The air was thick with the stench of blood and fear. The forest, once alive with the sounds of nature, had been replaced with the agonized screams of dying men.
Cerbe, the Three-Headed Hound, moved like a force of nature, its three sets of jaws tearing through flesh and bone without hesitation. The crimson glow in its eyes burned with primal rage as it chased down its terrified prey.
This was the command from its summoner and it intended to fulfill it to the best of its abilities.
The men who had fled from the battle at the tree hideout were now running for their lives, panting and stumbling over roots and uneven ground.
But no matter how fast they ran, Cerbe was faster.
One of the men barely had time to react before Cerbe’s left head snapped its powerful jaws around his leg, yanking him off his feet.
“Ahhhhh—”
His scream was short-lived—one of the other heads clamped down on his throat, crushing his windpipe instantly. Blood splattered across the leaves as Cerbe flung the lifeless body aside.
Another man tried to climb a tree, his fingers clawing at the rough bark in desperation. Cerbe didn’t even slow down.
The middle head launched a small sized ball of flames, engulfing the tree in unnatural hellfire. The man shrieked as the flames consumed him, his body writhing before falling to the ground, charred beyond recognition.
The rest of the targets scattered, some drawing their weapons in a last-ditch effort to fight back. Find adventures at My Virtual Library Empire
It was useless.
Cerbe leapt into the midst of them, its powerful limbs sending bodies flying. One woman managed to stab a dagger into its side, but the hound barely flinched.
One of its heads twisted unnaturally, grabbing her arm in its teeth. With a sickening crunch, it bit down, tearing the limb clean off. The woman’s scream turned into gurgled agony as another head latched onto her face, ending her suffering.
More figures emerged from the shadows of the forest—other members of the Stray Hounds, drawn by the commotion.
They had come to investigate the source of the horrific sounds echoing through the woods.
They had no idea what they were walking into.
Cerbe turned its gaze toward them. Its three mouths dripped with blood, and its massive frame was silhouetted against the eerie glow of the flames still licking at the tree behind it.
The new arrivals hesitated.
And then, Cerbe roared.
Roaaaaaar!!
A bone-chilling, monstrous roar that seemed to shake the very air itself.
Some of them turned to flee. Some raised their weapons.
It didn’t matter.
Cerbe charged.
For the next several minutes, the forest around the Three-Headed Hound was filled with nothing but the sounds of tearing flesh, snapping bones, and dying screams.
By the time the bloodbath ended, the ground was soaked in red, bodies and severed limbs littering the area like discarded trash.
Cerbe sat in the middle of the carnage, licking the blood from its fangs. Its breathing was steady, its eyes scanning the area.
There was no one left alive.
Now, it waited.
If anyone else dared to come, they would meet the same fate.
~~~~~
Unlike Cerbe, Fenrir didn’t rush into battle. It didn’t need to.
It was a predator. A hunter.
And its prey had no idea they were being hunted.
The group of traffickers who had fled from the tree hideout were still running, convinced they had escaped Damien’s wrath. They were battered and breathless, but alive.
“We need to reach the northern hideout,” one of them panted. “If we warn the others, we can—”
A rustling sound interrupted him.
Everyone froze.
Their heads darted around the darkening forest, eyes scanning for movement. The only thing they could hear was their own frantic breathing and the rustling of leaves in the wind.
“Keep moving,” another urged. “Don’t stop—”
Fenrir watched them from the shadows, its body moving effortlessly between the trees.
It was careful, precise. Each step was silent. Each movement calculated and done so well that it could be considered professional.
The wolf could have ended them instantly. It could have torn through them as Cerbe had.
But Fenrir preferred the hunt.
It followed them at a distance, keeping to the darkness, its glowing golden eyes the only hint of its presence. It could smell their fear. It could taste their desperation.
They weren’t just running from danger. They were running toward more of their kind.
More prey.
Fenrir continued to stalk them, weaving through the underbrush with a grace unnatural for something so large. Even as they ran, it didn’t close in.
Not yet.
It wanted them to lead it to the others.
And then, it finally happened.
New scents filled the air.
More of them were approaching. At least a dozen.
They had come in response to the cries for help.
Fenrir stopped in its tracks, its ears perking up.
The fleeing targets reached a small clearing, collapsing onto the ground as they waved at their incoming allies.
“Help! We—”
They didn’t get to finish.
One of the men looked up—straight into Fenrir’s glowing eyes.
The wolf was perched on a thick tree branch above them, its massive frame perfectly balanced, its sharp fangs bared.
For a brief moment, the world stood still.
The man’s mouth opened to scream a warning—
But Fenrir moved first.
It leapt down from the tree, its immense weight crashing onto him, smashing his skull against the forest floor.
Crack!
They all heard the sound and their hearts all sank into their stomachs when they saw the hulking figure of the white wolf.
Chaos erupted.
Fenrir didn’t give them a chance to react.
It tore through them like a specter of death, its claws slicing through flesh, its fangs closing around throats and limbs.
Men and women alike shrieked, scrambling to draw weapons, but they were too slow.
Fenrir was a blur of silver and blood.
One woman swung a blade, only for Fenrir to twist mid-air, dodging effortlessly before pouncing onto her, crushing her ribs beneath its weight.
Another man tried to flee, but Fenrir’s powerful legs sent it hurtling forward, closing the distance in an instant. Its jaws latched onto his neck, tearing it open with a single, brutal motion.
The ones who had come to “help” were now in pieces, their bodies scattered among the trees.
The last remaining survivor dropped his weapon, falling to his knees.
“P-Please…” he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper.
Fenrir stared at him, its head tilting slightly.
For a moment, it almost seemed as though the wolf was considering mercy.
Then, with a flick of its tail, it lunged forward, sinking its fangs into his skull and ripping his head off.
Silence fell over the forest once more.
Fenrir lifted its bloodied muzzle, licking the crimson liquid from its lips.