The Chase (4)

Another agonized cry echoed through the air. Asa knew that the hunter was tormenting the woman. This was a special tactic used by that species when hunting humans.

If he turned around to rescue her, he'd fall right into the trap, and the result would be both their heads becoming trophies for some werewolf tribe.

The waters of the Donau River flowed swiftly and gently to the east, the slight waves almost beckoning to him.

"Come, come. Jump in, and you'll be safe. Sure, you'll feel sad, you'll feel guilty, but at least you'll survive. After a few years, maybe you'll forget all about this. You might even use this tale as casual conversation over drinks with friends. If a few years won't do it, then a few decades surely will."

Perhaps he could even use this sorrow as motivation, becoming a general a few years later and leading an army to wipe out all the werewolves on the continent in revenge for the woman...

The third scream reached his ears, already so weak it could have been a figment of his worried imagination.

Asa cursed loudly, shouting the vilest words he knew, and turned back, sprinting in the direction of the cries. He let out a roar, knowing full well the hunter's trap had worked just as planned.

Within ten minutes of his mad dash, Asa spotted the hunter—and the woman in his grasp.

Her black hair, disheveled, spilled from beneath her cloak, obscuring her pained expression. Her right hand was a mangled, twisted mass of flesh, resembling a withered tree vine. There wasn't an inch of bone left intact. It wasn't the result of a single injury—it had been broken in one spot, then another, and another, until there was nowhere else to break.

Asa felt a slight relief. Aside from the state of her hand, there were no other visible life-threatening injuries. She was hanging weakly, like a lamb awaiting slaughter, her faint groans breaking the silence. It seemed as though the hand gripping her neck could snap it at any moment.

Asa's eyes followed the large, hairy claw, and for the first time in broad daylight, he came face to face with the werewolf who had hunted him for three days.

The creature stood a full foot taller than Asa, its massive frame nearly twice as wide. Its body was covered in brown fur, with tall ears, yellow eyes, and a long, narrow mouth. Its head resembled that of a wolf. The body proportions were similar to a human's, but the well-defined muscles and bones made it clear that this werewolf's strength and agility were far beyond what humans could achieve.

The werewolf wore specially made armor, and on the ground beside him lay a giant flail, the same one that had crushed the heads of over a dozen of Asa's comrades. Clearly custom-built, no human or dwarf could wield such a massive weapon. The werewolf's gear and its immense body formed a deadly combination, capable of taking on an entire squad of soldiers single-handedly.

However, the werewolf didn't look as formidable or dangerous at that moment. In fact, it seemed somewhat battered. Blood matted the fur of its left arm, and a wound there still oozed slowly. The slim, delicate blade of an Anka sword was no less deadly for its inability to slash. Its unique design allowed it to tear through blood vessels and tissue when twisted inside the body. The thin blade had been forged with the finest dwarf alloy, capable of even piercing bone.

A charred patch on the werewolf's hand showed the remnants of burnt muscle, with the surrounding fur scwerewolfhed away—a telltale sign of a fireball spell. Judging by the singed fur on its head, the fireball had likely been aimed at its face, but in a split second, the werewolf had blocked it with its hand. The timing must have been perfect.

If only the woman and I had fought him together, Asa thought with bitter regret. Now, his only hope was a desperate gamble—the werewolf's left arm was already injured...

The werewolf made a guttural sound, bared its sharp teeth, and shifted its shoulder. Asa didn't understand the expression, but he could see the muscles in the claw gripping the woman tensing up.

The prey had come. The trap had worked. There was no need for bait anymore.

"Stop!" Asa screamed, his voice hoarse with desperation, charging at the werewolf.

A sharp "crack" rang out—the sound of a breaking bone. Asa couldn't tell if it came from the woman's neck or somewhere within his own body. His legs, exhausted from the sprint, had no strength left for dodging, and he almost helplessly watched as the werewolf's kick landed squarely on his chest, sending him flying like a ragdoll into a nearby tree. His sword embedded itself into the trunk.

Asa curled up like a shrimp, blood and saliva spilling from his mouth and nose. Several ribs had broken, though thankfully none had punctured his organs. It felt as if a herd of bulls were charging through his chest, forcing out every sensation but the overwhelming pain. He couldn't even manage a full breath.

The werewolf, looking down at Asa, was filled with disappointment. This pitiful human, who had given him so much trouble over the past three days, was so weak and easily defeated. The werewolf had hoped for a more exciting battle to conclude the hunt.

Earlier that morning, when he had found the obvious tracks and scent near the campfire, he had been certain it was a trap. How could such a cunning prey leave such clear signs of its whereabouts? It had to be a trick. So, he had followed another set of tracks that seemed less suspicious. When he realized his judgment had been wrong, that he'd been fooled again, his shock and rage had clouded his thinking.

The other human had surprised him even more—he had nearly been hit by a fireball to the face. Fortunately, breaking that human's hand had quickly put an end to the threat.

The victory was still his in the end. He had successfully lured the fleeing prey back. Now, he could simply walk over and twist off his head.

But why rush? Savoring every moment, watching how this human would react as he realized his life was nearing its end, could make for an interesting final act.

Would he try one last trick? Put up a desperate struggle? Or curl up, sobbing, pleading for mercy? Hopefully not—it was a scene the werewolf had seen too many times before.

With great effort, Asa finally managed a breath. His ribs felt like they were lined with knives, twisting with every inhale and exhale. He glanced at the sword embedded in the tree, where white sap from the trunk had coated the blade.

He recognized this tree. Its thin roots had once reminded him of a saying, a line that now seemed almost ridiculous. But he remembered it again now. Looking at the woman's motionless body, fury welled up inside him, fueling his aching muscles. He staggered to his feet, pulled the sword from the tree, and summoned every ounce of strength left in his body, charging forward with the blade raised.

The werewolf looked at him with pity. This slow, predictable movement—was this his final effort? The werewolf could see every muscle twitching, every agonizing distortion of movement caused by the pain. He could predict exactly when and where the sword would fall.

With casual precision, the werewolf lifted his flail, blocking the blade. The clash of metal echoed as the impact sent the sword and Asa's hand flying back, his body staggering with the recoil, exposing his chest and belly. The werewolf raised a claw, ready to plunge it into his chest and rip out his still-beating heart.

But the werewolf hadn't expected a seemingly insignificant detail. The tree sap clinging to Asa's sword splattered onto the werewolf's face and into his eyes and nostrils.

It wasn't sap—it was as if a thousand tiny, venomous, red-hot blades had pierced his skin. The werewolf let out a howl, a sound more desperate and agonizing than anything he had ever made before.

The entire world vanished in pain. His vision turned red, then black. His nose was gone—nothing but pure, searing pain remained. Even his ears were filled with his own deafening screams. Then, amid the torment, he felt something cold enter his belly, pushing upward to his chest, calmly but firmly displacing his organs.

Fear overwhelmed him, overshadowing even the pain. Instinctively, he grabbed at whatever had pierced him, summoning all his strength. Then, he heard a scream—just as loud and anguished as his own.

Asa didn't hear the sound of his wrist shattering. He could only feel the sharp shards of bone tearing through his muscles, veins, and skin, bursting out like jagged spikes. He wasn't using strength anymore—he had none left. Instead, he was using the agony itself to drive his knee into the sword's hilt, forcing it deeper into the werewolf's chest. He felt the werewolf's heart burst beneath the blade.

The werewolf's screams stopped abruptly. His claws clutched at his chest, so tightly that his sharp nails pierced through his armor and into his own skin, as though trying to hold together the broken pieces of his heart. Staggering, he stumbled a few steps before collapsing to the ground with a thunderous crash.

Asa, cradling his shattered left hand, knelt on the ground, gasping and crying in pain. It took him a long while before he could stand again.

It was finally over.

No, not yet. He couldn't stay here for long. Once the hunter's corpse started to give off a scent, it would attract a horde of lizards. In his weakened state, he would be easy prey for those ugly scavengers. He hoped the woman's pack held some useful healing potions or maybe even something as valuable as that purification talisman.

Asa staggered over to her. He looked at her pale face, once so beautiful when graced with a smile. In less than half a day, she would become food for those disgusting creatures, just like the dead werewolf nearby.

"I'm sorry, it's all my fault." Asa knelt in front of her in agony. Then, he noticed her lips seemed to move. At first, he thought it was a hallucination, but soon after, he heard a groan, stronger than his own.