The Cursed Night Raid
“Kuaaaack—!”
The cook’s shout as he lunged at Isaac quickly twisted into a scream.
Thud. The wrist holding the dagger hit the ground.
“You wanna join him too?”
Carlson asked another hesitant cook, dagger still in hand.
“N-no, sir.”
The cook dropped his dagger to the dirt.
“You guys... don’t tell me...”
Ironically, Gunther was the only one truly rattled in that moment. Isaac and Carlson barely batted an eye.
“Pointing a blade at the lord? Are you insane? Even if you’re Baitur, this’ll just breed more resentment against your tribe. Don’t you get that?” Gunther snapped.
“Kuhuk...”
The cook who’d charged Isaac clutched his oozing stump of a wrist. In the torchlight, his eyes blazed with fury.
“The insane ones... kuh... are you lot. Since when... have we... bowed our heads... to live? The plains, hills, forests... have no masters. They’re their own... That’s all they are... Nobles who don’t get that... will end up with nothing.”
“That all you’ve got to say?”
“Hold on.”
Isaac raised a hand to stop Carlson from lifting his sword.
“What happens if you drink this?”
“Kekeke... Curious? Then... drink it... yourself.”
The one-armed cook snatched up the fallen dagger with his remaining hand. It trembled violently.
“Carlson. Don’t kill him.”
“Kraaak—!”
Carlson sliced off the cook’s other hand. This time, it wasn’t a clean wrist cut, but he’d never grip anything again. Thick blood already pooled in the dirt.
If he wouldn’t say what the blood was or what it did... they’d just make him drink it.
“Gunther. Force some beer from the oak barrel down his throat.”
“Pardon?”
Gunther blinked in confusion, but Isaac’s sharp glare made him obey.
“N-no, don’t!”
Carlson pried the cook’s mouth open. Gunther poured beer from a wooden cup into it.
“Khek, cough cough.”
The cook thrashed, but couldn’t stop the beer flooding in. Moonlight gleamed in his widening eyes of terror.
“Kekh, cough. No... cough, no... I want to die... as a man...”
He muttered through convulsive coughs, barely audible.
“D-did he just die, sir?”
Gunther asked. Soldiers had gathered, drawn by the commotion, their faces a mix of unease and distrust as they stared at the scene.
“He’ll die like this. Lost too much blood.”
Carlson replied.
Then.
Crunch crunch. A grotesque sound echoed.
The fallen cook’s back suddenly heaved. Vertebrae bulged through his shirt. His arms and legs swelled unnaturally.
Huff, huff. Heave— heave—!
Hwaaaak—!
His breathing grew monstrous. Growl.
Bones twisted, skin warped, form contorted. His nose and mouth protruded; jet-black fur sprouted everywhere. His brow bone jutted out; ears sharpened. Black blood leaked from eyes and ears.
Kraaaak!
The screaming spy was no longer human. Claws burst through his boots. Nails too huge and sharp for any man.
It wasn’t growth—it was abrupt, malformed mutation.
“Beastification.”
Isaac murmured. He’d never dreamed he’d witness the mutation from the books firsthand.
“...”
The watching soldiers forgot to breathe amid the nightmarish sight. The vivid cracks of sprouting bone and muscle filled the air.
“Carlson.”
Slash—
As Isaac called his name, the wolf-man-not-wolf’s head parted from its body. Blood sprayed everywhere.
“Now I get it.”
Isaac finally pieced together the puzzle.
How wolves breached high walls without leaping, toppling, or tunneling. Why only thirty-some corpses out of 118 men.
This was it.
Isaac glanced at the moon again.
To conquer his unique constitution, he’d dabbled in everything. Including shamanism.
Shamanism mimicked nature’s laws, making them real. Curse dolls mimicking people to bear misfortune. Corpses mimicking the living as workers or soldiers. Catalysts and symbols to fool spirits and borrow their power.
In shamanism, the moon meant madness, essence, cycles.
Baitur worship the wolf god. Among beasts, their family bonds are strongest—fitting their ideals.
When the moon fully waned, they borrowed shamanic power to revert to their believed essence.
Romantic at first glance. But shamanism tricked nature for gain, always with backlash and cost.
“How many drank it?”
Isaac eyed the half-empty beer barrel.
“...”
“How many drank, I said!”
His voice, freshly deepened by puberty, froze the remaining cook.
“This ale. Everyone who drank, hands up.”
“...”
Cooks and soldiers alike were dumbfounded.
“...Pretty much all of ’em, sir.”
Gunther finally answered.
“All?”
“...Yes.”
“Since when have you been spiking it with hell wolf blood?”
Isaac glared at the cook again.
“Answer.”
Carlson’s blade hovered over him.
“...S-since yesterday.”
“Orders?”
“...Yes. During night patrol... at the rendezvous... Believe me, I didn’t know what it was! Just that it’d make us sleep deep for days... and they’d strike then...”
“To assassinate the lord in the meantime.”
“...”
The cook bit his lip at Carlson’s words.
“Why haven’t the soldiers here changed like this one?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? Die then.”
Carlson’s blade pressed his throat. Blood trickled from the shallow cut.
“I-I really don’t! All I know is Valden... he probably knew it’d turn us into wolves...”
“Valden? That was his name?”
Carlson kicked the headless corpse.
“...Yes. Said he’d go to Balaka and beg forgiveness from the others. I swear, that’s everything!”
“What now?”
Carlson asked Isaac.
Moon, blood... and what else?
Isaac pondered the final trigger for Valden’s beastification. Nothing obvious came to mind.
“P-please spare me. I’m Baitur, but... I’m Goethe’s soldier too.”
“One last question. Answer right, and you live.”
“Yes, anything!”
The cook nodded eagerly.
“Orders from Birpi, right?”
“Y-yes.”
“What after?”
“Send... send the signal.”
“Signal?”
“Yes. They’re waiting on the nearby hill... send the agreed signal.”
“What signal?”
“...Huh?”
The cook’s gaze drifted skyward.
“That one.”
“That?”
“...That.”
At Isaac’s question, the cook pointed up. A fire arrow arced from the camp into the night.
Awooooo—
A wolf howled nearby. The cry cut through the night air clearer than ever.
Carlson sheathed his blade and braced on the ground. Then looked to Isaac.
“They’re coming.”
“Battle stations.”
“All hands, battle stations! Battle stations!”
Carlson bellowed like thunder at Isaac’s order.
“B-battle stations!”
Even the dazed soldiers echoed and moved.
But the hell wolves struck a beat faster.
“Kuaaaak!”
“W-wolves...!”
Screams tore from the camp’s heart. Pitch-black wolves erupted from tents everywhere.
“Hold on just a bit!”
Carlson raced over, slashing a wolf’s throat—but the soldier had long stopped breathing. His torso was half-torn off, spilling guts and stench into a blood pool.
“How... already?”
When Carlson heightened his senses with aura, the heavy footsteps were at least three hundred paces out. They were still a hundred paces away, barreling in—but not yet upon the camp. No space for giant wolves inside.
His doubt cleared fast.
“Kuaaa— spare me, spare meee!”
“Just a bit longer...”
Rushing to more screams, Carlson cleaved a tent—and froze.
“Ah.”
A sigh or groan leaked from his teeth.
Beastification. The hell wolves that appeared first were all camp soldiers.
“...”
Carlson felt a chill he hadn’t in ages. He regripped his sword, steadied his breath.
Slash—!
The half-transforming soldier’s head flew. A clean line, no hesitation. Muscle and vertebrae severed neatly.
The not-wolf-not-man stared blankly at the stars.
“Rest.”
Carlson closed his eyes. Soldiers he’d trained himself, just two weeks here. Too short for bonds or fondness.
But it could’ve been. If given time, like his Winterband comrades.
They could’ve become true brothers-in-arms.
“Hoo.”
Carlson exhaled like a sigh and bolted for the camp entrance.
Worth trying. But many soldiers will die.
...That’s your job—to minimize it. Better than total slaughter by hell wolf legions.
Isaac’s orders rang clear in his mind. He’d follow them.
“Fear is the enemy! Don’t yield to fear! Fight as men! Die as men!”
Behind him, a boy’s ragged, furious voice—ghostly fierce for a child—rang out.
Fear. That’s it.
Another reason to kill the wolf king fast.
But at the entrance, no silver wolf—just swarms under the bright moon.
“Don’t yield to fear! Fear not death—protect what matters!”
Isaac bellowed till his throat bled. Mana-amplified, it echoed everywhere—drawing more wolves to him.
“M-master...”
Gunther, Hans, and recovered soldiers were soon ringed by massive wolves, fangs bared, drool dripping from jaws that’d shred flesh on touch.
“Don’t fear. We’ll survive.”
Words Isaac couldn’t guarantee. But he’d prove them.
Tatata—
A hell wolf charged, earth trembling faintly. Beasts craved dense mana. Isaac was prime prey.
But its fangs never reached.
Low stance, sword low, Isaac timed it—then swung up. The wolf’s maw split sideways.
Worth honing the blade. The technique for Bessimer paid off now.
The tide hadn’t turned. Wolves swarmed; screams persisted.
But enough to pull soldiers from terror.
“One-shot on a hell wolf...!?”
“What’re you idiots doing? Gonna lose to the kid lord!?”
“Frost Devil’s on our side!”
“Yeah! Scarier than those decade-vets!”
Soldiers shouted, boosting morale. No orders—just survival instinct. To live, endure, stay human.
Grrr.
But their hard-won courage shattered silently as a silver wolf landed before them.
Hell wolves were tough—but this wolf king, several times larger, flashed yellow eyes.
“W-we’re dead. Dead, kuaaa—!”
One soldier succumbed to fear, mutating. Gunther stabbed him quick.
Panic spread.
“What’re you morons doing? Grab weapons and stab!”
“Captain!”
Soldiers brightened at the roar.
Bessimer—tied to a pole, starved days—had broken through the hell wolf encirclement to face the king.
“Came to save me, Father?”
Silver wolf and Bessimer locked eyes in the air. Time stretched.
“Remember this axe? You gave it to me at my coming-of-age.”
Grrr...
“Now, I’ll use it to save your soul.”
Bessimer gripped the axe two-handed.
“Ra— tu— Balaka!”
He charged, roaring.