with a dull thud, flipping her entire body to the ground. She rolled once in the dirt but barely paused before leaping up lightly, body low, four limbs steady and supporting.
Garrick lunged again, this time aiming for her hindquarters. The red wolf didn't meet him head-on. She touched ground lightly and slid sideways past his lunge, simultaneously twisting back to bite at his exposed flank.
Fangs pierced fur, the scent of blood instantly spreading.
Garrick howled in pain, his massive head jerking violently, trying to twist and bite her neck. But she'd anticipated this, releasing her grip cleanly before his teeth could close and leaping back several paces, circling to his other side.
She was using speed and agility, not competing with his strength.
This point quickly became unmistakable.
Garrick was enraged to the extreme. He roared and launched assault after assault, each lunge carrying enough force to shatter bones. Yet that red figure remained just beyond his fangs and claws, as if she could always predict his rhythm half a beat ahead.
She would crouch low, then leap up, brushing past his sides, slipping through gaps in his attacks, and in each passing instant, she would leave something behind—a vicious bite, a swift claw mark.
Shoulder, hindquarters, ear... each wound wasn't fatal, but all bled, all consuming his stamina and composure.
My breathing had stopped at some point.
Garrick's attacks gradually slowed, breathing becoming extremely labored, chest heaving violently. Each lunge's recovery was half a beat slower, his footing increasingly unstable. Blood flowing from wounds stained his grayish-brown fur in large patches of dark red.
He lunged at the female wolf once more, but clearly couldn't lift to full height, front paws dragging dirt, steps unsteady.
She seized this opening. This time, she chose not to dodge.
She charged toward his assault, and in the instant before collision, suddenly dropped low, sliding beneath his belly. Gray underfur brushed her back as she opened her jaws, and in that passing moment, precisely clamped onto the area below his throat—that soft spot where neck met chest.
That was a wolf's most vulnerable place.
Garrick's body went rigid.
The red wolf's teeth didn't pierce the vital spot directly but locked onto that position firmly, clamped near the windpipe and carotid artery. Though her weight was less than his, the angle gave her control. The more Garrick struggled, the tighter his throat was constricted, heavy panting gradually turning into hissing suffocation.
After several seconds, the massive gray wolf began to tremble.
His limbs shook uncontrollably, claws scraping furrows in the dirt, yet he could no longer summon real strength. Finally, he let out a low whimper, his massive body going soft and collapsing completely to the ground.
Only then did the female wolf release her grip, retreating several steps to maintain safe distance.
Her chest heaved violently, red fur covered in blood—both her own and Garrick's. But she still stood straight, tail raised high, gaze still sharp as a blade.
The courtyard fell into an eerie silence.
No one spoke, no one made noise, even the sound of gamblers' tokens clinking disappeared. Everyone stared fixedly at the scene in the ring's center—that red female wolf, a full size smaller than her opponent, standing alone beside the fallen male wolf.
A moment later, the red wolf began shifting back to human form. The fabric on her body had been completely destroyed through two transformations, now barely covering critical areas, but she seemed entirely unconcerned, only breathing heavily, sweat and blood sliding down her collarbone, outlining every lean but solid muscle.
Several steps away, Garrick was also convulsing back to human form, lying supine in the dirt, chest heaving violently, face flushed deep red, eyes burning with humiliation and unwillingness.
The silence lasted... perhaps three seconds, yet stretched as long as a century.
Then the courtyard exploded.
Incredulous shouts, uncontainable curses, scattered whistles and cheers mixed together. Men who'd lost their bets stared wide-eyed with reddened faces, some even rubbing their eyes forcefully, as if that battle had been mere illusion.
Garrick shakily climbed to his feet, avoiding all surrounding gazes, wordlessly pushing through the crowd and leaving the ring without looking back. His back was rigid, steps heavy, each stride like treading on knife blades.
The woman looked around.
Her gaze swept calmly across face after face—those who'd just enthusiastically placed bets, those voices that had shouted to tear her apart—in this moment most chose to lower their eyes, pretending to adjust their clothes. A small portion, when she looked their way, stiffly but solemnly nodded to her.
Then her gaze fell on me. I inclined my head slightly toward her—an acknowledgment, and approval.
The corner of her mouth moved almost imperceptibly, then she returned the gesture just as briefly, withdrew her gaze, and walked down from the ring with head held high, letting the belated whispers and discussions surge behind her.
The bookkeeper shuffled toward me on somewhat trembling legs. He said nothing, only silently counted out a heavy pouch of silver coins—my original stake plus triple the return—then solemnly pressed the money pouch into my hand.
"Well bet, miss," he said hoarsely, but with a trace of genuine respect.
I accepted the pouch and tucked it into my belt, fingertips touching cold metal, finally coming back to myself somewhat. The crowd had already begun slowly dispersing, clamorous voices gradually stretching and fading into heated discussion about that red wolf.
I'd only walked a few steps beyond the courtyard when quick, determined footsteps sounded behind me.