The forest was cloaked in silence, the kind of quiet that meant death was coming. Mist coiled around the gnarled roots of ancient trees as Sabastin crouched low beneath a fallen log, his bloodied fingers tightening around the handle of his father's revolver. His coat was torn, one side drenched in blood from a deep gash across his ribs. Every breath was sharp, each movement agony—but he was alive. For now.
He had seen the smoke from the clearing ahead—an unnatural greenish plume rising into the sky like a signal. It was no ordinary campfire. Aleister had arrived.
And he wasn't alone.
From the distance, came a haunting howl—not from any wolf, but a mechanical, twisted mimicry of one. Sabastin's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just a hunt anymore. Aleister had brought something… monstrous.
He pulled himself up, clutching his side. Pain rippled through him, but he pushed forward, emerging into the clearing.
And there, amidst the ruins of an abandoned watchtower, stood Aleister.
He wore dark armor reinforced with steel plates, his eyes glowing with rage behind a crude mask of bone and leather. Surrounding him were the remains of his elite fighters—dozens of men clad in spiked gear, most wielding flamethrowers, axes, and modified rifles.
And chained behind them… a beast.
At first glance, it looked like a warhound, but taller than any horse, with patchy fur over raw muscle. Its eyes glowed red, and tubes of green chemical fluid pulsed beneath its skin.
Aleister turned as Sabastin limped into view.
"You're just in time," he sneered. "I brought a gift from the pits of Rautham Prison's experiment labs. They called it The Howler. Let's see how long your blood will keep it satisfied."
With a snap of his fingers, the chains fell.
The Howler roared—a sound that shattered the air like a thunderclap—and charged.
Sabastin raised his revolver and fired.
The first bullet struck the beast in the shoulder. It didn't even slow.
He rolled to the side, barely dodging as The Howler's claws tore into the earth where he'd stood. Sabastin gritted his teeth, using a fallen spear as leverage to climb atop a rock. He fired twice more—one bullet hit the beast's eye, blinding it on one side. It howled in agony.
Aleister laughed. "You still think bullets are enough?"
The beast lunged again, and this time its claws scraped Sabastin's leg, slicing flesh to bone. He screamed, but managed to shove his revolver into its wounded eye socket and pull the trigger.
Boom.
Blood and fluid sprayed everywhere. The Howler convulsed, then collapsed—twitching and finally still.
But it wasn't over.
Aleister's men surged forward with a war cry, axes raised, rifles cracking. Sabastin ducked, rolled, and shot one in the throat, another in the eye. A third swung an axe at him—Sabastin caught it with his forearm and screamed as it sank into his flesh—but he pulled the man close and drove his blade into his gut.
The clearing became a killing ground.
Flames lit the trees. Bullets tore bark and bone. Sabastin fought like a man possessed. His eyes burned, his arm was nearly useless, his leg barely held weight, but his mind was focused—one target: Aleister.
He fell two more men before someone tackled him from behind, slamming him to the dirt. A dagger sank into his shoulder. Sabastin grunted, twisting around, smashing the man's face with the butt of his gun.
He got up just in time to see Aleister walking toward him, stepping over the bodies of his own men.
"You killed my hound," Aleister growled. "You think you've won something?"
Sabastin, panting, lifted his revolver. "Not yet."
They charged each other.
Steel clashed—Aleister's heavy axe against Sabastin's knife and revolver. Each strike from Aleister shook the ground. Sabastin dodged, weaving in and out, landing small, brutal cuts.
Then Aleister landed a blow.
His axe sank into Sabastin's side, tearing flesh. Sabastin screamed, blood pouring. He staggered, nearly fell—but shot Aleister in the leg.
Aleister howled in pain. They collapsed together, wrestling in blood and mud.
Sabastin smashed his fist into Aleister's face again and again, breaking bone. Aleister stabbed at him with a hidden blade—Sabastin caught his wrist and bit down, drawing blood.
They broke apart, both barely standing.
"You're… not human," Aleister rasped, wiping blood from his broken mouth.
Sabastin stood, shaking, blood dripping from his wounds. "Neither are you."
He raised his revolver again—but it was empty.
Aleister smirked through the pain. "You lose."
But before he could finish his thought, Sabastin lunged, driving a broken spear through Aleister's shoulder.
Aleister screamed and fell to his knees.
Sabastin stood over him, panting, ready to end it.
But behind him, a survivor fired a desperate shot—catching Sabastin in the back.
He dropped to one knee, choking, the pain roaring through his spine.
Aleister, seizing the chance, stumbled to his feet, blood gushing from his wounds. "This isn't over," he hissed, and then he vanished into the smoke and fire.
Sabastin crawled forward, dragging himself through the bodies. The flames crept closer. Aleister's men were dead. The Howler was a broken carcass. Sabastin, barely conscious, reached a tree and collapsed against it.
The world swam around him. His chest heaved.
He had survived.
But at a cost.