The guttural laughter of the corrupted wolves was the only spur Malrik needed. Fighting was suicide. A dozen of them, large, fast, and clearly intelligent, against his injured, exhausted body? Madness. His mind, stripped of the arrogance that infected most with magical power, saw the simple, brutal truth: survival meant running.
He didn't hesitate. Turning his back on the grinning pack, he bolted. His injured leg screamed with pain, his arm throbbed, but instinct, honed in countless simulations and a single, brutal past life, overruled the agony. He sprinted into the dense, tangled growth of the Whisperwood, weaving between ancient trees, scrambling over gnarled roots, the sounds of the pursuing pack immediately behind him.
(Internal Monologue: Run. Don't think, just run. Put distance between us. Use the terrain. They are faster on the ground, but I can use verticality. Trees. Get to the trees. Break line of sight. Make them split up. Every second is a chance. Every obstacle is a tool.)
The sounds of the chase were terrifyingly close – the pounding of paws on the forest floor, the snapping of branches, low snarls and that chilling, rattling laughter echoing through the night. He pushed his body past its limits, lungs burning, muscles screaming in protest. He could feel the mana within him responding, not enhancing his speed directly, but increasing his endurance, dulling the edge of fatigue just enough to keep him moving.
He reached the base of a massive, vine-covered oak. Scrambling up, hand over hand, ignoring the protest of his injured arm, he pulled himself onto a thick branch. Below, the wolves snarled, milling for a second before several began attempting to follow, claws scrabbling against the bark. Others circled the base, watching.
(Internal: They expected me to fight. Expected me to be cornered prey. Running frustrates them. Good. Frustration leads to mistakes. They are intelligent, yes, but they are still predators. Predators rely on instinct and overwhelming force. Disrupt their pattern. Make them think.)
He moved along the branch, jumping to an adjacent tree, then another. It was clumsy, dangerous work for someone with his physical limitations, but the alternative was certain death. He could feel the subtle shifts in mana around him, sensing the locations of the wolves below, estimating their speed and coordination. His internal map of the immediate forest, built over months of quiet observation, was now his lifeline.
He could hear some of the pack splitting off, trying to anticipate his movements, to cut him off. Others stayed directly below, attempting to track him through the canopy. His strategy was working, fragmenting their pursuit.
(Internal: Divide and conquer is too ambitious. Divide and survive is the goal. Keep moving. Don't let them corner me in the trees. Find denser parts of the forest, places where the canopy is thickest, where they can't easily follow or see me from below.)
He jumped across a wider gap, landing awkwardly on a branch that groaned under his weight. A sharp pain shot up his injured leg. He stumbled, clinging precariously to the branch. Below, a wolf let out a sharp, triumphant bark – it had seen his struggle.
Suddenly, the air grew unnaturally cold. Not the chill of the night forest, but a biting, magical cold. The mana signature was distinct, different from the general dark taint of the corrupted wolves. One of them possessed an ability.
(Internal: Mana manipulation? A wolf? This isn't just corruption; this is trained or inherent power. Ice? Damn it! They aren't just brute force!)
He looked down, scanning the wolves below. One, larger than the others, stood at the base of a tree, its eyes glowing brighter green, a faint, frosty mist beginning to swirl around its paws. It raised its head, and a torrent of jagged ice shards shot upwards, faster than he could react.
The ice struck him mid-jump, just as he was pushing off from the precarious branch. It wasn't a single impact but a chilling, tearing force that ripped through the air and his already injured body. Pain exploded through his leg, not just the ache from the old wound, but a deep, freezing agony as ice shards bit into flesh and bone.
He cried out, a gasp stolen by the wind, as he lost all control. His grip failed, his body twisted, and he plummeted from the canopy, crashing through branches, the air screaming past him. He hit the ground hard, rolling violently, every injury flaring, the new ice wound a searing, freezing agony in his leg.
He lay still for a moment, the impact knocking the wind out of him, pain rendering him momentarily immobile. The sounds of the chase intensified, closing in. He could hear the snapping twigs, the heavy breathing, the eager, low growls.
He tried to push himself up, but his leg wouldn't support him. The ice had done its work, not just wounding, but partially seizing the muscles, binding them with cold. He was cornered. Trapped.
The remaining wolves, those that had been chasing directly, closed in. They surrounded him in a semicircle, their eyes glinting in the dim light, the chilling laughter replaced by wet, anticipatory snarls. The one who had used the ice magic was among them, watching with cold intelligence.
They circled slowly, confidently, their predatory focus absolute. They knew he was beaten. Broken. Easy prey. They looked at him not as a challenge, but as a pathetic, bleeding mess of meat, a meal earned after a short chase. They lowered their heads, hackles raised, ready for the final lunge, the tearing of flesh, the quick end.
His face, slick with sweat and dirt, should have been a mask of despair, of terror, of a life ending in the jaws of corrupted beasts. For a moment, perhaps it was. But then, something shifted. The pain was still there, the exhaustion, the overwhelming odds. But beneath it, a spark ignited. A cold, calculating flame that burned away the fear.
His eyes, meeting the expectant gazes of the wolves, held something terrible. His lips, cracked and bleeding, slowly curved upwards. It wasn't the grimace of pain, nor the rictus of fear.
It was a smile. Wide, slow, and utterly, chillingly devoid of hope or mercy. A smile that promised not surrender, but retribution. A malicious grin that spoke volumes in the silent forest, a grin that said they had made a terrible mistake.
(Internal: You think this is over? You think I'm just a failed meal? You broke my body, yes. You trapped me. But you also brought me exactly where I need to be. Surrounded. Contained. With no escape... No escape but through you. And I have just discovered what happens when I push this body, this mana, beyond its limits. Let's see you laugh now.)
The wolves tensed, sensing the shift in his demeanor, the sudden, impossible confidence emanating from the broken figure. The air around Malrik began to hum, a low, building resonance. The grin widened, promising pain and fury. The forest, silent save for the wolves' wary growls and the faint, rising sound of raw power, waited. The game was not over; it was merely entering its most brutal phase.