"JOSHU!"
"KARNI!"
"ELPA!"
"GURREN!"
The chant boomed across the battlefield, each name punctuated by earth shaking stomps. The minotaur war ritual honored every fallen king in their history—only four names after centuries of conquest.
"JOSHU!"
The ground trembled harder.
"KARNI!"
Weapons thrust toward the blood-red sky.
"ELPA!"
Fists pounded chests like funeral drums.
"GURREN!"
Sudden silence.
Every minotaur froze as Harra's monstrous silhouette emerged behind the Fenrir lines, his giant form dwarfing both armies. His very presence sent primal terror slithering down their spines.
But even still, the silence lasted only a heartbeat.
"JOSHU!"
The charge began.
Hooves tore the earth apart. Hot breath fogged the air in ragged bursts. War cries became a living thing, echoing between the trees.
The Fenrir answered with frenzied howls, eyes burning. They met the onslaught head-on.
Club met fang.
Minotaurs swung with berserker fury, sending mangled Fenrir corpses cartwheeling through sprays of red.
But the wolf's fought like liquid death, darting between legs, scaling backs, jaws snapping toward vulnerable throats. Yet half their fangs shattered against minotaur hide. The other half barely drew blood before being shaken off like pests.
This wasn't battle.
This was a massacre in slow motion.
A single minotaur bulled through the chaos, his scarred hide darker than the others, his mana taking on a different form.
Harra stepped forward to meet him, lips peeling back in a grin. "A named Minotaur working under Fignar? Does he need you to confirm what his mana-sight already tells him?"
The minotaur—Rula—rolled his shoulders with a series of cracks. "He saw the fear in your mana when you surrendered. What changed? Did the spider king promise you something sweeter than survival?"
"I merely couldn't stomach the thought of your ugly face looming over my people."
Rula chuckled. "Pity. Fignar planned to spare you, make you his prized mount. Wasted potential."
"Tragic," Harra deadpanned.
"Indeed."
Rula moved.
His war club became a blur, the air screaming as it arced toward Harra's skull.
Harra didn't flinch.
The weapon shattered against his muzzle, splinters raining onto the earth. Not a scratch remained. "No wonder he keeps you close... you make him feel powerful."
Snarling, Rula discarded the broken haft and charged bare-handed. His hands gripped Harra's pelt in an attempt to floor the Fenrir king, "He knows everything your mana has revealed, your desperation, your pathetic hope in those spiders."
"Does he now?" Harra rumbled, unmoving.
"Fignar... sees how your mana recoils from the truth! You sent them to die in a hopeless battle!"
Around them, the battle's tide became undeniable. Fenrir corpses piled while minotaur casualties remained sparse—a horrid hundred to fifteen.
Harra's ears flicked toward Rula's pounding heart, struggling to move him. "Funny... your mana reeks of deceit too. That tremor when you say his name, does Fignar know how badly you want to gut him?"
Rula's grip slackened. "He... tolerates ambition."
"You're wasting your breath," Harra growled. "That bastard could beat you with both arms tied behind his back—hell, while taking a nap."
Rula's hoof scraped the bloodied earth. "And you're wasting your last moments. Fignar's already tasted the surrender in your mana. He knows you'll kneel when he arrives." The named minotaur began turning away. "Might as well sit down and wait for your new master, or due to your transgression. You're executor."
As Rula retreated, Harra's fur bristled. The truth grated worse than the minotaur's insolence.
Fignar's blessing: mana sight—made him untouchable.
While most demi-humans could detect nearby mana signatures and even then only the most powerful ones. Harra's senses stretched far beyond ordinary, his perception blanketed the entire forest.
Every pulse, every flicker of energy within the woodlands mapped itself across his consciousness. This was his birthright, his blessing.
The minotaur king's blessing was much stronger, he could read emotions through mana, by checking its flow and pattern. Nothing could be hidden from him, no lies, no hidden strategies. Once you thought about it, he'd know.
That's why he hadn't budged from his tent. The ambush plan might as well have been shouted directly into his ears. He knew the spider king's movements. Knew their pathetic hope of catching him in the forest.
And most crucially—he'd tasted Harra's truth in the mana, the Fenrir king wouldn't fight.
A wet crunch snapped Harra's attention back.
The minotaurs weren't just killing his pack, they were performing executions. Clubs rose and fell like butchers cleavers, spilling intestinal fluid across the dirt. Fenrir whimpers cut through the clearing like broken music.
A single action would rewrite the battle's script. If he moved, Fignar would emerge. If Fignar emerged, and the Arachne's ambush failed. The outcome would remain unchanged—just messier, bloodier.
The minotaur king would come regardless. The invasion had already ended after all. At best, Fignar might spare the remaining Fenrir after executing him. That was the optimistic scenario.
"What a farce," Harra muttered. His claws dug into his own palms. "Since when do I gamble on others?" A humorless chuckle escaped him. "Must've inhaled a bit of the brats stupidity."
One step forward.
Instantly, Fignar's attention snapped toward him, the oppressive gaze burning across the distance like a brand pressed to flesh.
Mana vibrated through the air, thick with an unspoken threat:
"IWILLKILLYOU."
Cold sweat traced Harra's spine. He could feel the Arachne in the distance, how they waited. They wanted Fignar out of that tent, they wanted him in the forest where they could shift the battle to their favor.
It was a solid plan—on paper, but it hinged entirely on him.
Harra could slaughter the minotaurs. He wanted to. Every fiber of his being ached to tear into them, to repay every whimper of his pack with blood. But the moment he did, his fate would be sealed.
And even then—if he agreed to do it, the spider king's chances against Fignar weren't just bad, it was laughable.
He glanced ahead.
His pack's whimpers twisted into pretentious snarls as they retreated, bloodied and scarred. Their bravado was as thin as morning frost.
Harra exhaled.
There was no explanation. No rational thought.
Only the certainty that he'd lost his damn mind as his muscles coiled—
And sprang.
The forest trembled.
Then, like the night sky split open by lightning, Harra lunged into the fray.
A dozen minotaurs didn't even register the blur before them—until claws raked across their necks, spraying blood like ribbons into the air.
His body twisted mid-leap, tail snapping like a whip as he ripped through the front lines, landing in a crouch with bone and meat still dripping from his jaw.
They screamed, some backed away. Others roared and charged.
Harra didn't wait.
He rushed forward, impossibly fast for his size. His claws gouged into the earth with every stride, and then they dug into flesh, ripped hide like paper, his jaws crunching through shoulder and bone.
Rula grabbed an axe from the ground, annoyance etched upon his face.
"A pointless exercise," he said. "Fignar already knows your plan. Why do you fight a losing battle? Why act so irrationally for someone of your intellect—"
Blood sprayed the air.
Harra didn't answer. There was nothing left to say.
Rula was right, but that ship had sailed, he had accepted his fate and if this was to be his grave, he would drown it in blood.
A grin came upon his face as he licked his chops, the metallic taste a treat he had longed for.
He launched forward.
Then slid low, claws tearing through a minotaur's tendon with a loud snap. The brute collapsed mid-charge, and Harra vaulted up its falling back, launching himself into the air.
He crashed down onto another, jaw widening, teeth sinking into its neck, crunching against bone. With a single twist, he ripped the throat free, blood gushing like a fountain across the battlefield.
Another roared and came charging. Harra spun midair, his hind leg slamming into its jaw, sending teeth scattering like pebbles.
Three more closed in. He didn't stop.
He moved like lightning, a blur of silver and red, dodging axes by a hair, clawing open bellies, tearing open ribs, using one corpse as a shield before hurling it into another.
The battlefield was chaos—mud, blood, and howls, the Fenrir stared from behind, jaws widened in both fright and awe.
Then came the shift.
Harra skidded to a stop, eyes bloodshot. He threw his head back—
And howled.
The forest trembled.
Mana exploded outward in a shockwave, distorting the very air, the force rippling like heat over stone.
But it didn't stop there.
The wave slammed into the charging minotaurs, piercing through flesh, threading into their skulls like burning needles.
Then came the sound.
A high-pitched shriek, loud and maddening, echoed inside their minds, scraping against the walls of their sanity.
Some screamed. Others clawed at their ears.
And then—Pop.
Heads burst like overripe fruit.
Skulls shattered. Brains sprayed.
Minotaurs dropped like sacks of meat, their blood soaking the earth, painting the soil in thick pools of red.
The battlefield grew quiet for a moment.
The remaining Minotaurs shrieked as their hands dragged against the dirt, the only thought on their mind, survival, retreat.
The Fenrir army didn't allow that however.
And in mere moments.
Not one minotaur remained.
Harra stepped forward, his fur matted, soaked in blood, steam rising from his body as he spat onto the ground, eyes forward, nostrils flared.
Staring into the distance.
Through the curtain of mist and mangled bodies. Fignar stood from his tent, brushing past the leaf entryway, walking into the forest, his expression carved somewhere between rage and hatred.
The earth trembled under each step.
Then–movement.
A shift above.
From the trees above, the Arachne King descended, legs spread wide, the ambush starting.
Harra narrowed his eyes, then spoke.
"Your move, arachne king. Don't make me regret catching your stupidity like a damn disease.