To Obey the Devil's Words
“Ra, Tu, Balaka!”
Crying out his desperate plea to the afterlife, the muscle-bound giant charged at the Wolf King. From a distance of at least ten paces, Bessimer slammed his axe into the ground, using the recoil and spring of the earth to launch his massive body high into the air. Mid-leap, gripping the axe with both hands, he dove toward the Wolf King's head.
Boom!
The Wolf King dodged effortlessly.
“Gonna run again this time?”
Bessimer yanked the axe from where it had buried itself in the empty ground and slung the handle over his shoulder. Clods of dirt rained down with a patter.
Grrr...
The Wolf King circled Bessimer at a careful distance. Bessimer spun in place to track it.
“Remember back in the day? We'd circle like this, bare-knuckled brawls with my brothers. Shame I always lost to 'em, even though I wasn't much smaller. And now...”
Crunch!
Before Bessimer could finish, a hell wolf lunged from behind and sank its teeth into his shoulder. It was a glancing bite, nothing serious. Crack, snap— But before the beast could clamp down harder, Bessimer jammed the axe blade into its jaws and ripped its chin clean off.
“Why you doin' this, Father? I just wanna have a nice father-son chat.”
Grrrr...
Whether on the Wolf King's command or by pack instinct to protect their alpha, the hell wolves' attention—previously fixed on the soldiers—now zeroed in on Bessimer. He felt a tightness in his chest.
“Yeah, this is the feelin'.”
The air, thick with killing intent, offered no relief no matter how deeply he breathed—like gulping seawater. Tension coiled through his body, his heartbeat thundering in his ears like war drums. His blood boiled, every muscle twitching with the urge to charge and swing his axe wild.
Back in the camp, he'd been the gatekeeper, chopping down charging hell wolves like it was routine. He was the hunter setting traps then, turning prey into meat. Solid walls and comrades at his back.
But now, all around him were only monsters itching to tear him apart. They prowled his perimeter, waiting for an opening.
Crunch—yelp!Crack!
Two were already dead by his hand. One had half its neck severed by his axe, whimpering like a pup before expiring. The other dodged the blade and leaped into his embrace—only to have its neck snapped like a twig.
“Huff, huff. See that? Don't need your damn sorcery—your son's plenty strong on his own. But... but why'd you do it?”
As he dispatched the pair, three more rushed in. They bit at his legs, throwing off his balance. As he staggered, another lunged. Bessimer swung his axe while falling, critically wounding one—but the blood-slick handle slipped from his grasp.
Chaos erupted into a brutal brawl. To avoid their jaws, Bessimer rolled, wrapping his arm around one wolf's scruff. He gouged out an eye with his fingers, then pummeled its brow ridge with fists until it burst.
Squeal, squeal, screee—
The beast thrashed desperately, but the giant wouldn't let go. The other two hesitated to charge, using the trapped wolf as a shield. Its agonized whines made even them falter.
Bessimer struck first. Unarmed, pure brute force turned it to pulp. He wrenched one wolf's upper and lower jaws apart; another's skull shattered under a frenzy of blows.
“Hahk, hahk.”
He shoved the limp corpses aside and rose on shaky legs. Only then did the pain crash over him like a wave. His left thigh was shredded to the bone. His gait toward the fallen axe was unsteady, blood dripping relentlessly with every step.
“Ngh.”
As he finally gripped the axe, he noticed his right ring and pinky fingers were gone. He ignored it, hefting the weapon with three fingers. His shoulder and side were riddled with fang holes.
Ignored that too.
And then, abruptly—
“Kuhahaha!”
Laughter exploded from him. Pure, hearty guffaws without a trace of madness. Blood-soaked from head to toe, yet his face beamed with strange relief.
“Now I get it. Why I always lost to my brothers back then.”
He slung the axe handle over his shoulder again. Covered in gore, grinning like a maniac.
“I wanted to live too damn much. But look at you now, Father. Livin' like that? Even turnin' beast to cling on?”
Grrr.
“After thirteen years as a beast, you ain't forgotten human speech, right?”
Grrr.
“Ah, yeah—Virpier probably trained you like a mutt, barkin' orders. No forgettin' there.”
True to its kingly stature, the silver wolf had watched from afar. Now it lowered its center of gravity.
“So, ate well and shat well, eh?”
Bessimer kept talking nonstop, eyes locked on the Wolf King's movements. In over ten years hunting it, he'd never taunted like this.
—No matter how great a warrior you are, how can a man chase wolves? Magic beasts at that.
—Then what?
—Make the wolf come to you.
—How?
The day Isaac summoned Bessimer to his tent and proposed luring the Wolf King, he'd suggested a different approach than usual.
—Make it wanna rip you apart.
—You think I can take the Wolf King?
—Nah. A monster with a build that'd make most beasts weep—even leading your tribe? No chance.
—Then what?
—Just turn it into a regular rabid animal.
—?
—I showed you in our duel. You weren't human then.
—...
Why Bessimer lost to Isaac wasn't just the boy's honed techniques. A scrawny twelve-year-old brat—the firstborn of the hated Goetes, no less. Cursed half-breed body, yet he boldly challenged Bessimer for Binvelt.
Ridiculous. Isaac toyed with him like a pawn, even invoking Baitur traditions. By then, Bessimer's reason was gone. No thought for tactics, advantages, or enemy strength.
Isaac's victory started there.
In the past decade-plus chasing the Wolf King, such dirty tricks never crossed his mind. Tribe's honor and all.
But honor? His father had strayed too far, dragging them both down. Bessimer had watched, bound to a post, as innocents were turned into hell wolves.
“C'mon, with that big gut, your shits must be huge. Hell, you've already dumped a mountain on our tribe's history.”
Grrr—
The silver wolf dropped its torso parallel to the ground. Front legs bent, tail rigid, ears perked. Hind leg muscles bulged, coiling tighter.
Bessimer didn't miss it.
“Look around. This Baitur tribe? Binvelt settlements? Looks like a wolf den to...”
In a blur, a black silhouette engulfed him. Leaping clean over the hell wolf encirclement, the shadow bared its icy fangs.
Bessimer had yielded flesh to lesser wolves out of necessity, but the Wolf King's bite? Fatal at best, instant death if vital.
He gripped the axe's base tight with his three-fingered left hand.
Ra Tu Balaka Sanctum.
Faintly, a cherished voice echoed in his mind. From the monster bearing death in its jaws—yet not the monster's. More like his father's ragged breaths, standing ghost-like amid burning tribesmen's corpses.
May you find peace in Balaka.
That's what it meant in the common tongue.
But to young Bessimer then, unspoken words rang clearer: I won't keep you waiting long. I'll follow soon.
His father's back. Breath scented with blood and ash. The scrape of palm on scalp wiping blood from a cracked skull. Wind wailing like sobs through the Black Forest. Insects' dirge.
Bessimer stood in that scene now, heels weighted by irretrievable past and regret.
With inhuman flexibility for his bulk, his waist twisted sharply. At its end: the axe, clutched in both hands.
That crushing past's weight now channeled through honed flesh and muscle—swung forward with all his might. For his liberation. His father's.
Whoosh!
“...!”
It missed. The silver wolf twisted mid-air, slipping just beyond the blade's arc.
Awooooo!
Having leaped far past Bessimer, it howled. Grrrrr. The hell wolves, cowed by his momentum, regained their ferocity.
The Wolf King now meant to finish him with the pack. No more father-son, chief-warrior, king-heir. Just predator and prey.
“Hahaha... fuck.”
Bessimer barked a hollow laugh. His full-power strike. He'd lost too much blood. Body numb like after a bender—no pain left. Vision blurring, hell wolves closing in. Survival instinct screamed from the presence at his back. Fangs and claws from all sides.
Re Tu Balaka.
The words swirled in his head. Swap Ra to Re—it meant I. I go to Balaka.
In that instant, Balaka's vista flickered before him. There, Bessimer was a child again. Ordinary build, innocent face—like any tribesboy. Cowardly, as Virpier said.
Maybe that's why he hated Isaac from first sight—he couldn't be like that boy at that age.
No matter now. Coward Bessimer just wanted rest.
“Bessimer!”
A sharp voice pierced. Kid's shrill whine, annoying—yet it yanked him from the vision.
His refocused eyes saw hell wolves dropping like marionettes with cut strings.
“...!?”
Where the Wolf King had charged stood Carlson. Corpses littered around—prior clash. The silver wolf, twenty paces off, had one ear sliced clean. Dark blood matted its silver fur at the corner.
“Die, fucking die!”
“Raaagh!”
Soldiers' enraged roars—first he'd heard them. Hell wolves still outnumbered, blanketing the clearing.
Yet somehow... no urge to give up.
A pale, emaciated kid still gripped his sword. No—the Frost Demon stood beside him.
“Come to die?”
Bessimer smirked at Isaac.
“As if.”
“That all the sword stances you know?”
Isaac was poised for an upward strike, just like their duel.
“Tryin' to get yourself killed?”
“...”
Isaac countered with a question.
“Carlson took out Virpier.”
“As man or wolf?”
“Wolf.”
“Fittin' end for that dog bastard. Huff.”
Bessimer's legs buckled; he dropped to one knee. He stabbed the axe head into the dirt, leaning on the handle to gasp for air. Strength gone. Wanted sleep. Rest. Exhausted.
“Your turn now.”
“Say that after seein' my state. I'm half in Balaka already.”
“That's an order, Bessimer of the Baitur.”
Isaac ignored him, face stern, delivering his command.
Bessimer was dumbfounded. He'd have died ten times over for anyone else—yet orders?
But this brat's words... even on death's door, they demanded attention. Pierced the heart.
Why? Obvious. This moment—longed for, undreamt—was here. Not buried in Binvelt's past with kin and comrades, but living the present.
Isaac was the demon who'd heard that wish and come calling.
“Slay the Wolf King.”
“...”
“Put your father to rest.”
The demon spoke.
“...Hah.”
Bessimer gazed at the night sky. Thirteen years ago, that same moon hung.
“As you command...”
The giant slowly rose.
To obey the devil's words.