World Swallowing Spear No. 1: The Insurgent Spear
World Swallowing Spear No. 1: The Insurgent Spear
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Slap!
The meaty fist of the man before her crashed into her cheek, sending a sharp sting across her face. Her father, large and bloated, stood towering over her, his breath thick with the stench of cheap tavern spirits. His red, flushed face contorted with anger, lips wet and sneering. His entire form heaved up and down, panting, barely restrained rage lacing his every breath. One of his legs was a stark, unnatural gray, deadened from some past wound or illness—a permanent mark of his weakness. But she could never call it that. Weakness was something he would beat out of her, or try to. Exposing his own would be unthinkable. He was a strong man or at least he thought that he was.
Terra's gaze slid sideways, catching sight of her elder brother, Allo, lurking in the shadowed corner. His lips curled into a disdainful sneer, eyes cold and mocking as they watched her endure another round of punishment. In her dreams, she imagined ripping out those eyes, tearing them from his hateful face. At least there, she could be free. But reality was not as merciful; reality kept her chained to this life, bound by rules that men like her father and brother wrote for her.
"I better not catch you trying anything like that ever again, you stupid bitch!" her father roared, his voice a harsh, drunken slur that grated against her ears. "You're just a useless whore, just like your mother. Useless, useless, useless!"
He was furious because she'd dared to try to learn something, to steal scraps of knowledge to lift herself out of this hell. Perhaps learn a trade or become a priestess. To that purpose she had hidden away a few books, snuck them into their miserable shack of a home, but Allo, that miserable, conniving rat, had found them. Naturally, he ran to their father, eager to see her punished, eager to remind her that she was nothing.
She didn't answer. She knew better. Her head remained bowed, the picture of submission, while her father continued his tirade. Men ruled everything here, and someone like her—someone without power, without worth in the eyes of their twisted society—had no one to turn to. She could cry out a thousand times, but no one would save her. The men of this village had set their laws, and those laws kept women like her voiceless. Her father was a man, a veteran—those two things alone made him untouchable, invincible in the eyes of their world.
"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?" he spat, grabbing her by her hair—a dull golden shade, once bright, now tangled and dirtied from her life in this filth. He yanked her head back and then slammed her face against the wall, the rough wood scraping her skin. But she didn't give him what he wanted; no tears, no pleading. A single, restrained sniffle escaped her, the only betrayal of her pain. She had nothing else left to give, and even if she did, she wouldn't let him have it.
Allo stepped forward, his expression twisted with smug satisfaction, and placed a hand on their father's shoulder. He shook his head, a silent gesture that somehow held more venom than words ever could. He was pathetic, a parasite living off their father, doing nothing with his life. And yet their father indulged him, tolerated him. Not out of love or pride, but because he was nothing more than an extension of himself—a mirror to his own worthlessness. Trash begot trash. Rot accumulated, spread, festered.
Her father's life was a cycle of drinking, ranting about his so-called glory days, and harassing women. Allo was nothing different—a shadow cast from the same diseased mold. Why, she wondered, why was she born into this world, into this family of festering rot?
"WHY!" Her scream broke the silence, her voice raw with years of suppressed rage. Both men flinched, momentarily stunned by the sudden defiance.
Her brother's hand came down with ferocity, a brutal slap that rang out with a sickening crunch. She crumpled to the ground, her cheek burning, her head spinning from the impact. Her breath came in sharp gasps, the metallic tang of blood flooding her mouth. She pressed her hands against the cold, dirty floor, feeling the grit and splinters under her fingers.
"Crazy bitch," Allo muttered, wiping her blood off his knuckles with an expression of pure disgust, as if she were less than the filth caked beneath his nails. He turned on his heel, stalking away, leaving her there like discarded trash. Her father clicked his tongue in irritation and stalked to the fireplace, snatching up her precious books and tossing them carelessly into the flames. The pages curled, blackened, disintegrated, the knowledge she had craved turned to ash before her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand, the flickering flames reflected in her gaze, a lone symbol of all she had lost.
What was the point? What was the point of fighting, of hoping? This was her fate. No matter how much she struggled, no matter what small scraps of defiance she tried to cling to, it all ended the same. Defeated, she let her hand fall, watching the last fragments of her stolen dreams disappear.
She crawled to her room, every inch of her body aching. Their house was a dilapidated hovel, barely standing. Her own corner of it was somehow worse than the rest—a cramped, dank cell where the walls dripped with rot and mold. The floorboards were warped from water damage, and every inch seemed to be falling apart. Her bed frame was splintered, rough, and dangerous to touch, the wood rotting from the endless leaks that crept in from the roof above. Mold crawled along the walls, spreading in dark patches, filling the air with a damp, sour stench that choked her.
Insects of every kind crawled in the corners, hidden in the shadows, scurrying across her floor and creeping into the corners of her bed. She had no blanket, only the cold, bare wood that scraped against her skin. The air reeked of filth from the waste pit they called a latrine, barely masked by a simple sealing formation that had long since lost its power. The stench invaded her every breath, a bitter reminder of her place in this world. Every night, the smell hit her anew, sinking into her skin, clinging to her hair.
This was her reality. Her prison. She lay down on the bed, closing her eyes, trying to shut out the squalor, the hopelessness, the anger that bubbled beneath her skin. She wanted so desperately to escape, to dream of something better. But there was no home here, no warmth. She had no blanket, she had no comforts.
In the end all she really had was hell.
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"Gyahahaha!" A tan-skinned teen with pitch-black hair and mischievous eyes sprinted down the bustling market street, weaving past stands and startled townsfolk. Behind him thundered a rotund, red-faced man with hair only on the sides of his head, waving a spear as if it were an extension of his fury. The man's wolf ears twitched, betraying his volcanic temper.
"Gotta control that shit, old Bardo!" the boy taunted, glancing over his shoulder with a wide grin. "Makes you reallll easy to read!"
"You ugly fucking orphan bastard, get back here!" Bardo bellowed, his face purple with rage as he tried to keep up.
"Me? Ugly?" The boy scoffed, quickening his pace and dodging around a group of gawking villagers. "My brother in Fenrir, your fat-ass head looks like a half-shaven, pale testicle! And when you get all riled up and those veins start bulging? It's like a ball about to pop. Gives me subtle phantom pains just lookin' at it!" He barked out a laugh, leaping over a pile of crates as a few bricks whizzed past him, courtesy of some unimpressed townsfolk.
The street was alive with the clamor of merchants hawking their goods, the chatter of townsfolk, and the fragrant, earthy scent of roasted meats and fresh produce. Civilians ducked out of the way, some scowling, others chuckling at the spectacle of the chase. Some cheered Bardo on, hoping to see the boy get a long-overdue beating, while others watched in amused horror, clutching their wares and avoiding the chaos.
"Aiiieee!" The boy skirted past a cute girl about his age, giving her a light pat on the rear as he passed. "Nice rump you got there! You know my place—I'll be waiting~" he called with a wink, dodging a swipe aimed at his head as the girl swung at him with a cry of outrage.
"Get back here, you little shit!" Bardo thundered, his pace slowing but his resolve unyielding. He was angrier than ever, fists trembling with a faint, ominous glow as he prepared to channel his numen energy—a basic shockwave move that would be more than enough to stop the boy in his tracks. But seeing the faint glow, the boy's grin only widened.
"Oh, you're bringing out the big guns, huh?" he snickered, taking a sharp left and heading toward a crowded area where stands were piled high with fresh fruits, vegetables, and skewers of sizzling meat.
He darted through the crowd, snatching an apple here, a skewer there, nibbling as he ran and hiding some in his clothes, leaving a trail of outraged merchants and toppled goods in his wake. He ducked under hanging baskets of garlic, narrowly dodged a towering stack of onions, and snagged a handful of grapes from a nearby stand, laughing as he popped them into his mouth mid-sprint.
He spotted a cabbage stand up ahead, with a rickety frame that barely supported its own weight. Perfect. In one fluid motion, he flipped onto the stand, balancing nimbly atop it, and grinned down at Bardo just as the man threw a numen-empowered punch in his direction.
BOOM!
The shockwave exploded outward, obliterating the cabbage stand into a storm of leaves, shattered wood, and dust. The impact sent debris flying in all directions, and villagers shielded their faces, coughing and swearing as cabbage leaves rained down on them. The boy used the force of the explosion to springboard himself into the air, leaping clear over Bardo's head.
"My cabbages!" wailed the stall's owner, an older wolf man with greyed hair and ears, clutching a ruined cabbage to his ear as if in mourning. The poor vegetable hung in tatters, its shredded leaves slipping through his fingers like his lost dignity.
"Sorry, old man!" the boy called down with a careless shrug, already several feet away.
He landed gracefully on Bardo's shoulders, balancing just long enough to plant a muddy boot right in the center of the man's red, sweaty face. Bardo let out a startled grunt as the boy used him as a springboard, launching himself to the roof of a nearby building, where he crouched, looking down with a smug expression.
"Mr. Ball Head just couldn't do it, I see." He wiped at an imaginary tear, feigning pity as Bardo sputtered below, his face smeared with grime.
"I'll take this spear," he called down, reaching over and effortlessly snatching the weapon from Bardo's hands, twirling it with mock elegance. "You don't need it anyway. What you should really worry about is growing a 'spear' out of that testicle head of yours. Has to be natural, you know? Toys like this don't exactly win the ladies around here. Not that any would talk to your fat ass anyway."
With that, he gave a mocking salute, turning and bounding off the rooftop, leaping effortlessly from building to building, his laughter echoing through the market.
"FUCK YOU, JURAF!" Bardo's voice roared behind him, a mixture of rage and humiliation as the villagers around him chuckled, murmuring and shaking their heads.
"I LIKE WOMEN!" Juraf hollered back, the grin never leaving his face as he disappeared over the rooftops, leaving Bardo sputtering, defeated, in the dusty street below.
Juraf slipped through the winding dirt paths that led to Shadeside, the seediest corner of the village, his home turf. This was where the forgotten gathered, where shadows seemed to cling to the air, thick and cloying, and where despair drifted like smoke from the cracked, muddy huts. Broken fences, shattered bottles, and splintered remnants of carts littered the path, markers of a place where no one cared enough to clean. He walked past beggars huddled beneath fraying blankets, their eyes glinting dully in the twilight. Shadeside was the only place he could ever belong—a boy with a whore for a mother and a ghost for a father, tethered to this place by blood and circumstance.
As he approached his "home," if it could even be called that, he pulled out the fruits and meats he'd pilfered, casting a wary eye over the rickety structure. The place was little more than a shamble of wooden planks barely holding together under beast skins that flapped against the wind, giving the illusion of stability. The entire hut groaned as a gust swept through, rattling its feeble bones, as if mocking his attempt to find shelter here. For just a moment, Juraf's carefree expression faltered, the mask slipping to reveal a flicker of frustration, maybe even shame, but he quickly smothered it, replacing it with his trademark grin. No one was around to see his slip, but it was for himself, a reminder to never give in to the weakness this place tried to breed into him.
He kicked open the door, swaggering in with a wide grin, only to be met with a blur of black hair and flailing limbs hurtling toward him. He barely ducked in time as a small girl, her dark eyes fierce, flew past him, mouth open, ready to take a bite out of him like a feral beast. But in his duck he jammed one of the apples he had stolen into her mouth before she landed. She skidded to a halt, turning around, eyes flashing in a challenge.
"Little Kiyanna, you gotta be faster than that if you want to catch me, the great Juraf!" he crowed, striking a ridiculous pose, one hand on his hip and the other raised in triumph.
She glared, holding up a frayed string he hadn't noticed before, tugging it with a triumphant grin. He barely had time to blink before a wooden rafter, barely held together by her makeshift trap, dislodged and fell, smacking him square on the head and knocking him flat on his ass.
"Ow! Fuck!" he groaned, rubbing the growing lump on his skull.
"Mmmfmmm—pegh!" Kiyanna spat the apple he'd jammed into her mouth onto the ground, wiping her lips in disgust. "Juraf, you idiot! Where were you all day, and why the hell do you have a weapon? And where did you get all this food? With what coin, huh? We're broke! I've told you a million times, you can't become a soldier. They wouldn't accept someone like you; we barely even went to the village classes!" She jabbed a finger at him, her voice shrill with frustration, though her eyes softened just slightly with worry.
Juraf rolled his eyes, brushing off her nagging as he stood and adjusted his stolen spear like it was a prized possession. She wasn't wrong, not exactly. Coins, crafted from the carapace of rare insects and infused with aspar blood, giving them that eerie glow in the moonlight, were precious in Wolvenblade. Each bore a stylized symbol of Fenrir, a numen formation etched into its surface, making even a single coin worth guarding. Coins ran the economy, but bartering was more common down here in Shadeside. Bartering happened in Sunside to it was just less common. Juraf, of course, owned nothing of worth to trade. Still, none of that mattered to him. He had no need for rules or limits.
"Shut it, brat! We have nothing now, but that'll change soon enough. I'll make sure of it," he said, his voice unusually serious for a brief moment, the usual jest falling away as he met her gaze head-on. "I'm gonna make it into the army somehow. I'll become strong enough that they won't have a choice but to notice me."
Some of the frustration drained from Kiyanna's face, replaced with a flicker of doubt and something that might've been hope, if she dared believe in it. "We could both just get service jobs, you know. I wanted to get one, but you stopped me. You're out there every day stealing, and you never tell me why. What happens if you get caught, huh? What am I supposed to do then?" She reached out, her hand hesitating, hovering near his face as if seeking to reassure herself of his presence.
Juraf laughed, brushing her hand away and tousling her hair with a grin. "Caught? Me? Getting caught is for amateurs and talentless nobodies. Your brother is secretly the son of Fenrir, you know," he boasted, puffing out his chest. "Didn't you see the way the suns shone down on me in divine fashion that one time? Actually, I'll let you in on a little secret—the seven suns are goddesses, all of 'em, and they're just waitin' to join my harem. I, Juraf, shall fuck the heavens!" He struck a dramatic pose, arms wide, as if the goddesses themselves would descend at that moment to confirm his claim.
Kiyanna wrinkled her nose, her face contorted in disgust. "You're such an idiot. Why do you always do that?" She scoffed, her hand dropping as she turned her back on him, trudging off toward the deeper shadows of the slums, shoulders tense with an irritation that couldn't entirely hide the fondness beneath. That being said she was very angry he could tell from experience.
He watched her go, the mocking bravado slipping slightly as he muttered under his breath, "Better you be annoyed with me than worried."
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Juraf sighed as Kiyanna's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet squalor of their tiny shack. He scanned the small heap of food he'd managed to gather today, separating out a few pieces that would have to be rationed for tomorrow. The rest, he tucked away for what would happen later and some for Kiyanna little for him. He didn't need much; his mind was on other things, things that filled the space that food couldn't. He lowered himself onto the rough, dirt-streaked floor and shut his eyes, letting his thoughts drift to the rhythm of his own breathing.
With each breath, he felt the numen flow into him, an unseen force slipping into his veins and settling in his meridians like liquid energy. It pulsed with a quiet, primal hum, resonating with his heartbeat. His chest rose and fell, each breath drawing the numen deeper, cycling it through his body, each cycle stripping away impurities from his flesh and spirit. A faint mist of turbid air left him, carrying away the toxins that had built up from the hard, unforgiving life he lived. It was as if the numen held echoes of a mighty howl, a note woven from the threads of the Great Wolf Sutra, a path of cultivation that carried the untamed essence of his people. Even street urchins like himself knew it, they were all allowed to learn.
Juraf felt the numen refining him, cleaning him from within, but there was more—something incomprehensible, layered beneath the numen's raw energy, faint whispers that seemed to brush against the edges of his mind. It was a symphony of sounds, twisted and tangled, ancient and cryptic. The sounds didn't make sense to him, not entirely, but he knew instinctively that they were the Great Dao itself, the secrets of creation murmuring at the threshold of his understanding.
Most people would consider it a rare privilege to hear the Dao, even in fragments, maybe even call it a minor enlightenment, but for Juraf, it was an experience that felt as natural as breathing. Every time he sat down to cultivate, every time he drew the numen into himself, he could hear those whispers, like faint shadows cast across his mind. Tonight, he reached out to them, focusing his thoughts, his will, trying to grasp something specific within the tangle of sounds. He sifted through the cacophony, searching, waiting. Wolfish howls reverberated somewhere in the echoes—the wolf Sutra technique guiding him—but that wasn't what he sought tonight.
Then, he heard it.
Fwip!
A single, piercing sound, like a great spear cutting through the air, clean and unstoppable. As the noise settled in his mind, his vision shifted. He was no longer in the shack. Before him was a vision—a spear, monumental in size, thrust from the ground like a jagged tooth, piercing the heavens themselves. The sky split around its tip, the very void torn asunder by its sheer presence. The suns hung in the sky, framing it like silent spectators, casting their light as a backdrop to this symbol of pure destruction, this embodiment of dominance.
What is a spear? The question echoed in his mind, and the answer came as naturally as the vision before him.
Yes, a spear was a weapon, but it was also more than that. It was the first weapon. In the ancient tales of Wolvenblade, back when the founders walked the wastelands and battled the savage beasts, they used spears to hunt, to kill, to defend themselves against the merciless world. The spear was the first weapon of man and thus was the first true departure from nature. It was Wolvenkind's first rebellion, their first act of defiance against nature itself, carving something deadly from the earth to wield against the world. In that moment, they had forged their path to dominance.
The spear was more than just a tool; it was the spirit of rebellion, a manifestation of strength in the face of adversity. It represented a choice to face the horrors of the world head-on, to pierce through the obstacles with unyielding resolve. To wield a spear was to embody the path of dominance, to say to the world, I will not bow. It was man's weapon, the weapon that drew the line between beast and sentient, the weapon that tore open the fabric of opportunity and paved the way for civilization. Among weapons, it was the undisputed king.
The vision burned in his mind, this colossal spear towering toward the heavens, unbreakable, unchallenged. He felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding with the rhythm of the ancient battles, the spirit of man against the uncaring savagery of creation. In that spear, he saw his path, the way forward, clear and undeniable. He reached out in his mind, grasping at the spear's image, feeling the raw, terrible power of dominance surge through him—
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his skull, shattering the vision. He gasped, clutching his head as the echoes of the spear's power faded, leaving him dizzy, aching, yet exhilarated.
"Woohh!" He breathed out, leaning back with a grin of satisfaction. "I made a lot of progress today. I'll crack the seventh shackle soon," he muttered, his voice filled with a note of pride. For a boy with no formal training, barely surviving on the streets at just fifteen, his progress was nothing short of extraordinary. Not only that—something else had happened, something that had been brewing for a long time but was finally taking shape.
He raised his hand, focusing on the numen swirling around it. But this time, it felt different. The numen was no longer just an energy flowing through him; it had taken on a new quality, a faint but unmistakable resonance with the spear. It was still rough, half-formed, but he could feel it. This wasn't merely numen—it was numen tinged with his own will, an essence of dominance and sharpness he'd etched into it from the depths of his mind. A half-formed intent, born from his spirit.
The sensation thrummed through him, and he could tell that it made his attacks a little stronger, his movements a bit sharper. Yet he knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning. When he fully grasped this essence, when it crystallized into something whole, he knew it would change him in ways he couldn't yet understand.
He shook his head, banishing the thoughts as his gaze drifted upward. The shack's ceiling was riddled with holes, each one letting in shafts of pale moonlight that seemed to cut through the darkness. The beams cast an ethereal glow over the room, adding an almost mystical quality to the dingy, damp walls and the worn-out floor. He hadn't fixed the roof yet, and in truth, he barely noticed the cold drafts that crept in through the gaps. But as he sat there, he became aware of a nagging sense of time slipping away.
She wasn't back yet. Kiyanna. Damn, was it already that late? No not only that, it was that time. This was worrying.
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"Kiyanna?!" Juraf's voice echoed through the dark, tense with hope yet biting with anger. He waited for a response, anything—a shout back, a faint noise—but only silence met him. Of course, nothing could ever be that easy. He spat a curse under his breath. "Fucking Fenrir, what is this? Payback for blaspheming the suns earlier? They can suck my big black spear."
He grabbed the stolen spear with a determined grip, setting off toward the place he knew those bastards would be. They were the reason he resorted to stealing, why he never considered finding honest work. A gang, if they could even be called that—they were more like a force, a festering rot that ran unchecked through the slums. Wolvenblade was split into four roughly distinct areas: the central village square and the market where all the main action happened; the nicer residential area reserved for the more fortunate folk; the rural outskirts dotted with sparse crops and scattered homes; and then the slums, known as Shadeside, the village's forgotten, dark underbelly. Shadeside was the smallest, huddled around the jail like a scar the village preferred not to acknowledge. The law barely reached here, and that neglect had given the gang free reign to operate with impunity, extorting and threatening residents with violence and worse. He knew all too well the lengths they'd go to—using threats of forced prostitution, blackmail, anything to keep a hold over the desperate.
He tore through the grim night, the sights of Shadeside flashing past him like twisted memories. Emaciated children lay sprawled on the cold ground, eyes glassy with hunger. Lepers wandered aimlessly, draped in ragged clothes, their skin marked by rot. Women, some barely older than him, leaned from doorways and beckoned to passersby, their voices sweet and broken as they called men in for a night of fleeting escape. His gaze flicked over each sight with a numbness born from years of exposure. This was his home. This was Shadeside.
He turned a corner and halted as the gang's hideout loomed before him—a building that stood like a dark monolith against the broken skyline, an eyesore even in this cesspit. Its walls, once a faded blue-green, were now painted a suffocating black. An emblem of a wolf's head, inverted and spewing blood, was smeared across the front—a blatant, over-the-top display of sacrilege that even Shadeside's jaded residents found unsettling and edgy. Yet, despite the bravado he wore so easily, he couldn't deny the knot of anxiety coiling in his stomach. Moths fluttered against his insides, a frantic, chittering dread that clawed up his throat, but he swallowed it down. He was Juraf. If he was anything, it was stubborn.
Bam! Bam!
He banged on the heavy wooden doors, shouting up at the guards inside. "For gang Odinblood! I've got goods from Sunside, just like you asked. Let me in!"
He threw a lilt of deference into his voice. He had no respect for these bastards, but he knew better than to openly defy them without a plan. A bit of feigned obedience might save him a beating—or worse. Better to bend than break, at least until he could finally get out of this hellhole.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was thickset, with gray hair and wolf ears, not from age but as a natural trait, framing a scarred face that looked like it had been ripped in half and patched together with the remnants of a sick grin. Most people would feel a twinge of fear just from looking at him, but Juraf only felt disgust. The man's presence was practically a caricature, a walking, scowling embodiment of every thug stereotype. And to top it off, the guy was only a fourth-shackle cultivator—an absolute bitch, really, in the grand scheme of things.
"Over here, brat," the man rasped with a laugh that grated like sandpaper. "Kehehe. Hope you got us some good shit tonight."
"Even your laugh sounds evil…" Juraf muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" the man snapped, suspicion narrowing his already beady eyes.
"Nothing," Juraf shot back quickly, forcing a smirk as he followed the thug inside.
The interior was as dark and twisted as the building's exterior suggested. Strange, crude tools of torture lined the walls, glinting in the dim light like grim souvenirs. Women in barely-there dresses draped themselves over the gang members, their laughter strained and hollow as they performed dances and acts that spoke of desperation rather than joy. His gaze swept over the scene, catching glimpses of faces and forms, some lost in a haze of intoxication, others simply numb. In one corner, a trio of hulking fat men had backed a boy into a corner, a child no older than ten. They were sweaty wet and grinning their flesh like warped cadvers as they finger reached for the child. The kid's terrified scream echoed briefly, his small figure trembling, until one of the men silenced him with a fist before they continued. Juraf turned his gaze, with a slight grimace. But that's just how things were.
Elsewhere, a group of rough-looking men sat smoking something pungent, its sickly-sweet lilac haze swirling around them. Their skin had started to warp, odd, purplish lumps protruding from beneath the surface like tumors or cysts—the side effects of cultivating with whatever poison they were inhaling. It was a mockery of true cultivation, a self-destructive spiral that was all too common here. He shook his head, steeling himself against the suffocating miasma of corruption.
They led him deeper into the building, passing rooms lined with dingy cots and tables covered in half-empty bottles and crusted plates. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale liquor, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood. Shadows flickered along the walls, dancing with the guttering light from cracked lanterns, casting twisted shapes that seemed to mock him as he moved. Each step forward was another step into the heart of Shadeside's darkness.
Finally, they reached the central hall. The space was wider here, though no less decrepit, with low-hanging beams draped in tattered banners. At the center of it all sat a man whose very presence seemed to weigh down the room—the leader of Odinblood.
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In that place where the light barely flickered against the thick shadows that clung to every corner. That man sat alone, seated at the room's center, was the man they called "Longlegs." The name, while absurd, was fitting for someone as unnervingly stretched and spindly as he was. His limbs were elongated, almost insect-like, his tail a grotesque extension that curled on the floor beside him. Everything about him seemed unnaturally thin and stretched, as though some twisted god had taken a normal man and pulled at his edges until he became this warped, skeletal figure. His face was long, his ears even longer, casting an eerie shadow over his sunken cheeks and narrow, calculating eyes.
Worst of all, despite his grotesque appearance, Longlegs was strong. Stronger than anyone else Juraf had personally crossed paths with in this cesspool of a village. An eighth-shackle cultivator, an achievement rare enough that people of such power were often drawn into the military or to being hunters, far beyond the reach of ordinary village life. But here he was, lord of the Shadeside slums. It was this uncharacteristic strength that kept him in power, unchallenged in the underbelly of Wolvenblade.
"Sir Longlegs." Juraf bowed his head deeply, suppressing the laughter that tugged at his lips over the ridiculousness of the name. He'd seen what happened to a guy who dared chuckle at it once. That poor bastard had ended up as an object lesson in obedience, and the memory of it was enough to erase any hint of humor in Juraf's mind. Keeping his head down, he said, "I brought some food you requested from Sunside. As always, I hope it meets your standards, so we can keep our… partnership going."
Longlegs didn't respond, only waved his unnaturally long, bony fingers toward a figure at his side—a boy a few years older than Juraf with slicked-back blond hair and a smirk that practically dripped arrogance. This was Allo, a man who was scum through and through. Arrogant, malicious, and a complete sycophant. Allo delighted in playing the part of a big shot here in Shadeside, taking every opportunity to flaunt his power over those weaker than him, yet he groveled like a worm before Longlegs. He was a weak to the strong and strong to the weak. Just another who loved to whore out power. Paying for a night in exchange for a lifetime of shame and suffering just to feel it, to fuck it one time. How pathetic, Juraf couldn't even stomach the guy; he wasn't just an ass, he was a sniveling, power-hungry pedo who enjoyed tormenting anyone he felt was beneath him.
"This ain't enough, Juraffy," Allo sneered, his lips curling into a smirk that made Juraf want to smash his face into the dirt. He took delight in watching Juraf bow and grovel, milking every ounce of power the situation granted him. "And that spear—hand it over."
Before Juraf could respond, Allo ripped the weapon from his grasp, tossing it behind him with a nonchalance that only irritated Juraf more. Then, leaning in close, Allo hissed, "Food and little trinkets from Sunside? That's all you bring us? This shit's a joke. Hell, the fact that you even have the balls to show up here with this pitiful offering is practically asking for an execution, Juraf. I think we should suck out your fucking bone marrow. Or maybe throw you to the pigs; I hear they looovvveee little boys like you." He grinned, reveling in his own crude taunts. "Granted, you're getting a bit old for that, aren't ya?"
Juraf felt his fists clench involuntarily at the words. These scum were nasty to the core, twisted beyond redemption. Shadeside was full of trash like them, like he himself. But even here, these guys managed to stand out, he was scum but he wasn't that bad. And just when he thought Allo's words couldn't get any worse, he saw the man's face light up with a new, sinister idea.
"But your sister, though," Allo said, his voice dripping with a twisted glee. "Now she's a pretty little thing, huh? I know we promised not to whore her out before, but you haven't exactly been delivering as expected, have you? Maybe it's time we reconsider. I'm thinking she's high-quality stock. Hell, I'd be happy to take her first time myself. Get her broken in nice and proper." His grin was feral, eyes alight with malicious delight.
Rage flared hot and blinding in Juraf's mind, a fury so intense it threatened to consume him entirely. But he fought it down, kept his voice steady. "The deal was that I bring you supplies from Sunside, and in return, you stay away from my sister and our home. I haven't violated that arrangement. If you have my sister here… let her go. A high-class prostitute is still just that, no more than a tool, especially to someone like you."
The words came out cool, carefully controlled, but he knew he was playing with fire. Allo's face twisted with pleasure at his defiance, like he was savoring every word.
"Oh, is that so?" Allo's voice dropped to a sneering drawl as he leaned closer, his face a mask of smug satisfaction. "Look at you, groveling to keep her untouched. What's the matter, Juraffy? Are you trying to say you don't want me to take her first time? Maybe you're hoping to keep it for yourself? You dirty bastard, trying to deny me—"
Longlegs held up his fingers, and Allo's words cut off instantly, his mouth snapping shut as if someone had thrown a switch. For all his bravado, Allo's obedience was swift and unquestioning in the presence of Longlegs. Juraf's stomach churned with a mix of anger and contempt; Allo might talk tough, but he was a coward through and through.
Longlegs' voice came, soft and breathy, like a whisper that slithered through the air, oily and cold. "I make the rules, Juraf. This is Shadeside; it's my domain. My will decides who stays untouched and who becomes useful. Your sister has grown up nicely, and I think she'll be a fine addition to my side. It's why I have her. But perhaps… perhaps I might allow you a place here as well. Your cultivation isn't bad for your age. Maybe one day, you could even replace Allo."
"What, boss?" Allo whipped his head around, eyes wide with shock and indignation. But one cold look from Longlegs shut him up immediately. Even a spineless lapdog like him knew better than to cross his master.
But before the tension could thicken, Juraf exploded into mocking laughter, his voice a harsh cackle that filled the room. "Aehahhaha! GYHAHAHAHA!!! Oh, you long-legged, spindle-limbed, snavine-looking fuck! You tell me where my sister is, or I swear, I'll rip the skin off your skinny-ass scalp and use it as a damn condom while I fuck every one of your mothers!" He leveled a crazed look at Allo, grinning like a madman. "Oh, except you, Allo. Your mother's already rotting in the ground, isn't she? You cried like a pathetic little bitch when she died. Should I dig up her corpse, take her for a spin? Or is that something you'd already thought of? Maybe you two were keeping busy while your old cripple of a dad couldn't perform, huh?" He chuckled out like he had lost all of his sanity.
Because he had, there was no way in the seven suns he was letting these people turn his sister into a common whore like that woman. Like his mother, he had gone to great lengths to separate her from that life. To take care of her always. That was his responsibility as her big brother. Even though he was scum he was scum that was an elder sibling.
Allo's face twisted with rage, his forehead bulging as veins popped out like vines crawling beneath his skin. The taunts had hit home, riling him up to the point of boiling over. Letting out a wild, guttural scream, Allo charged, his body igniting with a thin layer of numen that pulsed with a low, red glow. He lunged with his fist raised, his intention clear in his bloodshot eyes—he wanted to make Juraf pay with pain.
But Juraf was ready. In a flash, he ducked under the blow, bending at an angle that left Allo's strike sailing harmlessly above his head. With a swift, practiced motion, he twisted his body, popping up back-to-back with his assailant before Allo even realized his punch had missed. Then, in a move as natural as breathing, Juraf hooked his arm back, catching Allo's elbow and yanking it with enough force to redirect the bigger man's momentum. Allo's body was whipped around like a rag doll, his own weight and strength used against him as he was thrown straight toward Longlegs.
But the gang leader merely flicked his long, bony fingers, swatting Allo aside as if he were no more than a bothersome fly. Allo crashed into a nearby table, shattering it into splinters. Pieces of wood flew in all directions, the men around them recoiling from the impact. Blood trickled from Allo's forehead as he struggled to sit up, his face a mixture of shock and fury.
"So, this is what it has come to, Juraf?" Longlegs' voice was calm, almost amused, as he watched the chaos unfold around him. There was a twisted satisfaction in his tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the struggle yet complete disdain for the one daring to revolt.
Juraf's face contorted with fury, his eyes blazing with a primal light. "I'll fucking kill you all!" he roared, his voice echoing through the dark, decrepit hall.
At his cry, the room exploded into motion. Men surged forward from every direction, a sea of twisted, brutish figures, all rushing to subdue the boy who had dared to defy their master. Juraf grinned, eyes narrowing as he braced himself for the onslaught.
Juraf's gaze was alight with wild, unbridled fury as he twisted and struck with ruthless precision, each move fueled by a deep-rooted anger that had lain dormant until tonight. One of the gang members lunged at him, aiming to tackle him around the waist, but Juraf reacted in an instant, slamming his knee upward to connect with the man's nose in a sickening crunch. Blood exploded from his face, and before he could even register the pain, Juraf seized his arm, swinging him with brutal force, using his body like a bludgeon to crash into another thug attempting to flank him. The two men collapsed in a tangled heap, groaning in agony.
He barely had a second to catch his breath before a bat came swinging towards his skull. The weapon connected with a glancing blow, but Juraf rolled with it, dissipating some of the impact. He hit the ground hard but sprang up with feline grace, retaliating with a fierce backward kick aimed directly at his assailant's groin. His foot made contact with brutal accuracy, and he felt the man's testicles rupture under the force. The gang member's scream tore through the air, followed by a retch as he crumpled, pale and unconscious, to the ground.
Before he could recover, another thug swung a blade towards his extended leg, hoping to sever it. Juraf twisted in mid-air, his body moving with a deadly grace honed by years of survival on the streets. He brought his other leg crashing down onto the attacker's face, shattering the man's nose and knocking him back before he could complete his strike. Blood spattered across the dusty floorboards as the man staggered, clutching his mangled face in horror and pain.
Juraf hit the ground, rolling to dodge the oncoming assault as more men came at him from every angle, blades glinting with murderous intent. He felt the rush of air as they slashed down towards his prone body, narrowly missing him as he twisted away. Planting his hands on the ground, he spun his legs in a rapid circle, transforming into a human whirlwind that sent his attackers reeling backward. They staggered, struggling to regain their footing, and Juraf wasted no time. He sprang up, grabbing one of the blades embedded in the floor and going on the offensive, a dark gleam of determination in his eyes.
One of the men raised his own sword, positioning it to block an expected strike at his kidney. But Juraf's attack was a feint; with a swift flick of his wrist, he changed the angle, slicing halfway through the man's thigh. A scream tore from his mouth as Juraf used the moment of pain to his advantage, jamming his fingers into the man's eyes. The thug stumbled, clutching at his face in agony, and with brutal efficiency, Juraf brought his blade down, cleaving his head cleanly in two. The body collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath it, and Juraf stepped over it with a cold, unfeeling detachment.
Without pause, he charged forward, weaving between the gang members as if they were nothing more than obstacles. His blade sliced through flesh and bone with relentless precision, limbs flying as blood sprayed into the air like a macabre fountain. He moved in close to one man with a particularly long reach, jamming his blade between the thug's ribs and piercing his lung. The man's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his body went limp. Juraf grabbed him by the shoulders, using the dying man's body as a shield, blocking the flurry of blows coming from other attackers. From behind his human barricade, he struck out with his blade, slashing at their faces and throats in quick, lethal motions.
Eventually, he had to let the corpse go. It slumped to the ground, and at that moment, a blade slashed across his back. Pain seared through him, hot and sharp, but he ground his teeth, letting the agony fuel his rage. He turned, grabbing the wrist of the man who had cut him and twisting it with brutal force. The man tried to release his weapon, but Juraf held his grip firm, forcing the blade into the thug's own gut. The man gasped, his eyes going wide with terror as he felt the cold steel penetrate his flesh. Juraf twisted the blade viciously before drawing it out, watching with satisfaction as the man crumpled, lifeless.
With a surge of adrenaline, he jumped into the air, somersaulting over a massive wolf-man who stood at least seven feet tall. Placing both palms on the flat side of his blade, he used his momentum to drive the weapon down through the thug's trapezius muscle, carving a deep, gory gash through his shoulder and torso. The wolf-man let out a guttural howl, blood pouring from the wound as he collapsed to his knees. But before Juraf could land, another blade nicked his leg, slicing through muscle and sending a hot burst of pain up his thigh.
He staggered but recovered quickly, using the injury to his advantage. He swung his leg in a powerful kick that caught his attacker's chin, sending him reeling back. Before the man could recover, Juraf grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back and slashing his throat in one brutal motion. Blood sprayed across the floor as the man fell, clutching at the gaping wound, his life draining away with each ragged breath.
Just then, another blade came flying toward his face. He barely managed to dodge, the sharp edge grazing his neck and leaving a thin line of blood. With a feral snarl, he sliced off the offender's arm, catching the severed limb and wielding it like a club. The macabre weapon swung in a brutal arc, smashing into the faces of three nearby attackers with sickening thuds. Teeth and blood flew as they crumpled to the ground, their faces a mangled mess of flesh and bone.
One man tried to make a break for it, turning tail and running, but a prostitute threw herself between them, her arms spread wide as if to shield him. "No, please don—"
Juraf's blade sliced through her without hesitation, cleaving her from shoulder to hip. Her body split with a wet, sickening sound, her final plea cut off as blood sprayed across the wooden floor. The man she'd tried to protect didn't even look back, already bolting for the door in a blind panic.
He jumped on the man's back before putting the blade to his neck and cutting so he wouldn't die but so he'd bleed out slowly. He hated people like him the most. He was running low on numen but he still had a secret weapon he was saving. Because that long bastard hadn't moved this entire time after seeing his men die in droves.
Juraf's heart thundered in his chest after the kill, his body a map of bruises, blood, and torn flesh, but he stood defiantly before Longlegs, the man who was all that stood between him and his sister's safety. The adrenaline pumping through his veins drowned out his pain, forcing him to his feet as he spat blood, a manic grin splitting his lips.
Longlegs sneered as he surveyed the carnage around them. Nearly all his men were dead or had fled, leaving the room a blood-stained testament to the battle that had taken place. The irony was clear in his cold, mocking eyes. "Killing an innocent girl like that. For someone trying to be a hero, it's not very nice, is it?"
Juraf's laughter was harsh, rasping through his bloody lips. He straightened, though every movement screamed in agony, his ribs bruised to the bone, his body nearly at its limit. But giving up wasn't an option. Not now. If he gave up then he had lived for nothing. In the end, he was nothing if not something to someone, and the only someone he had was Kiyanna. She was the only someone he cared about.
"I'm scum, Longlegs; we all are," Juraf rasped. "But you crossed the line when you fucked with my sister. She's the only clean soul in this filthy, Fenrir-damned side of the village. I'm not doing this because I'm some fucking hero. I'm doing this because I'm her big brother. You messed with the wrong person, you bastard. I am Juraf—a calamity that'll pierce through the godsdamn sky! You? You're just an inconsequential piece of shit in my way."
A flicker of fury passed over Longlegs' face. "Nice obituary, Juraf."
And in a flash, Longlegs moved, faster than Juraf's eye could track. The gang leader's hand shot forward, slamming into Juraf's chest with a force that shattered the air around them. The blow launched him backward, his body hurtling through wall after wall, splinters and jagged wood digging into his flesh like claws. Blood splattered in thick arcs as he crashed into a barren room, vision blurring, black dots swimming before his eyes. He struggled to breathe as his ribs felt like they'd been crushed inward, his lungs wheezing for air.
Longlegs' spindly fingers gripped his mouth, twisting his face like a fish on a hook, dragging him through the wreckage. The pain was excruciating as Juraf was flung once more across the room, slamming into a wall with a sickening crack. The impact sent splinters embedding into his back, their sharp, relentless sting mixing with the haze of his battered mind.
"G-get up…" he mumbled to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he forced his muscles to respond. But the world spun in a violent whirl, black and white spears clashing and shattering within his mind's eye, almost as if they were guiding him, showing him a path he couldn't quite grasp. His head pounded, but his instincts flared, urging him to move. He managed to move his head just as Longlegs' hand smashed down on the ground, splintering the wood his head occupied a moment ago.
Taking advantage of the position with a guttural snarl, Juraf coiled his body, wrapping his legs and arms around Longlegs' extended limb. Summoning what strength he had left, he twisted violently, feeling the sickening pop of the man's elbow dislocating beneath his grip. Longlegs let out a guttural roar, throwing Juraf off with a vicious toss that sent him crashing into yet another wall.
"AHHH! Fuck!" Longlegs cradled his dislocated arm for a brief moment before snapping it back into place with a grotesque crunch. His eyes narrowed with renewed fury, and he lunged forward, fists glowing with numen as he unleashed a devastating combination.
Juraf barely managed to block one of the strikes, his bruised arms shaking under the force. But Longlegs was relentless, his next attack coming even faster. Juraf swung a wild punch, only for Longlegs to sidestep smoothly, bringing both arms back as if drawing a massive bow.
"Gungnir!" Longlegs roared, releasing the pent-up energy with brutal precision. Both fists shot forward, charged with numen, hitting Juraf with the force of a sledgehammer. Juraf's vision went white as the impact knocked the air from his lungs, his body buckling under the raw, unrestrained power. Blood and bile spewed from his mouth as he was launched into the air, spinning helplessly like a ragdoll amidst the dust and debris.
But Longlegs wasn't finished.
He sprang up after Juraf, gripping his legs in mid-air, his long fingers wrapping around Juraf's ankles like chains. With a powerful twist, he spun them both in the air, channeling numen through his body in a flowing ring around them, creating an almost ritualistic aura.
"Draupnir!" The throw was merciless, sending Juraf hurtling across the room. His body crashed through wooden beams and stone walls, each impact shattering the structure around him. Pain tore through him in waves, his skin split and torn, bones threatening to snap from the relentless assault.
Even then, there was no mercy.
"Mimisbrunnr!" Longlegs' fingers extended, elongated by a coat of numen, each one as sharp as a blade. He lunged, aiming straight for Juraf's eyes. Juraf barely managed to roll to the side, the deadly fingers grazing his forehead instead, leaving a deep, stinging gash across his brow. Blood trickled down into his eyes, blurring his vision further, but the pain snapped him back into clarity, grounding him amidst the overwhelming agony.
He stumbled back, gasping, but Longlegs closed in, faster than he could react. Juraf raised an arm in a feeble defense, only for Longlegs to drive an elbow into his temple, numen flaring around the blow like a shockwave.
"Huginn!" he shouted at the time of the attack.
The impact hit him like a thunderclap, his skull rattling as stars exploded across his vision. His body was sent reeling backward, crashing into the ground with bone-jarring force.
The room seemed to spin as Juraf forced himself to his knees, his body on the edge of collapse. Longlegs was already advancing, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and amusement. He clearly relished every moment of his opponent's suffering.
But Juraf wasn't done. Not yet.
Spitting blood, he looked up at the gang leader, a bloody grin cutting across his face. "That… all you got, you stretched-out fuck? I'm not… done… until I rip that ugly fucking head off your neck."
"Muninn!" He twisted again sending the opposite elbow into his other temple. And juraf felt like he was dead. There was nothing he could do. He hadn't even been able to use that thing. Juraf's body felt as if it were floating, drifting away from reality, slipping into an all-encompassing darkness. His mind staggered, a part of him desperately wanting to let go, to sink into the void and be swallowed by the weight of his defeat. To be swallowed whole and forget about the filth he had lived his whole life encumbered by. He was battered, his skull felt split in two, and every nerve in his body screamed. What could a sixth-shackle like him do against an eighth? The idea was laughable—a fight of legends, a myth whispered by drunks in the back alleys. And here he was, crushed beneath it, barely breathing, his spirit splintered.
But just as he started to fall into that darkness, something stirred—a glimmer in the void. Out of the blackness, he saw it: a spear, stretching infinitely forward. Its blade gleamed, piercing the very fabric of reality, tearing through the darkness with an unyielding, timeless light. This was no ordinary weapon; it was the embodiment of a path a great road. The spear extended infinitely, but on its narrow edge walked figures, their backs turned to him. Muscular backs, scarred and weathered, carrying burdens like invisible weights, trudged forward on this endless road of domination. And they were great, every single one held a gravitas and momentum that was unreplicable. They were the backs of the mighty, the backs of those that took the world by storm. Who used the first weapon to rebel against the world that surrounded them.
These were not heroes nor villains, not paragons of virtue nor creatures of darkness. They were something simpler, yet infinitely more complex—fighters. Fighters through and through, warriors who battled against the world itself, who took up the spear to pierce the sky, to rebel against their very existence, to carve a path in a world that had offered them nothing but scorn. They were unbreakable, resolute, the embodiment of defiance itself. Each of their backs told a story, a testament to battles won and lost, to the lives they'd left in their wake. Those who battled against all things those who followed the way of the spear.
And then, amidst the marching figures, one of the backs turned. This one was far ahead of the horizon and it was hard to see their face but once it cleared Juraf's eyes widened. After all, it was only natural as he saw it was his own face staring back at him, smirking, filled with defiance. His own voice echoed along the infinite length of the spear-road, filled with laughter, with that reckless, undying hunger to fight against all odds.
"GYAHAHAHA!!!"
The sound of his laughter rang like thunder in his ears, and his vision snapped back into clarity. His eyes flew open, breath flooding his lungs as though he were alive for the first time. Everything around him sharpened—the crumbling walls, the dust settling in the air, the blood staining the ground beneath him. And within him, something had taken shape, something he'd been trying to grasp all this time. A clarity, a power, something that he had been building day by day, just waiting to be awakened. It was as if his soul itself had been reforged, molded in the fires of his unyielding will.
Spear Intent.
It surged through his veins, an electric pulse that revitalized every part of him, ignoring his bruised ribs, the torn skin, the blood-streaked face. He rolled to the side, dodging another crushing blow from Longlegs' fist, feeling the air tremble as it slammed into the ground where he had been moments before. Instinct took over, his hand closing around a broken beam lying amid the rubble, the wood familiar in his grip yet transformed, as though it held the weight of that endless road.
Juraf twirled the beam in his hand, feeling the raw intensity coursing from his fingertips into the fractured wood. Spear Intent flowed through it, seeping into every splinter and grain, transforming it from a broken beam into an extension of his spirit, his very being. This was no longer just a piece of debris; it was a weapon, one that burned with the newfound intensity of his intent.
He staggered to his feet, rolling his shoulders, feeling the exhaustion but ignoring it as he leveled his gaze at Longlegs. His smirk returned, that manic grin that spoke of defiance, of the countless fights he'd survived, of every brutal lesson learned in the streets.
"You wanted a fight, Longlegs?" His voice came out steady, mocking, every bit of it carrying the raw edge of his intent. "Well, here's one you won't fucking forget."
Longlegs' eyes narrowed, his lip curling in disdain. But there was something else there now—a flicker of unease, a sliver of recognition that he wasn't just dealing with the same beaten-down kid he'd thrown around moments ago. The air grew tense, charged with an almost tangible energy as Juraf took a stance, the broken beam poised like a spear, his body low and balanced. It felt like he was standing on that infinite road once more, the figures marching forward with him, each step adding to the strength flowing into his makeshift spear.
______________
Juraf shot forward, determination sharpening his gaze, and twirled his makeshift spear, feeling the weight and intent of his weapon coursing through him. Longlegs struck out, his fist blurring in a deadly arc, but Juraf was ready. With a flick of the wooden shaft, he intercepted the blow, the impact resonating up his arms but holding firm. He twisted his spear and, seizing the opportunity, drove it straight into Longlegs' shoulder.
"RAGGGHHH!!" Longlegs bellowed, blood spurting as he staggered back. He swung for Juraf's head, the fury of his blow crackling through the air, but Juraf deflected it with a deft twist of his spear. Using the man's own momentum against him, he sliced into Longlegs' exposed side, quickly slipping behind him.
Enraged, Longlegs attempted a backward kick. Juraf acted on instinct, raising his spear and driving it right through the man's foot, the splintered wood piercing flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The man let out a guttural snarl, stumbling, but Juraf didn't let up. With a feral grin, he aimed for Longlegs' throat, the intent in his strike sharper than any blade, but the man twisted just enough to evade the fatal blow, resulting in his wolf ear being severed instead.
Blood sprayed as Longlegs recoiled, his face contorted in pain and rage. Juraf seized the moment, looping his weapon around the man's neck and choking him, pulling back with all his remaining strength. His spear intent pulsed, seeping into the jagged splinter, slicing into Longlegs' neck like the bite of a wolf. The man wriggled like a Pipla caught in a trap, flailing as he tried to break free, but Juraf held fast, tightening his grip, pouring every ounce of his will into the chokehold.
The man's face turned from red to purple, veins bulging as his struggling grew weaker, his breaths rasping. But then, with one final, desperate surge, Longlegs twisted violently, ramming an elbow into Juraf's shattered ribs. A spike of pain exploded through him, and he lost his grip. In a flash, Longlegs turned, slamming his forehead into Juraf's face, sending him sprawling to the ground in a daze. Before he could regain his bearings, a brutal kick sent him flying across the floor, where he crashed in a heap of broken wood and dust.
"Fucking Fenrir, kid," Longlegs spat, cracking his neck as he loomed over Juraf's fallen form. "This'll be pleasant—my first time killing a genius." He sneered, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him, savoring each moment as he closed in. But just then, a crash sounded through the broken doors, followed by a sharp, desperate shout.
"He's right over there!"
Juraf's eyes shot open, and he saw her—Kiyanna—standing there, her voice cutting through the chaos, directing attention to him. Behind her was a young boy in a white shawl, his face covered, darting in behind Longlegs. With swift, decisive motion, the boy stabbed a dagger straight through Longlegs' back. Blood dribbled down the man's lips as he twisted, roaring in pain, and with a wild swipe of his arm, he knocked the boy away, sending him sprawling to the side. But that was enough.
Juraf felt a rush of gratitude, a wave of fierce pride swelling in his chest. Thank you, Kiyanna. It was her who had saved him. Not that he'd ever say it aloud—he was Juraf, after all, a self-centered genius, a piece of scum who wouldn't admit his vulnerability. But he was her big brother. And for her, he had to move forward, no matter the pain, no matter the cost.
He staggered to his feet, barely able to see through the blood and sweat stinging his eyes. His entire body was screaming in agony, ribs cracked, skin bruised, but he didn't care. The spirit of that endless road, the path of the spear, blazed within him, filling his battered form with a relentless fury. Gripping his makeshift spear, he gathered what little numen he had left, feeling his spear intent surge with newfound intensity. He took a stance, his mind focusing on that single moment, that single vision from earlier—the spear that had pierced the heavens, that symbol of rebellion, of dominance over a hostile world. He had decided to do all he could to mimic even but a fraction of that power. It created a move of artistic conception fully born of intent rather than just numen. Numen was just an amplifier not the core.
Summoning every ounce of strength, he thrust forward, his voice erupting in a primal roar that seemed to shake the very walls around them.
"INSURGENT SPEAR!"
In that moment, the broken splinter in his hands became more than wood—it became a weapon of pure, unyielding force, a vessel for his spear intent. An ethereal image of the vision he had seen filled the room, towering above them both, a colossal spear piercing skyward. His weapon, infused with every bit of his will, shot forward, its power tearing through the air like a comet.
Longlegs didn't even have a chance to react. The makeshift spear drove straight through his torso, ripping through flesh, bone, and numen, leaving a gaping, bloody void where his midsection had been. His body split in two, the upper and lower halves collapsing to the floor in a rain of blood that painted the wreckage in shades of crimson.
Juraf dropped to his knees, his vision swimming as the adrenaline began to ebb. His hands shook, his body racked with exhaustion, but he looked up just in time to see Kiyanna running toward him, tears streaming down her face. She knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms, her sobs breaking the silence that followed the brutal clash.
He could feel her tears, warm against his bloodied face, washing away some of the grime, and he managed a weak, crooked grin, reaching up to brush her hair from her tear-streaked cheeks.
Kiyanna's sobs shook her frame as she clutched Juraf tightly, her voice barely a whisper through the tears. "Why d–didn't you tell me? I wo–would have never yelled at you... hic–hic!" Her hold tightened, and he flinched as her embrace hit his bruised ribs, though he forced a smile.
"What are you talking about? I'm your big brother, after all, and I handled it. Don't cry; I'm not dead yet." He reached up, gently brushing her tears away with a shaky hand. "Besides, you know what they say—good people die early, but calamities last a thousand years. I'm only fifteen." His eyes gleamed with a flicker of humor, even as his body protested each movement.
As his gaze wandered, he turned his attention to the boy who had been masked earlier. Now, his face was exposed, revealing a slightly timid expression, cheeks flushed as he stole glances at Kiyanna, clearly flustered by her presence. He had tawny brown hair, a thin, delicate face, and striking green eyes that darted around, absorbing the wreckage of the room.
"You did all this… only at the sixth shackle?" The boy's voice was awed. "The fact that we're the same age, and you can do this—wow!"
Juraf narrowed his eyes, blinking in disbelief. Another sixth-shackle? That couldn't be right. In the entire village, Juraf's strength at his age was considered rare, nearly unheard of. And then, something clicked as he noted the finer cut of the boy's clothes, the expensive stitching and soft, untarnished fabric. And that hair, those eyes…
"FUCK! What the hell is a Lupus doing on Shade—urrk!" He doubled over, coughing up more blood, while Kiyanna's hands flew to his back, panic etched across her face.
The boy scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly averting his eyes. "Oh… you could tell. My name is Remulus Lupus. I just… I came to get aw–explore. And I wanted to see—uhh, I mean… I saw a girl being carried away, so I tried to help." His gaze drifted shyly to Kiyanna again, and then he squared his shoulders, as if remembering his purpose. "But now that I've seen you, I want to ask you for a favor."
Juraf raised an eyebrow, both wary and intrigued. A prince, asking a favor of me? "And that would be?" he asked cautiously. He might not have the luxury to say no.
Remulus took a deep breath, his words stumbling out in a hurried rush, "Could you teach me the spear? Of course, I'll make sure you get treated, and I'll even secure you a place in the army with me. I can get you a house, medical treatment, and plenty of other things for you and your sister!"
Juraf's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. A future for Kiyanna… a chance to join the army? He felt a laugh bubble up, unable to contain it despite the pain radiating from his battered body. "A house, treatment, and a place in the army? Yes, please! Hell, if you asked me to do something strange for a piece of change, I wouldn't have rejected you with those conditions!"
Kiyanna's blush deepened, and her hand came down on his chest, gentle but firm enough to make him cough a bit of blood. "JURAF!" Her voice was a mix of indignation and relief, though she couldn't keep a small smile from creeping onto her face.
"Ugh damn—can't you at least let your brother talk freely on his deathbed?" he grumbled, coughing through a lopsided grin.
"What happened to lasting a thousand years?" she quipped, though her tone softened as she helped him to his feet, supporting his right side with care.
Remulus quickly moved to Juraf's left, and together, they lifted him, each bracing his weight under the starlit sky. Moonlight bathed the three of them in a silver glow, casting long shadows as they slowly made their way from the ruins of that nightmarish scene, each step crunching softly on the dirt-strewn ground. Juraf's head grew heavy, vision blurring as exhaustion finally overtook him. The village sounds began to fade, the flickering lights of Shadeside retreating into the distance as they passed through the broken streets.
And in those final moments before unconsciousness claimed him, he saw it once more—a spear, shining brilliantly against a boundless sky. He had fought well. And now, with a faint smile on his face, he let himself drift into the darkness, secure in the knowledge that he had done everything he could.
___________________
Slap!
The meaty fist of the man before her crashed into her cheek, sending a sharp sting across her face. Her father, large and bloated, stood towering over her, his breath thick with the stench of cheap tavern spirits. His red, flushed face contorted with anger, lips wet and sneering. His entire form heaved up and down, panting, barely restrained rage lacing his every breath. One of his legs was a stark, unnatural gray, deadened from some past wound or illness—a permanent mark of his weakness. But she could never call it that. Weakness was something he would beat out of her, or try to. Exposing his own would be unthinkable. He was a strong man or at least he thought that he was.
Terra's gaze slid sideways, catching sight of her elder brother, Allo, lurking in the shadowed corner. His lips curled into a disdainful sneer, eyes cold and mocking as they watched her endure another round of punishment. In her dreams, she imagined ripping out those eyes, tearing them from his hateful face. At least there, she could be free. But reality was not as merciful; reality kept her chained to this life, bound by rules that men like her father and brother wrote for her.
"I better not catch you trying anything like that ever again, you stupid bitch!" her father roared, his voice a harsh, drunken slur that grated against her ears. "You're just a useless whore, just like your mother. Useless, useless, useless!"
He was furious because she'd dared to try to learn something, to steal scraps of knowledge to lift herself out of this hell. Perhaps learn a trade or become a priestess. To that purpose she had hidden away a few books, snuck them into their miserable shack of a home, but Allo, that miserable, conniving rat, had found them. Naturally, he ran to their father, eager to see her punished, eager to remind her that she was nothing.
She didn't answer. She knew better. Her head remained bowed, the picture of submission, while her father continued his tirade. Men ruled everything here, and someone like her—someone without power, without worth in the eyes of their twisted society—had no one to turn to. She could cry out a thousand times, but no one would save her. The men of this village had set their laws, and those laws kept women like her voiceless. Her father was a man, a veteran—those two things alone made him untouchable, invincible in the eyes of their world.
"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?" he spat, grabbing her by her hair—a dull golden shade, once bright, now tangled and dirtied from her life in this filth. He yanked her head back and then slammed her face against the wall, the rough wood scraping her skin. But she didn't give him what he wanted; no tears, no pleading. A single, restrained sniffle escaped her, the only betrayal of her pain. She had nothing else left to give, and even if she did, she wouldn't let him have it.
Allo stepped forward, his expression twisted with smug satisfaction, and placed a hand on their father's shoulder. He shook his head, a silent gesture that somehow held more venom than words ever could. He was pathetic, a parasite living off their father, doing nothing with his life. And yet their father indulged him, tolerated him. Not out of love or pride, but because he was nothing more than an extension of himself—a mirror to his own worthlessness. Trash begot trash. Rot accumulated, spread, festered.
Her father's life was a cycle of drinking, ranting about his so-called glory days, and harassing women. Allo was nothing different—a shadow cast from the same diseased mold. Why, she wondered, why was she born into this world, into this family of festering rot?
"WHY!" Her scream broke the silence, her voice raw with years of suppressed rage. Both men flinched, momentarily stunned by the sudden defiance.
Her brother's hand came down with ferocity, a brutal slap that rang out with a sickening crunch. She crumpled to the ground, her cheek burning, her head spinning from the impact. Her breath came in sharp gasps, the metallic tang of blood flooding her mouth. She pressed her hands against the cold, dirty floor, feeling the grit and splinters under her fingers.
"Crazy bitch," Allo muttered, wiping her blood off his knuckles with an expression of pure disgust, as if she were less than the filth caked beneath his nails. He turned on his heel, stalking away, leaving her there like discarded trash. Her father clicked his tongue in irritation and stalked to the fireplace, snatching up her precious books and tossing them carelessly into the flames. The pages curled, blackened, disintegrated, the knowledge she had craved turned to ash before her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand, the flickering flames reflected in her gaze, a lone symbol of all she had lost.
What was the point? What was the point of fighting, of hoping? This was her fate. No matter how much she struggled, no matter what small scraps of defiance she tried to cling to, it all ended the same. Defeated, she let her hand fall, watching the last fragments of her stolen dreams disappear.
She crawled to her room, every inch of her body aching. Their house was a dilapidated hovel, barely standing. Her own corner of it was somehow worse than the rest—a cramped, dank cell where the walls dripped with rot and mold. The floorboards were warped from water damage, and every inch seemed to be falling apart. Her bed frame was splintered, rough, and dangerous to touch, the wood rotting from the endless leaks that crept in from the roof above. Mold crawled along the walls, spreading in dark patches, filling the air with a damp, sour stench that choked her.
Insects of every kind crawled in the corners, hidden in the shadows, scurrying across her floor and creeping into the corners of her bed. She had no blanket, only the cold, bare wood that scraped against her skin. The air reeked of filth from the waste pit they called a latrine, barely masked by a simple sealing formation that had long since lost its power. The stench invaded her every breath, a bitter reminder of her place in this world. Every night, the smell hit her anew, sinking into her skin, clinging to her hair.
This was her reality. Her prison. She lay down on the bed, closing her eyes, trying to shut out the squalor, the hopelessness, the anger that bubbled beneath her skin. She wanted so desperately to escape, to dream of something better. But there was no home here, no warmth. She had no blanket, she had no comforts.
In the end all she really had was hell.
__________
"Gyahahaha!" A tan-skinned teen with pitch-black hair and mischievous eyes sprinted down the bustling market street, weaving past stands and startled townsfolk. Behind him thundered a rotund, red-faced man with hair only on the sides of his head, waving a spear as if it were an extension of his fury. The man's wolf ears twitched, betraying his volcanic temper.
"Gotta control that shit, old Bardo!" the boy taunted, glancing over his shoulder with a wide grin. "Makes you reallll easy to read!"
"You ugly fucking orphan bastard, get back here!" Bardo bellowed, his face purple with rage as he tried to keep up.
"Me? Ugly?" The boy scoffed, quickening his pace and dodging around a group of gawking villagers. "My brother in Fenrir, your fat-ass head looks like a half-shaven, pale testicle! And when you get all riled up and those veins start bulging? It's like a ball about to pop. Gives me subtle phantom pains just lookin' at it!" He barked out a laugh, leaping over a pile of crates as a few bricks whizzed past him, courtesy of some unimpressed townsfolk.
The street was alive with the clamor of merchants hawking their goods, the chatter of townsfolk, and the fragrant, earthy scent of roasted meats and fresh produce. Civilians ducked out of the way, some scowling, others chuckling at the spectacle of the chase. Some cheered Bardo on, hoping to see the boy get a long-overdue beating, while others watched in amused horror, clutching their wares and avoiding the chaos.
"Aiiieee!" The boy skirted past a cute girl about his age, giving her a light pat on the rear as he passed. "Nice rump you got there! You know my place—I'll be waiting~" he called with a wink, dodging a swipe aimed at his head as the girl swung at him with a cry of outrage.
"Get back here, you little shit!" Bardo thundered, his pace slowing but his resolve unyielding. He was angrier than ever, fists trembling with a faint, ominous glow as he prepared to channel his numen energy—a basic shockwave move that would be more than enough to stop the boy in his tracks. But seeing the faint glow, the boy's grin only widened.
"Oh, you're bringing out the big guns, huh?" he snickered, taking a sharp left and heading toward a crowded area where stands were piled high with fresh fruits, vegetables, and skewers of sizzling meat.
He darted through the crowd, snatching an apple here, a skewer there, nibbling as he ran and hiding some in his clothes, leaving a trail of outraged merchants and toppled goods in his wake. He ducked under hanging baskets of garlic, narrowly dodged a towering stack of onions, and snagged a handful of grapes from a nearby stand, laughing as he popped them into his mouth mid-sprint.
He spotted a cabbage stand up ahead, with a rickety frame that barely supported its own weight. Perfect. In one fluid motion, he flipped onto the stand, balancing nimbly atop it, and grinned down at Bardo just as the man threw a numen-empowered punch in his direction.
BOOM!
The shockwave exploded outward, obliterating the cabbage stand into a storm of leaves, shattered wood, and dust. The impact sent debris flying in all directions, and villagers shielded their faces, coughing and swearing as cabbage leaves rained down on them. The boy used the force of the explosion to springboard himself into the air, leaping clear over Bardo's head.
"My cabbages!" wailed the stall's owner, an older wolf man with greyed hair and ears, clutching a ruined cabbage to his ear as if in mourning. The poor vegetable hung in tatters, its shredded leaves slipping through his fingers like his lost dignity.
"Sorry, old man!" the boy called down with a careless shrug, already several feet away.
He landed gracefully on Bardo's shoulders, balancing just long enough to plant a muddy boot right in the center of the man's red, sweaty face. Bardo let out a startled grunt as the boy used him as a springboard, launching himself to the roof of a nearby building, where he crouched, looking down with a smug expression.
"Mr. Ball Head just couldn't do it, I see." He wiped at an imaginary tear, feigning pity as Bardo sputtered below, his face smeared with grime.
"I'll take this spear," he called down, reaching over and effortlessly snatching the weapon from Bardo's hands, twirling it with mock elegance. "You don't need it anyway. What you should really worry about is growing a 'spear' out of that testicle head of yours. Has to be natural, you know? Toys like this don't exactly win the ladies around here. Not that any would talk to your fat ass anyway."
With that, he gave a mocking salute, turning and bounding off the rooftop, leaping effortlessly from building to building, his laughter echoing through the market.
"FUCK YOU, JURAF!" Bardo's voice roared behind him, a mixture of rage and humiliation as the villagers around him chuckled, murmuring and shaking their heads.
"I LIKE WOMEN!" Juraf hollered back, the grin never leaving his face as he disappeared over the rooftops, leaving Bardo sputtering, defeated, in the dusty street below.
Juraf slipped through the winding dirt paths that led to Shadeside, the seediest corner of the village, his home turf. This was where the forgotten gathered, where shadows seemed to cling to the air, thick and cloying, and where despair drifted like smoke from the cracked, muddy huts. Broken fences, shattered bottles, and splintered remnants of carts littered the path, markers of a place where no one cared enough to clean. He walked past beggars huddled beneath fraying blankets, their eyes glinting dully in the twilight. Shadeside was the only place he could ever belong—a boy with a whore for a mother and a ghost for a father, tethered to this place by blood and circumstance.
As he approached his "home," if it could even be called that, he pulled out the fruits and meats he'd pilfered, casting a wary eye over the rickety structure. The place was little more than a shamble of wooden planks barely holding together under beast skins that flapped against the wind, giving the illusion of stability. The entire hut groaned as a gust swept through, rattling its feeble bones, as if mocking his attempt to find shelter here. For just a moment, Juraf's carefree expression faltered, the mask slipping to reveal a flicker of frustration, maybe even shame, but he quickly smothered it, replacing it with his trademark grin. No one was around to see his slip, but it was for himself, a reminder to never give in to the weakness this place tried to breed into him.
He kicked open the door, swaggering in with a wide grin, only to be met with a blur of black hair and flailing limbs hurtling toward him. He barely ducked in time as a small girl, her dark eyes fierce, flew past him, mouth open, ready to take a bite out of him like a feral beast. But in his duck he jammed one of the apples he had stolen into her mouth before she landed. She skidded to a halt, turning around, eyes flashing in a challenge.
"Little Kiyanna, you gotta be faster than that if you want to catch me, the great Juraf!" he crowed, striking a ridiculous pose, one hand on his hip and the other raised in triumph.
She glared, holding up a frayed string he hadn't noticed before, tugging it with a triumphant grin. He barely had time to blink before a wooden rafter, barely held together by her makeshift trap, dislodged and fell, smacking him square on the head and knocking him flat on his ass.
"Ow! Fuck!" he groaned, rubbing the growing lump on his skull.
"Mmmfmmm—pegh!" Kiyanna spat the apple he'd jammed into her mouth onto the ground, wiping her lips in disgust. "Juraf, you idiot! Where were you all day, and why the hell do you have a weapon? And where did you get all this food? With what coin, huh? We're broke! I've told you a million times, you can't become a soldier. They wouldn't accept someone like you; we barely even went to the village classes!" She jabbed a finger at him, her voice shrill with frustration, though her eyes softened just slightly with worry.
Juraf rolled his eyes, brushing off her nagging as he stood and adjusted his stolen spear like it was a prized possession. She wasn't wrong, not exactly. Coins, crafted from the carapace of rare insects and infused with aspar blood, giving them that eerie glow in the moonlight, were precious in Wolvenblade. Each bore a stylized symbol of Fenrir, a numen formation etched into its surface, making even a single coin worth guarding. Coins ran the economy, but bartering was more common down here in Shadeside. Bartering happened in Sunside to it was just less common. Juraf, of course, owned nothing of worth to trade. Still, none of that mattered to him. He had no need for rules or limits.
"Shut it, brat! We have nothing now, but that'll change soon enough. I'll make sure of it," he said, his voice unusually serious for a brief moment, the usual jest falling away as he met her gaze head-on. "I'm gonna make it into the army somehow. I'll become strong enough that they won't have a choice but to notice me."
Some of the frustration drained from Kiyanna's face, replaced with a flicker of doubt and something that might've been hope, if she dared believe in it. "We could both just get service jobs, you know. I wanted to get one, but you stopped me. You're out there every day stealing, and you never tell me why. What happens if you get caught, huh? What am I supposed to do then?" She reached out, her hand hesitating, hovering near his face as if seeking to reassure herself of his presence.
Juraf laughed, brushing her hand away and tousling her hair with a grin. "Caught? Me? Getting caught is for amateurs and talentless nobodies. Your brother is secretly the son of Fenrir, you know," he boasted, puffing out his chest. "Didn't you see the way the suns shone down on me in divine fashion that one time? Actually, I'll let you in on a little secret—the seven suns are goddesses, all of 'em, and they're just waitin' to join my harem. I, Juraf, shall fuck the heavens!" He struck a dramatic pose, arms wide, as if the goddesses themselves would descend at that moment to confirm his claim.
Kiyanna wrinkled her nose, her face contorted in disgust. "You're such an idiot. Why do you always do that?" She scoffed, her hand dropping as she turned her back on him, trudging off toward the deeper shadows of the slums, shoulders tense with an irritation that couldn't entirely hide the fondness beneath. That being said she was very angry he could tell from experience.
He watched her go, the mocking bravado slipping slightly as he muttered under his breath, "Better you be annoyed with me than worried."
__________________
Juraf sighed as Kiyanna's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet squalor of their tiny shack. He scanned the small heap of food he'd managed to gather today, separating out a few pieces that would have to be rationed for tomorrow. The rest, he tucked away for what would happen later and some for Kiyanna little for him. He didn't need much; his mind was on other things, things that filled the space that food couldn't. He lowered himself onto the rough, dirt-streaked floor and shut his eyes, letting his thoughts drift to the rhythm of his own breathing.
With each breath, he felt the numen flow into him, an unseen force slipping into his veins and settling in his meridians like liquid energy. It pulsed with a quiet, primal hum, resonating with his heartbeat. His chest rose and fell, each breath drawing the numen deeper, cycling it through his body, each cycle stripping away impurities from his flesh and spirit. A faint mist of turbid air left him, carrying away the toxins that had built up from the hard, unforgiving life he lived. It was as if the numen held echoes of a mighty howl, a note woven from the threads of the Great Wolf Sutra, a path of cultivation that carried the untamed essence of his people. Even street urchins like himself knew it, they were all allowed to learn.
Juraf felt the numen refining him, cleaning him from within, but there was more—something incomprehensible, layered beneath the numen's raw energy, faint whispers that seemed to brush against the edges of his mind. It was a symphony of sounds, twisted and tangled, ancient and cryptic. The sounds didn't make sense to him, not entirely, but he knew instinctively that they were the Great Dao itself, the secrets of creation murmuring at the threshold of his understanding.
Most people would consider it a rare privilege to hear the Dao, even in fragments, maybe even call it a minor enlightenment, but for Juraf, it was an experience that felt as natural as breathing. Every time he sat down to cultivate, every time he drew the numen into himself, he could hear those whispers, like faint shadows cast across his mind. Tonight, he reached out to them, focusing his thoughts, his will, trying to grasp something specific within the tangle of sounds. He sifted through the cacophony, searching, waiting. Wolfish howls reverberated somewhere in the echoes—the wolf Sutra technique guiding him—but that wasn't what he sought tonight.
Then, he heard it.
Fwip!
A single, piercing sound, like a great spear cutting through the air, clean and unstoppable. As the noise settled in his mind, his vision shifted. He was no longer in the shack. Before him was a vision—a spear, monumental in size, thrust from the ground like a jagged tooth, piercing the heavens themselves. The sky split around its tip, the very void torn asunder by its sheer presence. The suns hung in the sky, framing it like silent spectators, casting their light as a backdrop to this symbol of pure destruction, this embodiment of dominance.
What is a spear? The question echoed in his mind, and the answer came as naturally as the vision before him.
Yes, a spear was a weapon, but it was also more than that. It was the first weapon. In the ancient tales of Wolvenblade, back when the founders walked the wastelands and battled the savage beasts, they used spears to hunt, to kill, to defend themselves against the merciless world. The spear was the first weapon of man and thus was the first true departure from nature. It was Wolvenkind's first rebellion, their first act of defiance against nature itself, carving something deadly from the earth to wield against the world. In that moment, they had forged their path to dominance.
The spear was more than just a tool; it was the spirit of rebellion, a manifestation of strength in the face of adversity. It represented a choice to face the horrors of the world head-on, to pierce through the obstacles with unyielding resolve. To wield a spear was to embody the path of dominance, to say to the world, I will not bow. It was man's weapon, the weapon that drew the line between beast and sentient, the weapon that tore open the fabric of opportunity and paved the way for civilization. Among weapons, it was the undisputed king.
The vision burned in his mind, this colossal spear towering toward the heavens, unbreakable, unchallenged. He felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding with the rhythm of the ancient battles, the spirit of man against the uncaring savagery of creation. In that spear, he saw his path, the way forward, clear and undeniable. He reached out in his mind, grasping at the spear's image, feeling the raw, terrible power of dominance surge through him—
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his skull, shattering the vision. He gasped, clutching his head as the echoes of the spear's power faded, leaving him dizzy, aching, yet exhilarated.
"Woohh!" He breathed out, leaning back with a grin of satisfaction. "I made a lot of progress today. I'll crack the seventh shackle soon," he muttered, his voice filled with a note of pride. For a boy with no formal training, barely surviving on the streets at just fifteen, his progress was nothing short of extraordinary. Not only that—something else had happened, something that had been brewing for a long time but was finally taking shape.
He raised his hand, focusing on the numen swirling around it. But this time, it felt different. The numen was no longer just an energy flowing through him; it had taken on a new quality, a faint but unmistakable resonance with the spear. It was still rough, half-formed, but he could feel it. This wasn't merely numen—it was numen tinged with his own will, an essence of dominance and sharpness he'd etched into it from the depths of his mind. A half-formed intent, born from his spirit.
The sensation thrummed through him, and he could tell that it made his attacks a little stronger, his movements a bit sharper. Yet he knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning. When he fully grasped this essence, when it crystallized into something whole, he knew it would change him in ways he couldn't yet understand.
He shook his head, banishing the thoughts as his gaze drifted upward. The shack's ceiling was riddled with holes, each one letting in shafts of pale moonlight that seemed to cut through the darkness. The beams cast an ethereal glow over the room, adding an almost mystical quality to the dingy, damp walls and the worn-out floor. He hadn't fixed the roof yet, and in truth, he barely noticed the cold drafts that crept in through the gaps. But as he sat there, he became aware of a nagging sense of time slipping away.
She wasn't back yet. Kiyanna. Damn, was it already that late? No not only that, it was that time. This was worrying.
____________
"Kiyanna?!" Juraf's voice echoed through the dark, tense with hope yet biting with anger. He waited for a response, anything—a shout back, a faint noise—but only silence met him. Of course, nothing could ever be that easy. He spat a curse under his breath. "Fucking Fenrir, what is this? Payback for blaspheming the suns earlier? They can suck my big black spear."
He grabbed the stolen spear with a determined grip, setting off toward the place he knew those bastards would be. They were the reason he resorted to stealing, why he never considered finding honest work. A gang, if they could even be called that—they were more like a force, a festering rot that ran unchecked through the slums. Wolvenblade was split into four roughly distinct areas: the central village square and the market where all the main action happened; the nicer residential area reserved for the more fortunate folk; the rural outskirts dotted with sparse crops and scattered homes; and then the slums, known as Shadeside, the village's forgotten, dark underbelly. Shadeside was the smallest, huddled around the jail like a scar the village preferred not to acknowledge. The law barely reached here, and that neglect had given the gang free reign to operate with impunity, extorting and threatening residents with violence and worse. He knew all too well the lengths they'd go to—using threats of forced prostitution, blackmail, anything to keep a hold over the desperate.
He tore through the grim night, the sights of Shadeside flashing past him like twisted memories. Emaciated children lay sprawled on the cold ground, eyes glassy with hunger. Lepers wandered aimlessly, draped in ragged clothes, their skin marked by rot. Women, some barely older than him, leaned from doorways and beckoned to passersby, their voices sweet and broken as they called men in for a night of fleeting escape. His gaze flicked over each sight with a numbness born from years of exposure. This was his home. This was Shadeside.
He turned a corner and halted as the gang's hideout loomed before him—a building that stood like a dark monolith against the broken skyline, an eyesore even in this cesspit. Its walls, once a faded blue-green, were now painted a suffocating black. An emblem of a wolf's head, inverted and spewing blood, was smeared across the front—a blatant, over-the-top display of sacrilege that even Shadeside's jaded residents found unsettling and edgy. Yet, despite the bravado he wore so easily, he couldn't deny the knot of anxiety coiling in his stomach. Moths fluttered against his insides, a frantic, chittering dread that clawed up his throat, but he swallowed it down. He was Juraf. If he was anything, it was stubborn.
Bam! Bam!
He banged on the heavy wooden doors, shouting up at the guards inside. "For gang Odinblood! I've got goods from Sunside, just like you asked. Let me in!"
He threw a lilt of deference into his voice. He had no respect for these bastards, but he knew better than to openly defy them without a plan. A bit of feigned obedience might save him a beating—or worse. Better to bend than break, at least until he could finally get out of this hellhole.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was thickset, with gray hair and wolf ears, not from age but as a natural trait, framing a scarred face that looked like it had been ripped in half and patched together with the remnants of a sick grin. Most people would feel a twinge of fear just from looking at him, but Juraf only felt disgust. The man's presence was practically a caricature, a walking, scowling embodiment of every thug stereotype. And to top it off, the guy was only a fourth-shackle cultivator—an absolute bitch, really, in the grand scheme of things.
"Over here, brat," the man rasped with a laugh that grated like sandpaper. "Kehehe. Hope you got us some good shit tonight."
"Even your laugh sounds evil…" Juraf muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" the man snapped, suspicion narrowing his already beady eyes.
"Nothing," Juraf shot back quickly, forcing a smirk as he followed the thug inside.
The interior was as dark and twisted as the building's exterior suggested. Strange, crude tools of torture lined the walls, glinting in the dim light like grim souvenirs. Women in barely-there dresses draped themselves over the gang members, their laughter strained and hollow as they performed dances and acts that spoke of desperation rather than joy. His gaze swept over the scene, catching glimpses of faces and forms, some lost in a haze of intoxication, others simply numb. In one corner, a trio of hulking fat men had backed a boy into a corner, a child no older than ten. They were sweaty wet and grinning their flesh like warped cadvers as they finger reached for the child. The kid's terrified scream echoed briefly, his small figure trembling, until one of the men silenced him with a fist before they continued. Juraf turned his gaze, with a slight grimace. But that's just how things were.
Elsewhere, a group of rough-looking men sat smoking something pungent, its sickly-sweet lilac haze swirling around them. Their skin had started to warp, odd, purplish lumps protruding from beneath the surface like tumors or cysts—the side effects of cultivating with whatever poison they were inhaling. It was a mockery of true cultivation, a self-destructive spiral that was all too common here. He shook his head, steeling himself against the suffocating miasma of corruption.
They led him deeper into the building, passing rooms lined with dingy cots and tables covered in half-empty bottles and crusted plates. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale liquor, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood. Shadows flickered along the walls, dancing with the guttering light from cracked lanterns, casting twisted shapes that seemed to mock him as he moved. Each step forward was another step into the heart of Shadeside's darkness.
Finally, they reached the central hall. The space was wider here, though no less decrepit, with low-hanging beams draped in tattered banners. At the center of it all sat a man whose very presence seemed to weigh down the room—the leader of Odinblood.
_____________
In that place where the light barely flickered against the thick shadows that clung to every corner. That man sat alone, seated at the room's center, was the man they called "Longlegs." The name, while absurd, was fitting for someone as unnervingly stretched and spindly as he was. His limbs were elongated, almost insect-like, his tail a grotesque extension that curled on the floor beside him. Everything about him seemed unnaturally thin and stretched, as though some twisted god had taken a normal man and pulled at his edges until he became this warped, skeletal figure. His face was long, his ears even longer, casting an eerie shadow over his sunken cheeks and narrow, calculating eyes.
Worst of all, despite his grotesque appearance, Longlegs was strong. Stronger than anyone else Juraf had personally crossed paths with in this cesspool of a village. An eighth-shackle cultivator, an achievement rare enough that people of such power were often drawn into the military or to being hunters, far beyond the reach of ordinary village life. But here he was, lord of the Shadeside slums. It was this uncharacteristic strength that kept him in power, unchallenged in the underbelly of Wolvenblade.
"Sir Longlegs." Juraf bowed his head deeply, suppressing the laughter that tugged at his lips over the ridiculousness of the name. He'd seen what happened to a guy who dared chuckle at it once. That poor bastard had ended up as an object lesson in obedience, and the memory of it was enough to erase any hint of humor in Juraf's mind. Keeping his head down, he said, "I brought some food you requested from Sunside. As always, I hope it meets your standards, so we can keep our… partnership going."
Longlegs didn't respond, only waved his unnaturally long, bony fingers toward a figure at his side—a boy a few years older than Juraf with slicked-back blond hair and a smirk that practically dripped arrogance. This was Allo, a man who was scum through and through. Arrogant, malicious, and a complete sycophant. Allo delighted in playing the part of a big shot here in Shadeside, taking every opportunity to flaunt his power over those weaker than him, yet he groveled like a worm before Longlegs. He was a weak to the strong and strong to the weak. Just another who loved to whore out power. Paying for a night in exchange for a lifetime of shame and suffering just to feel it, to fuck it one time. How pathetic, Juraf couldn't even stomach the guy; he wasn't just an ass, he was a sniveling, power-hungry pedo who enjoyed tormenting anyone he felt was beneath him.
"This ain't enough, Juraffy," Allo sneered, his lips curling into a smirk that made Juraf want to smash his face into the dirt. He took delight in watching Juraf bow and grovel, milking every ounce of power the situation granted him. "And that spear—hand it over."
Before Juraf could respond, Allo ripped the weapon from his grasp, tossing it behind him with a nonchalance that only irritated Juraf more. Then, leaning in close, Allo hissed, "Food and little trinkets from Sunside? That's all you bring us? This shit's a joke. Hell, the fact that you even have the balls to show up here with this pitiful offering is practically asking for an execution, Juraf. I think we should suck out your fucking bone marrow. Or maybe throw you to the pigs; I hear they looovvveee little boys like you." He grinned, reveling in his own crude taunts. "Granted, you're getting a bit old for that, aren't ya?"
Juraf felt his fists clench involuntarily at the words. These scum were nasty to the core, twisted beyond redemption. Shadeside was full of trash like them, like he himself. But even here, these guys managed to stand out, he was scum but he wasn't that bad. And just when he thought Allo's words couldn't get any worse, he saw the man's face light up with a new, sinister idea.
"But your sister, though," Allo said, his voice dripping with a twisted glee. "Now she's a pretty little thing, huh? I know we promised not to whore her out before, but you haven't exactly been delivering as expected, have you? Maybe it's time we reconsider. I'm thinking she's high-quality stock. Hell, I'd be happy to take her first time myself. Get her broken in nice and proper." His grin was feral, eyes alight with malicious delight.
Rage flared hot and blinding in Juraf's mind, a fury so intense it threatened to consume him entirely. But he fought it down, kept his voice steady. "The deal was that I bring you supplies from Sunside, and in return, you stay away from my sister and our home. I haven't violated that arrangement. If you have my sister here… let her go. A high-class prostitute is still just that, no more than a tool, especially to someone like you."
The words came out cool, carefully controlled, but he knew he was playing with fire. Allo's face twisted with pleasure at his defiance, like he was savoring every word.
"Oh, is that so?" Allo's voice dropped to a sneering drawl as he leaned closer, his face a mask of smug satisfaction. "Look at you, groveling to keep her untouched. What's the matter, Juraffy? Are you trying to say you don't want me to take her first time? Maybe you're hoping to keep it for yourself? You dirty bastard, trying to deny me—"
Longlegs held up his fingers, and Allo's words cut off instantly, his mouth snapping shut as if someone had thrown a switch. For all his bravado, Allo's obedience was swift and unquestioning in the presence of Longlegs. Juraf's stomach churned with a mix of anger and contempt; Allo might talk tough, but he was a coward through and through.
Longlegs' voice came, soft and breathy, like a whisper that slithered through the air, oily and cold. "I make the rules, Juraf. This is Shadeside; it's my domain. My will decides who stays untouched and who becomes useful. Your sister has grown up nicely, and I think she'll be a fine addition to my side. It's why I have her. But perhaps… perhaps I might allow you a place here as well. Your cultivation isn't bad for your age. Maybe one day, you could even replace Allo."
"What, boss?" Allo whipped his head around, eyes wide with shock and indignation. But one cold look from Longlegs shut him up immediately. Even a spineless lapdog like him knew better than to cross his master.
But before the tension could thicken, Juraf exploded into mocking laughter, his voice a harsh cackle that filled the room. "Aehahhaha! GYHAHAHAHA!!! Oh, you long-legged, spindle-limbed, snavine-looking fuck! You tell me where my sister is, or I swear, I'll rip the skin off your skinny-ass scalp and use it as a damn condom while I fuck every one of your mothers!" He leveled a crazed look at Allo, grinning like a madman. "Oh, except you, Allo. Your mother's already rotting in the ground, isn't she? You cried like a pathetic little bitch when she died. Should I dig up her corpse, take her for a spin? Or is that something you'd already thought of? Maybe you two were keeping busy while your old cripple of a dad couldn't perform, huh?" He chuckled out like he had lost all of his sanity.
Because he had, there was no way in the seven suns he was letting these people turn his sister into a common whore like that woman. Like his mother, he had gone to great lengths to separate her from that life. To take care of her always. That was his responsibility as her big brother. Even though he was scum he was scum that was an elder sibling.
Allo's face twisted with rage, his forehead bulging as veins popped out like vines crawling beneath his skin. The taunts had hit home, riling him up to the point of boiling over. Letting out a wild, guttural scream, Allo charged, his body igniting with a thin layer of numen that pulsed with a low, red glow. He lunged with his fist raised, his intention clear in his bloodshot eyes—he wanted to make Juraf pay with pain.
But Juraf was ready. In a flash, he ducked under the blow, bending at an angle that left Allo's strike sailing harmlessly above his head. With a swift, practiced motion, he twisted his body, popping up back-to-back with his assailant before Allo even realized his punch had missed. Then, in a move as natural as breathing, Juraf hooked his arm back, catching Allo's elbow and yanking it with enough force to redirect the bigger man's momentum. Allo's body was whipped around like a rag doll, his own weight and strength used against him as he was thrown straight toward Longlegs.
But the gang leader merely flicked his long, bony fingers, swatting Allo aside as if he were no more than a bothersome fly. Allo crashed into a nearby table, shattering it into splinters. Pieces of wood flew in all directions, the men around them recoiling from the impact. Blood trickled from Allo's forehead as he struggled to sit up, his face a mixture of shock and fury.
"So, this is what it has come to, Juraf?" Longlegs' voice was calm, almost amused, as he watched the chaos unfold around him. There was a twisted satisfaction in his tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the struggle yet complete disdain for the one daring to revolt.
Juraf's face contorted with fury, his eyes blazing with a primal light. "I'll fucking kill you all!" he roared, his voice echoing through the dark, decrepit hall.
At his cry, the room exploded into motion. Men surged forward from every direction, a sea of twisted, brutish figures, all rushing to subdue the boy who had dared to defy their master. Juraf grinned, eyes narrowing as he braced himself for the onslaught.
Juraf's gaze was alight with wild, unbridled fury as he twisted and struck with ruthless precision, each move fueled by a deep-rooted anger that had lain dormant until tonight. One of the gang members lunged at him, aiming to tackle him around the waist, but Juraf reacted in an instant, slamming his knee upward to connect with the man's nose in a sickening crunch. Blood exploded from his face, and before he could even register the pain, Juraf seized his arm, swinging him with brutal force, using his body like a bludgeon to crash into another thug attempting to flank him. The two men collapsed in a tangled heap, groaning in agony.
He barely had a second to catch his breath before a bat came swinging towards his skull. The weapon connected with a glancing blow, but Juraf rolled with it, dissipating some of the impact. He hit the ground hard but sprang up with feline grace, retaliating with a fierce backward kick aimed directly at his assailant's groin. His foot made contact with brutal accuracy, and he felt the man's testicles rupture under the force. The gang member's scream tore through the air, followed by a retch as he crumpled, pale and unconscious, to the ground.
Before he could recover, another thug swung a blade towards his extended leg, hoping to sever it. Juraf twisted in mid-air, his body moving with a deadly grace honed by years of survival on the streets. He brought his other leg crashing down onto the attacker's face, shattering the man's nose and knocking him back before he could complete his strike. Blood spattered across the dusty floorboards as the man staggered, clutching his mangled face in horror and pain.
Juraf hit the ground, rolling to dodge the oncoming assault as more men came at him from every angle, blades glinting with murderous intent. He felt the rush of air as they slashed down towards his prone body, narrowly missing him as he twisted away. Planting his hands on the ground, he spun his legs in a rapid circle, transforming into a human whirlwind that sent his attackers reeling backward. They staggered, struggling to regain their footing, and Juraf wasted no time. He sprang up, grabbing one of the blades embedded in the floor and going on the offensive, a dark gleam of determination in his eyes.
One of the men raised his own sword, positioning it to block an expected strike at his kidney. But Juraf's attack was a feint; with a swift flick of his wrist, he changed the angle, slicing halfway through the man's thigh. A scream tore from his mouth as Juraf used the moment of pain to his advantage, jamming his fingers into the man's eyes. The thug stumbled, clutching at his face in agony, and with brutal efficiency, Juraf brought his blade down, cleaving his head cleanly in two. The body collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath it, and Juraf stepped over it with a cold, unfeeling detachment.
Without pause, he charged forward, weaving between the gang members as if they were nothing more than obstacles. His blade sliced through flesh and bone with relentless precision, limbs flying as blood sprayed into the air like a macabre fountain. He moved in close to one man with a particularly long reach, jamming his blade between the thug's ribs and piercing his lung. The man's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his body went limp. Juraf grabbed him by the shoulders, using the dying man's body as a shield, blocking the flurry of blows coming from other attackers. From behind his human barricade, he struck out with his blade, slashing at their faces and throats in quick, lethal motions.
Eventually, he had to let the corpse go. It slumped to the ground, and at that moment, a blade slashed across his back. Pain seared through him, hot and sharp, but he ground his teeth, letting the agony fuel his rage. He turned, grabbing the wrist of the man who had cut him and twisting it with brutal force. The man tried to release his weapon, but Juraf held his grip firm, forcing the blade into the thug's own gut. The man gasped, his eyes going wide with terror as he felt the cold steel penetrate his flesh. Juraf twisted the blade viciously before drawing it out, watching with satisfaction as the man crumpled, lifeless.
With a surge of adrenaline, he jumped into the air, somersaulting over a massive wolf-man who stood at least seven feet tall. Placing both palms on the flat side of his blade, he used his momentum to drive the weapon down through the thug's trapezius muscle, carving a deep, gory gash through his shoulder and torso. The wolf-man let out a guttural howl, blood pouring from the wound as he collapsed to his knees. But before Juraf could land, another blade nicked his leg, slicing through muscle and sending a hot burst of pain up his thigh.
He staggered but recovered quickly, using the injury to his advantage. He swung his leg in a powerful kick that caught his attacker's chin, sending him reeling back. Before the man could recover, Juraf grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back and slashing his throat in one brutal motion. Blood sprayed across the floor as the man fell, clutching at the gaping wound, his life draining away with each ragged breath.
Just then, another blade came flying toward his face. He barely managed to dodge, the sharp edge grazing his neck and leaving a thin line of blood. With a feral snarl, he sliced off the offender's arm, catching the severed limb and wielding it like a club. The macabre weapon swung in a brutal arc, smashing into the faces of three nearby attackers with sickening thuds. Teeth and blood flew as they crumpled to the ground, their faces a mangled mess of flesh and bone.
One man tried to make a break for it, turning tail and running, but a prostitute threw herself between them, her arms spread wide as if to shield him. "No, please don—"
Juraf's blade sliced through her without hesitation, cleaving her from shoulder to hip. Her body split with a wet, sickening sound, her final plea cut off as blood sprayed across the wooden floor. The man she'd tried to protect didn't even look back, already bolting for the door in a blind panic.
He jumped on the man's back before putting the blade to his neck and cutting so he wouldn't die but so he'd bleed out slowly. He hated people like him the most. He was running low on numen but he still had a secret weapon he was saving. Because that long bastard hadn't moved this entire time after seeing his men die in droves.
Juraf's heart thundered in his chest after the kill, his body a map of bruises, blood, and torn flesh, but he stood defiantly before Longlegs, the man who was all that stood between him and his sister's safety. The adrenaline pumping through his veins drowned out his pain, forcing him to his feet as he spat blood, a manic grin splitting his lips.
Longlegs sneered as he surveyed the carnage around them. Nearly all his men were dead or had fled, leaving the room a blood-stained testament to the battle that had taken place. The irony was clear in his cold, mocking eyes. "Killing an innocent girl like that. For someone trying to be a hero, it's not very nice, is it?"
Juraf's laughter was harsh, rasping through his bloody lips. He straightened, though every movement screamed in agony, his ribs bruised to the bone, his body nearly at its limit. But giving up wasn't an option. Not now. If he gave up then he had lived for nothing. In the end, he was nothing if not something to someone, and the only someone he had was Kiyanna. She was the only someone he cared about.
"I'm scum, Longlegs; we all are," Juraf rasped. "But you crossed the line when you fucked with my sister. She's the only clean soul in this filthy, Fenrir-damned side of the village. I'm not doing this because I'm some fucking hero. I'm doing this because I'm her big brother. You messed with the wrong person, you bastard. I am Juraf—a calamity that'll pierce through the godsdamn sky! You? You're just an inconsequential piece of shit in my way."
A flicker of fury passed over Longlegs' face. "Nice obituary, Juraf."
And in a flash, Longlegs moved, faster than Juraf's eye could track. The gang leader's hand shot forward, slamming into Juraf's chest with a force that shattered the air around them. The blow launched him backward, his body hurtling through wall after wall, splinters and jagged wood digging into his flesh like claws. Blood splattered in thick arcs as he crashed into a barren room, vision blurring, black dots swimming before his eyes. He struggled to breathe as his ribs felt like they'd been crushed inward, his lungs wheezing for air.
Longlegs' spindly fingers gripped his mouth, twisting his face like a fish on a hook, dragging him through the wreckage. The pain was excruciating as Juraf was flung once more across the room, slamming into a wall with a sickening crack. The impact sent splinters embedding into his back, their sharp, relentless sting mixing with the haze of his battered mind.
"G-get up…" he mumbled to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, as he forced his muscles to respond. But the world spun in a violent whirl, black and white spears clashing and shattering within his mind's eye, almost as if they were guiding him, showing him a path he couldn't quite grasp. His head pounded, but his instincts flared, urging him to move. He managed to move his head just as Longlegs' hand smashed down on the ground, splintering the wood his head occupied a moment ago.
Taking advantage of the position with a guttural snarl, Juraf coiled his body, wrapping his legs and arms around Longlegs' extended limb. Summoning what strength he had left, he twisted violently, feeling the sickening pop of the man's elbow dislocating beneath his grip. Longlegs let out a guttural roar, throwing Juraf off with a vicious toss that sent him crashing into yet another wall.
"AHHH! Fuck!" Longlegs cradled his dislocated arm for a brief moment before snapping it back into place with a grotesque crunch. His eyes narrowed with renewed fury, and he lunged forward, fists glowing with numen as he unleashed a devastating combination.
Juraf barely managed to block one of the strikes, his bruised arms shaking under the force. But Longlegs was relentless, his next attack coming even faster. Juraf swung a wild punch, only for Longlegs to sidestep smoothly, bringing both arms back as if drawing a massive bow.
"Gungnir!" Longlegs roared, releasing the pent-up energy with brutal precision. Both fists shot forward, charged with numen, hitting Juraf with the force of a sledgehammer. Juraf's vision went white as the impact knocked the air from his lungs, his body buckling under the raw, unrestrained power. Blood and bile spewed from his mouth as he was launched into the air, spinning helplessly like a ragdoll amidst the dust and debris.
But Longlegs wasn't finished.
He sprang up after Juraf, gripping his legs in mid-air, his long fingers wrapping around Juraf's ankles like chains. With a powerful twist, he spun them both in the air, channeling numen through his body in a flowing ring around them, creating an almost ritualistic aura.
"Draupnir!" The throw was merciless, sending Juraf hurtling across the room. His body crashed through wooden beams and stone walls, each impact shattering the structure around him. Pain tore through him in waves, his skin split and torn, bones threatening to snap from the relentless assault.
Even then, there was no mercy.
"Mimisbrunnr!" Longlegs' fingers extended, elongated by a coat of numen, each one as sharp as a blade. He lunged, aiming straight for Juraf's eyes. Juraf barely managed to roll to the side, the deadly fingers grazing his forehead instead, leaving a deep, stinging gash across his brow. Blood trickled down into his eyes, blurring his vision further, but the pain snapped him back into clarity, grounding him amidst the overwhelming agony.
He stumbled back, gasping, but Longlegs closed in, faster than he could react. Juraf raised an arm in a feeble defense, only for Longlegs to drive an elbow into his temple, numen flaring around the blow like a shockwave.
"Huginn!" he shouted at the time of the attack.
The impact hit him like a thunderclap, his skull rattling as stars exploded across his vision. His body was sent reeling backward, crashing into the ground with bone-jarring force.
The room seemed to spin as Juraf forced himself to his knees, his body on the edge of collapse. Longlegs was already advancing, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and amusement. He clearly relished every moment of his opponent's suffering.
But Juraf wasn't done. Not yet.
Spitting blood, he looked up at the gang leader, a bloody grin cutting across his face. "That… all you got, you stretched-out fuck? I'm not… done… until I rip that ugly fucking head off your neck."
"Muninn!" He twisted again sending the opposite elbow into his other temple. And juraf felt like he was dead. There was nothing he could do. He hadn't even been able to use that thing. Juraf's body felt as if it were floating, drifting away from reality, slipping into an all-encompassing darkness. His mind staggered, a part of him desperately wanting to let go, to sink into the void and be swallowed by the weight of his defeat. To be swallowed whole and forget about the filth he had lived his whole life encumbered by. He was battered, his skull felt split in two, and every nerve in his body screamed. What could a sixth-shackle like him do against an eighth? The idea was laughable—a fight of legends, a myth whispered by drunks in the back alleys. And here he was, crushed beneath it, barely breathing, his spirit splintered.
But just as he started to fall into that darkness, something stirred—a glimmer in the void. Out of the blackness, he saw it: a spear, stretching infinitely forward. Its blade gleamed, piercing the very fabric of reality, tearing through the darkness with an unyielding, timeless light. This was no ordinary weapon; it was the embodiment of a path a great road. The spear extended infinitely, but on its narrow edge walked figures, their backs turned to him. Muscular backs, scarred and weathered, carrying burdens like invisible weights, trudged forward on this endless road of domination. And they were great, every single one held a gravitas and momentum that was unreplicable. They were the backs of the mighty, the backs of those that took the world by storm. Who used the first weapon to rebel against the world that surrounded them.
These were not heroes nor villains, not paragons of virtue nor creatures of darkness. They were something simpler, yet infinitely more complex—fighters. Fighters through and through, warriors who battled against the world itself, who took up the spear to pierce the sky, to rebel against their very existence, to carve a path in a world that had offered them nothing but scorn. They were unbreakable, resolute, the embodiment of defiance itself. Each of their backs told a story, a testament to battles won and lost, to the lives they'd left in their wake. Those who battled against all things those who followed the way of the spear.
And then, amidst the marching figures, one of the backs turned. This one was far ahead of the horizon and it was hard to see their face but once it cleared Juraf's eyes widened. After all, it was only natural as he saw it was his own face staring back at him, smirking, filled with defiance. His own voice echoed along the infinite length of the spear-road, filled with laughter, with that reckless, undying hunger to fight against all odds.
"GYAHAHAHA!!!"
The sound of his laughter rang like thunder in his ears, and his vision snapped back into clarity. His eyes flew open, breath flooding his lungs as though he were alive for the first time. Everything around him sharpened—the crumbling walls, the dust settling in the air, the blood staining the ground beneath him. And within him, something had taken shape, something he'd been trying to grasp all this time. A clarity, a power, something that he had been building day by day, just waiting to be awakened. It was as if his soul itself had been reforged, molded in the fires of his unyielding will.
Spear Intent.
It surged through his veins, an electric pulse that revitalized every part of him, ignoring his bruised ribs, the torn skin, the blood-streaked face. He rolled to the side, dodging another crushing blow from Longlegs' fist, feeling the air tremble as it slammed into the ground where he had been moments before. Instinct took over, his hand closing around a broken beam lying amid the rubble, the wood familiar in his grip yet transformed, as though it held the weight of that endless road.
Juraf twirled the beam in his hand, feeling the raw intensity coursing from his fingertips into the fractured wood. Spear Intent flowed through it, seeping into every splinter and grain, transforming it from a broken beam into an extension of his spirit, his very being. This was no longer just a piece of debris; it was a weapon, one that burned with the newfound intensity of his intent.
He staggered to his feet, rolling his shoulders, feeling the exhaustion but ignoring it as he leveled his gaze at Longlegs. His smirk returned, that manic grin that spoke of defiance, of the countless fights he'd survived, of every brutal lesson learned in the streets.
"You wanted a fight, Longlegs?" His voice came out steady, mocking, every bit of it carrying the raw edge of his intent. "Well, here's one you won't fucking forget."
Longlegs' eyes narrowed, his lip curling in disdain. But there was something else there now—a flicker of unease, a sliver of recognition that he wasn't just dealing with the same beaten-down kid he'd thrown around moments ago. The air grew tense, charged with an almost tangible energy as Juraf took a stance, the broken beam poised like a spear, his body low and balanced. It felt like he was standing on that infinite road once more, the figures marching forward with him, each step adding to the strength flowing into his makeshift spear.
______________
Juraf shot forward, determination sharpening his gaze, and twirled his makeshift spear, feeling the weight and intent of his weapon coursing through him. Longlegs struck out, his fist blurring in a deadly arc, but Juraf was ready. With a flick of the wooden shaft, he intercepted the blow, the impact resonating up his arms but holding firm. He twisted his spear and, seizing the opportunity, drove it straight into Longlegs' shoulder.
"RAGGGHHH!!" Longlegs bellowed, blood spurting as he staggered back. He swung for Juraf's head, the fury of his blow crackling through the air, but Juraf deflected it with a deft twist of his spear. Using the man's own momentum against him, he sliced into Longlegs' exposed side, quickly slipping behind him.
Enraged, Longlegs attempted a backward kick. Juraf acted on instinct, raising his spear and driving it right through the man's foot, the splintered wood piercing flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The man let out a guttural snarl, stumbling, but Juraf didn't let up. With a feral grin, he aimed for Longlegs' throat, the intent in his strike sharper than any blade, but the man twisted just enough to evade the fatal blow, resulting in his wolf ear being severed instead.
Blood sprayed as Longlegs recoiled, his face contorted in pain and rage. Juraf seized the moment, looping his weapon around the man's neck and choking him, pulling back with all his remaining strength. His spear intent pulsed, seeping into the jagged splinter, slicing into Longlegs' neck like the bite of a wolf. The man wriggled like a Pipla caught in a trap, flailing as he tried to break free, but Juraf held fast, tightening his grip, pouring every ounce of his will into the chokehold.
The man's face turned from red to purple, veins bulging as his struggling grew weaker, his breaths rasping. But then, with one final, desperate surge, Longlegs twisted violently, ramming an elbow into Juraf's shattered ribs. A spike of pain exploded through him, and he lost his grip. In a flash, Longlegs turned, slamming his forehead into Juraf's face, sending him sprawling to the ground in a daze. Before he could regain his bearings, a brutal kick sent him flying across the floor, where he crashed in a heap of broken wood and dust.
"Fucking Fenrir, kid," Longlegs spat, cracking his neck as he loomed over Juraf's fallen form. "This'll be pleasant—my first time killing a genius." He sneered, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him, savoring each moment as he closed in. But just then, a crash sounded through the broken doors, followed by a sharp, desperate shout.
"He's right over there!"
Juraf's eyes shot open, and he saw her—Kiyanna—standing there, her voice cutting through the chaos, directing attention to him. Behind her was a young boy in a white shawl, his face covered, darting in behind Longlegs. With swift, decisive motion, the boy stabbed a dagger straight through Longlegs' back. Blood dribbled down the man's lips as he twisted, roaring in pain, and with a wild swipe of his arm, he knocked the boy away, sending him sprawling to the side. But that was enough.
Juraf felt a rush of gratitude, a wave of fierce pride swelling in his chest. Thank you, Kiyanna. It was her who had saved him. Not that he'd ever say it aloud—he was Juraf, after all, a self-centered genius, a piece of scum who wouldn't admit his vulnerability. But he was her big brother. And for her, he had to move forward, no matter the pain, no matter the cost.
He staggered to his feet, barely able to see through the blood and sweat stinging his eyes. His entire body was screaming in agony, ribs cracked, skin bruised, but he didn't care. The spirit of that endless road, the path of the spear, blazed within him, filling his battered form with a relentless fury. Gripping his makeshift spear, he gathered what little numen he had left, feeling his spear intent surge with newfound intensity. He took a stance, his mind focusing on that single moment, that single vision from earlier—the spear that had pierced the heavens, that symbol of rebellion, of dominance over a hostile world. He had decided to do all he could to mimic even but a fraction of that power. It created a move of artistic conception fully born of intent rather than just numen. Numen was just an amplifier not the core.
Summoning every ounce of strength, he thrust forward, his voice erupting in a primal roar that seemed to shake the very walls around them.
"INSURGENT SPEAR!"
In that moment, the broken splinter in his hands became more than wood—it became a weapon of pure, unyielding force, a vessel for his spear intent. An ethereal image of the vision he had seen filled the room, towering above them both, a colossal spear piercing skyward. His weapon, infused with every bit of his will, shot forward, its power tearing through the air like a comet.
Longlegs didn't even have a chance to react. The makeshift spear drove straight through his torso, ripping through flesh, bone, and numen, leaving a gaping, bloody void where his midsection had been. His body split in two, the upper and lower halves collapsing to the floor in a rain of blood that painted the wreckage in shades of crimson.
Juraf dropped to his knees, his vision swimming as the adrenaline began to ebb. His hands shook, his body racked with exhaustion, but he looked up just in time to see Kiyanna running toward him, tears streaming down her face. She knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms, her sobs breaking the silence that followed the brutal clash.
He could feel her tears, warm against his bloodied face, washing away some of the grime, and he managed a weak, crooked grin, reaching up to brush her hair from her tear-streaked cheeks.
Kiyanna's sobs shook her frame as she clutched Juraf tightly, her voice barely a whisper through the tears. "Why d–didn't you tell me? I wo–would have never yelled at you... hic–hic!" Her hold tightened, and he flinched as her embrace hit his bruised ribs, though he forced a smile.
"What are you talking about? I'm your big brother, after all, and I handled it. Don't cry; I'm not dead yet." He reached up, gently brushing her tears away with a shaky hand. "Besides, you know what they say—good people die early, but calamities last a thousand years. I'm only fifteen." His eyes gleamed with a flicker of humor, even as his body protested each movement.
As his gaze wandered, he turned his attention to the boy who had been masked earlier. Now, his face was exposed, revealing a slightly timid expression, cheeks flushed as he stole glances at Kiyanna, clearly flustered by her presence. He had tawny brown hair, a thin, delicate face, and striking green eyes that darted around, absorbing the wreckage of the room.
"You did all this… only at the sixth shackle?" The boy's voice was awed. "The fact that we're the same age, and you can do this—wow!"
Juraf narrowed his eyes, blinking in disbelief. Another sixth-shackle? That couldn't be right. In the entire village, Juraf's strength at his age was considered rare, nearly unheard of. And then, something clicked as he noted the finer cut of the boy's clothes, the expensive stitching and soft, untarnished fabric. And that hair, those eyes…
"FUCK! What the hell is a Lupus doing on Shade—urrk!" He doubled over, coughing up more blood, while Kiyanna's hands flew to his back, panic etched across her face.
The boy scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly averting his eyes. "Oh… you could tell. My name is Remulus Lupus. I just… I came to get aw–explore. And I wanted to see—uhh, I mean… I saw a girl being carried away, so I tried to help." His gaze drifted shyly to Kiyanna again, and then he squared his shoulders, as if remembering his purpose. "But now that I've seen you, I want to ask you for a favor."
Juraf raised an eyebrow, both wary and intrigued. A prince, asking a favor of me? "And that would be?" he asked cautiously. He might not have the luxury to say no.
Remulus took a deep breath, his words stumbling out in a hurried rush, "Could you teach me the spear? Of course, I'll make sure you get treated, and I'll even secure you a place in the army with me. I can get you a house, medical treatment, and plenty of other things for you and your sister!"
Juraf's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. A future for Kiyanna… a chance to join the army? He felt a laugh bubble up, unable to contain it despite the pain radiating from his battered body. "A house, treatment, and a place in the army? Yes, please! Hell, if you asked me to do something strange for a piece of change, I wouldn't have rejected you with those conditions!"
Kiyanna's blush deepened, and her hand came down on his chest, gentle but firm enough to make him cough a bit of blood. "JURAF!" Her voice was a mix of indignation and relief, though she couldn't keep a small smile from creeping onto her face.
"Ugh damn—can't you at least let your brother talk freely on his deathbed?" he grumbled, coughing through a lopsided grin.
"What happened to lasting a thousand years?" she quipped, though her tone softened as she helped him to his feet, supporting his right side with care.
Remulus quickly moved to Juraf's left, and together, they lifted him, each bracing his weight under the starlit sky. Moonlight bathed the three of them in a silver glow, casting long shadows as they slowly made their way from the ruins of that nightmarish scene, each step crunching softly on the dirt-strewn ground. Juraf's head grew heavy, vision blurring as exhaustion finally overtook him. The village sounds began to fade, the flickering lights of Shadeside retreating into the distance as they passed through the broken streets.
And in those final moments before unconsciousness claimed him, he saw it once more—a spear, shining brilliantly against a boundless sky. He had fought well. And now, with a faint smile on his face, he let himself drift into the darkness, secure in the knowledge that he had done everything he could.
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