Chapter 28 — The Unbroken Fang

  evening of the same day

  From what I understood from before—

  Kael and Cira weren’t wrong.

  Mana could not create drinking water.

  Not the way they understood creation.

  And I didn’t blame them for that. They had never studied chemistry. Never broken matter down into components, bonds, structures. They had learned the world through instinct, experience, and control—not analysis.

  They knew what mana could do.

  They had never asked why.

  Creating drinkable water wasn’t just about shaping liquid or imitating flow. It required understanding what water actually was—how it formed, how it stabilized, what made it safe inside a living body.

  At my current level?

  It was impossible.

  The focus required alone would tear my concentration apart. The control needed would exceed what I could sustain. And without mastery over other elements, attempting it now would be reckless.

  So I set the thought aside.

  For now.

  I would get better first.

  Fire.

  Water.

  Ice.

  Stone.

  Every element this world allowed.

  Only once I understood them all—only once control became instinct rather than effort—would I return to that idea.

  And when I did…

  I couldn’t help the faint smile that crossed my face.

  I already imagined the looks on their faces.

  Confusion.

  Disbelief.

  A little fear.

  They’d probably think I was some kind of wizard.

  Not that they knew what a wizard was.

  My next logical attempt was wind.

  Unlike fire or water, it wasn’t something I could see or hold.

  Kael explained it briefly—just enough to point me in the right direction.

  “Wind is mana in motion,” he said.

  “Not released. Not shaped into substance.”

  “Converted.”

  That word stuck with me.

  Converted.

  Fire was mana burning outward.

  Water was mana given volume and cohesion.

  Wind was mana that refused to stay still.

  No mass.

  No structure.

  Only direction and speed.

  I tried the same approach as fire—pushing mana outward with force.

  Nothing happened.

  Not even backlash.

  The mana dispersed instantly, collapsing before it could transform.

  I tried compressing it first, like water.

  The moment I released it, the mana destabilized and dissolved back into the air.

  Failure.

  Again.

  And again.

  Frustration built as I tried different variations—faster release, slower release, thinner flow, wider spread—but every attempt ended the same way.

  The mana wouldn’t convert.

  It either scattered uselessly…

  or collapsed inward, leaving my head light and my chest tight.

  I was so focused on forcing the mana to change that I didn’t notice it at first.

  The air shifted.

  Not violently.

  Not loudly.

  Just enough.

  A sudden gust struck my side, uneven and sharp, tugging at my clothes and knocking my balance off by half a step.

  I snapped my head up.

  The clearing was calm—no storm, no pressure change, no disturbance in the trees.

  Then I saw her.

  Raze stood a short distance away, watching me with unmistakable interest.

  Before I could react, the air moved again.

  This time, it wasn’t subtle.

  The wind slammed into me head-on, stronger and more focused, ripping the breath from my lungs and sending me stumbling backward into the dirt.

  I hit the ground hard, coughing.

  When I looked up again, Raze was already turning away.

  Just a flick of her tail and a light, almost playful bound as she rejoined the others—

  as if she hadn’t attacked me at all.

  As if she’d only meant to show me something.

  Finally, it made sense.

  Raze hadn’t pushed the air.

  She had moved mana through it.

  Wind wasn’t pressure created at the end—

  it was motion sustained from the start.

  I stopped trying to force mana outward.

  Instead, I guided it forward—thin, continuous, unbroken—letting it flow past my palm rather than erupt from it. No compression. No release.

  Just direction.

  At first, nothing happened.

  Then—

  The air shifted.

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  Not visibly.

  Not violently.

  A faint disturbance brushed against my skin, like a breath exhaled too close.

  I held it.

  Carefully.

  The mana resisted—not by fighting me, but by trying to disperse. I adjusted, narrowing the flow, keeping it moving instead of letting it collapse.

  The sensation was strange.

  Fire pushed back.

  Water slipped away.

  Wind tried to leave.

  I focused harder—maintaining motion without grasping, guiding without restraining.

  And then—

  A short burst of air snapped forward from my hand.

  It wasn’t strong.

  But it was real.

  Dry leaves skittered across the ground.

  Dust lifted in a brief arc.

  The fur along my arm rippled.

  A small shock of wind—sharp, sudden, controlled.

  I exhaled slowly, heart pounding.

  Wind.

  Not imagined.

  Not borrowed.

  Created.

  Kael didn’t speak.

  He didn’t need to.

  I already knew.

  This wasn’t power yet.

  But it was understanding.

  And that was far more dangerous in the long run.

  “That will be all for today,” Kael said.

  I looked up, surprised.

  “Honestly,” he continued, “I intended to stop the session the moment you succeeded with water.”

  His gaze rested on me—steady, evaluative.

  “But I allowed you to continue. I wanted to see how far your understanding would carry you.”

  He paused.

  “You did not disappoint me.”

  Lyra clicked her tongue.

  “Hmph. They’re just the basic elements,” she said dismissively.

  Cira turned her head slightly.

  “And yet,” she replied calmly, “even you did not manage all of them in a single day.”

  Lyra stiffened.

  “…That’s different,” she shot back. “If I’d truly put my heart into it, I could have done it.”

  She folded her ears back slightly.

  “And besides—my affinity was far stronger than his.”

  Her gaze flicked to me.

  “He can barely control his mana,” she continued, voice sharper now.

  “That forced core awakening ruined his balance from the start.”

  The words lingered longer than she intended.

  Lyra went quiet.

  Her ears slowly lowered.

  Her tail drooped.

  She remembered.

  That night.

  The Devourer.

  The way my body had been pushed past its limit—how the core had been forced into existence instead of grown.

  Without another word, she stepped closer.

  Then gently—almost hesitantly—she pressed her forehead against my side and nuzzled me once.

  An apology.

  Unspoken.

  Sincere.

  I didn’t move away.

  Kael watched the exchange silently.

  Then he turned his gaze back to me.

  “Rest,” he said.

  “Tomorrow, we begin refinement.”

  Not more power.

  Control.

  Again.

  And this time—

  with purpose.

  Night had settled fully by then.

  After practicing fire, water, and wind one last time, I returned to the clearing and sat with the pack. No one spoke. We simply watched.

  Mana particles drifted beneath the twin moons like pale embers suspended in the air—slow, weightless, almost peaceful. The forest breathed softly around us. Even the pups were quiet.

  That was when a thought surfaced.

  The auras.

  The ones Elder Fenris had intercepted.

  “…Those presences,” I said quietly. “The ones the Elder dealt with that day—what were they?”

  Borin answered first.

  “Most were Devourers,” he said. “Different forms. Different stages.”

  That didn’t surprise me.

  “But not all,” he added.

  I looked at him.

  “Some were intelligent species,” Borin continued. “Drawn by the amount of power released that night.”

  A chill ran through me.

  “So there are creatures out there,” I asked slowly, “stronger than Kael?”

  The question didn’t feel wrong to ask.

  But the reaction told me everything.

  The pups stirred immediately. Heads snapped up. Ears flattened.

  Refusal.

  Disbelief.

  Grey let out a slow nod.

  Kael didn’t answer right away.

  He stared into the drifting mana, expression unreadable, tail still.

  “…There are,” he said at last.

  Not loud.

  Not dramatic.

  Certain.

  “And not a few,” Kael continued. “There are many.”

  The pups shook their heads. One of them pressed closer to him, as if proximity alone could deny the idea.

  No one was stronger than their father.

  That was how the world was supposed to work.

  Kael exhaled quietly.

  “I had not planned to tell you this,” he said.

  His gaze shifted—not to the adults, but to the children. Then to me.

  “But I think it is time,” Kael went on, “that you understand what exists beyond this territory.”

  The forest felt still.

  Too still.

  “This is not a story meant to frighten you,” Kael said. “Nor one meant to inspire pride.”

  He turned his head slightly, eyes reflecting moonlight.

  “It is simply the truth.”

  His voice lowered.

  “What happened to my pack… in the past.”

  The pups went silent.

  Even the mana particles seemed to drift more slowly.

  “I was not always the strongest,” Kael said.

  Long ago—nearly seven hundred and fifty cycles ago—when I was about sixty cycles old, there was a pack leader.

  The strongest force this forest had known at the time.

  He was respected even by the Elder and the Guardians.

  The pillar of our bloodline.

  No foe ever went unanswered.

  That was why he was given the title The Unbroken Fang.

  And he was none other than my father.

  His name was Vaelor.

  I was his youngest son.

  My mother and my older siblings were always supportive of me.

  But I was a ferocious one.

  Always looking for fights.

  Always baiting my older siblings into sparring.

  Most of the time, I lost.

  Sometimes… I won.

  During hunts, I rarely cooperated with the pack. I charged ahead on my own, ignored formations, and more than once, I paid for it—returning injured by prey stronger than I was ready to face.

  They called me a troublemaker.

  But strangely enough, my father never scolded me.

  My mother would sigh and say, “You’re just like your father,”

  and scold me anyway.

  Those were… peaceful days.

  That peace was destroyed by the .

  They were dreaded beasts.

  They did not believe in balance. They did not hunt to survive—they hunted to dominate. Any prey they saw was fair game. Any territory rich enough was something to be taken.

  They were aggressive by nature. Intelligent. And relentless.

  They were always searching for prosperous lands.

  Ours was one of them.

  Because we never hunted more than necessary, prey thrived within our borders. The forest was full. Healthy.

  And the Noctyrrs noticed.

  At first, my father took no action when they crossed into our hunting grounds. He allowed it. Watched. Measured.

  That changed the day one of my siblings returned injured.

  He had been ambushed.

  I saw the wounds. Smelled unfamiliar blood.

  I ran—straight toward the direction he had come from.

  But for the first time in my life, I heard my father raise his voice at me.

  Do not fight them.

  Stay away.

  I froze.

  I understood, then, the weight of the situation.

  Elder Fenris had already noticed their movements. Their pattern. Their intent.

  My father decided to push them back—out of the territory.

  Not to kill them.

  Only to drive them away.

  The Elder approved.

  One by one, the intruders were forced beyond our borders. My pack did that—together. Cleanly. Efficiently.

  But it did not end there.

  They returned.

  Again.

  And again.

  Each time with more numbers.

  Each time with greater coordination.

  Each one of them was strong.

  But my father was stronger.

  He drove them off every time.

  Until one day—

  I saw him injured.

  Not wounded in battle.

  Ambushed.

  The Noctyrrs had changed tactics.

  They stopped challenging him directly.

  They attacked in numbers. From blind angles. From concealment.

  They used cowardly methods.

  Cheap ones.

  Something inside me snapped.

  That day, I stopped thinking like a pack member.

  Like a son.

  Like a child.

  I decided—

  I would end them.

  Every single one.

  I went straight toward where they were camping.

  I did not hide my aura.

  I did not slow my approach.

  They sensed my hostility long before I reached them—and they responded exactly as intelligent predators would.

  They laid a trap.

  One designed so there would be no escape.

  I realized it the moment I stepped into it.

  And I did not try to flee.

  I had already decided.

  If I was going to fall, it would be fighting.

  My anger had reached that point.

  Even then—young as I was—I was not weak.

  I could wield my favored elements: fire, ice, wind, and stone. My body was strong, hardened by hunts and reckless challenges alike.

  They attacked all at once.

  I stood alone against them.

  That night, I killed two Noctyrrs.

  Not cleanly.

  Not easily.

  I was torn apart in the process—wounded, battered, bleeding from too many places to count. My strength burned away faster than I could replace it.

  I was on the verge of death.

  Then—

  the forest shook.

  Impacts rippled through the ground, tremors racing between the trees as something massive moved with intent.

  That was my pack.

  They tore through the Noctyrrs without mercy.

  Every one of them was slain—

  Except one.

  One escaped.

  How, I still do not know.

  When it was over, my father confronted me.

  For the first time in my life—

  He scolded me.

  Not in anger.

  In fear.

  In concern.

  I saw it clearly then.

  And yet—

  I did not regret what I had done.

  The very next day, the Elder warned us.

  The Noctyrrs would come in numbers.

  And they would not come alone.

  Seeing the opening, other races would be drawn as well.

  She would hold them back.

  The Noctyrrs… were left to us.

  When they arrived, they did not attack.

  At least twenty of them stood at the edge of our territory, watching.

  We were sixteen.

  Then they released their aura.

  Not as a threat—

  but as a signal.

  The answer came.

  Devourers.

  Many of them.

  Tree-forms. Water-forms. Wind. Stone. Twisted shapes without names.

  They poured into the forest from every direction.

  We were trapped.

  The Elder and the Guardians were forced to intervene.

  The battlefield beyond our sight shook with impacts.

  Craters scarred the land.

  Mana burned the air.

  We fought.

  And we endured.

  When the Devourers were finally dealt with, our pack was already exhausted.

  That was when the Noctyrrs moved.

  That fight still makes my blood boil.

  My family began to fall.

  One by one.

  Father fought like the legend he was.

  Wounded.

  Bleeding.

  Unbroken.

  But twenty had been a lie.

  Ten more emerged.

  And then—

  There were only three of us left.

  My father.

  My mother.

  And me.

  They killed her first.

  My father stood over her body until his last breath, shielding me with what little strength remained.

  He turned to me once.

  Just once.

  Run.

  Live.

  Start anew.

  I didn’t move.

  I was ready to die with them.

  But the Noctyrrs chose otherwise.

  Their leader spoke as they turned away.

  “Leave the cub.”

  “He will die slowly.”

  “Let him watch.”

  That day…

  The Unbroken Fang fell.

  And I was reborn.

  Not in strength.

  But in hatred.

  Rage.

  Fury.

  As I watched them disappear into the forest, only one thought remained:

  I will hunt every last one of their kind.