Arms wreathed in blistering flame, the Seventh-Tier werewolf—shrouded in coils of cursed black smoke—lunged toward the grotesque, colossal mass of flesh. Yet the moment he drew close, an agonizing discomfort flooded both body and mind. Even so, an attack long since prepared would not be halted.
The Dragon-fire—an impact potent enough to annihilate the entire cavern—struck the flesh-sphere squarely. It merely rocked backward, as though nudged rather than wounded. The detonating fire illuminated the abyss, yet failed to unleash the cataclysm he had expected.
The revelation jarred Glenn. Even the Blazing Fangs at their pinnacle could not have endured such a blow unscathed.
He had indeed provoked something unfathomable.
The creature before him possessed, at minimum, the strength of an Eighth-Tier being—and this might not even be its true body. The very fabric of this space felt wrong.
With his strongest strike expended, the gauntlets slipped into cooldown, leaving only their inherent sharpness available.
The flesh-sphere attacked solely with those threadlike tendrils, yet their speed bordered on unreal; even in his Seventh-Tier form, Glenn struggled to evade. He had just avoided several piercing strands and landed against a rock wall to gain leverage when—
The stone erupted with threads that wrapped around him, binding him fast.
At once, all remaining tendrils lunged.
In that hair-trigger instant, the fur across Glenn’s body lengthened abruptly, his defenses surging. The incoming filaments failed to penetrate.
He ripped himself free and retreated, searching for an opening.
Should I use the Moonstone? He hesitated. But what if the reward from that Forest Will doesn’t compensate for the loss…?
He had another option: escape. In his Seventh-Tier form, he could now sense the location of the passage he had come from.
Forget it. Go up first—explain the situation later. Resolved, he shot upward like a streak of shadow, plunging into the tunnel overhead.
On the surface.
Gortaya was in the midst of communing with the Will of the Forest when she heard a faint groan of pain echo through her mind, accompanied by a subtle tremor in the earth.
Alarmed, she asked, “What happened?”
A calming impression washed over her in response—nothing of concern.
“Perhaps something occurred down below…” she murmured.
Moments later, the vegetation around the pit thrashed violently as though seized by a storm. Then—like a volcanic eruption—an immense surge of black smoke blasted upward, its force hurling the elf woman far across the clearing.
She landed with only minor scrapes and instantly looked toward the pit. Through the dissipating haze, a massive figure crashed onto the rim.
When the smoke finally cleared, the silhouette resolved into a gigantic werewolf sprawled on its back, panting.
“Mr. Glenn?” Gortaya ventured.
He turned his head, baring fangs in a breathless grin. “You have no idea what kind of monstrosity lurks down there. That thing is at least Eighth-Tier—and apparently brainless, nothing more than a brute drowned in its own power.”
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She understood little of his rambling, save for Eighth-Tier—and that alone was staggering.
As one of the more formidable warriors of the forest elves, Gortaya knew well how humans classified strength: levels originally devised for mages, later adopted by knights—First-Tier knights matching First-Tier mages, Second-Tier matching Second-Tier, and so on, up to the Knight-King—and eventually used for all professions.
“Eighth-Tier…” she whispered, her emotions a tangle of shock, curiosity, dread, and awe.
This was truly unexpected, murmured the Will of the Forest within her mind, laced with quiet astonishment.
“Dealing with that thing is no simple task. Ask your Forest Will whether its reward is enough to make the risk worthwhile.” Glenn rose, his voice booming like thunder.
Gortaya stepped forward to reply—only to notice something at his neck.
“Mr. Glenn… what is that on you?”
“My neck?” He paused, then understood.
Reaching back, his claws brushed against the battered ragdoll—still clinging stubbornly to his fur, miraculously unharmed despite the brutal battle. He plucked it free and examined it.
A child’s doll—button eyes, a yarn-stitched smile fraying at the edges, its fabric faded with age. Something that should have reeked after centuries underground… yet it bore no scent at all. Not foul, not fragrant. Simply nothing.
“Did not expect you to cling on all the way up here,” Glenn muttered to the doll.
It offered no reply—only a wave of sorrow that seeped into his mind through touch.
Watching a towering black werewolf gently speaking to a doll the size of a fingertip, Gortaya felt momentarily disoriented.
“Tell him the object carries a taint of corruption. Handle it carefully,” instructed the Will of the Forest.
She relayed the warning at once.
Glenn scratched his head. “I am not planning to keep it anyway. It is looking for its owner. I will return it.”
“An Old Resident's?” she echoed.
“Yes.” He placed the doll back onto his nape, where it instinctively clung again.
“Back to the main issue—does the Will of the Forest know how to deal with the thing below?”
“According to your description, it is likely the remnants of a Fallen God—Rag’Bera—who should have perished countless epochs ago. Some legends say it was devoured by other eldritch beings; others claim it was merely torn apart. That its lingering flesh survived here, feeding on the forest’s power to persist… is beyond expectation.”
Gortaya recited the Will’s message like a flawless automaton.
“And its recommendation?” Glenn pressed.
“It must be destroyed,” she declared, firm and unwavering. “But preparation is required first. When the time comes, we will need your help. Rest assured—the reward will not disappoint you.”
