CHAPTER 61: THE FINAL HOWL

A wave of dread rippled through the air. Silence descended. No one could breathe or move. Every pair of eyes remained locked on the savage werewolf standing before them.

Amidst their shock and terror, they heard the commander of the knights mutter with a terrified expression, "The Final Howl..."

They wanted to ask what he meant—but none of them dared take their eyes off the feral Thorne for even a second.

In contrast, the commander quickly regained his courage. With a trembling hand, he gripped his sword tightly and stepped in front of Arvan, saying, "My lord, run! I’ll distract him!"

Unlike the others, he was the only one who had a vague idea of what they were witnessing. And that alone told him the disaster they had walked into was far greater than anyone realized.

He didn’t possess extensive knowledge about half-beast races, but a few months back, he had met a traveling bard from the Kingdom of Gravehold, which bordered the Wild Plains. Over drinks and a long conversation, the bard had shared rare knowledge, secrets only the people of Gravehold knew, thanks to their endless wars with half-beasts.

He spoke of unique abilities possessed by certain races—among them, a skill called "The Final Howl," a technique that only male werewolves with specific traits could use. He warned that facing a werewolf mid-howl was sheer madness—suicidal, even.

Those warnings, which he had dismissed at the time, now echoed in his mind. He cursed his fate, and seethed with anger toward Arvan. Inwardly, he spat, ’I can’t believe I’m going to die for this filthy animal. He’s the reason all this is happening, and yet we’re supposed to protect him.’

The knights followed strict codes. They were bound to give their lives for their lords, even if that lord was no better than a sack of garbage.

As these thoughts swirled, he suddenly noticed that Arvan hadn’t moved an inch. His fury deepened, and he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Run, you piece of shit! Didn’t you hear me?!"

Arvan’s body trembled. He stared blankly at the knight for a moment, then scrambled backward, finally standing and fleeing. The mage and the healer immediately followed after him.

Thorne didn’t move right away. First, he turned his head and looked toward a specific direction. There, he spotted a masked man standing silently, watching them. Thanks to his heightened senses, he could feel the man’s presence. He didn’t know who he was or why he was there? but he didn’t have the luxury of pondering it.

The "Final Howl" wouldn’t last forever.

So, he turned his full focus to Arvan and growled in a rough, guttural voice, "You won’t escape me!" With that, he launched forward with explosive speed.

Each step he took sent dirt flying behind him. In a flash, he reached the white carriage. The commander of the knights stepped into his path and attacked with all his might. But Thorne didn’t care. With ease, he caught the blade in his fur-covered palm.

The commander’s eyes widened in utter disbelief. He had expected Thorne to be stronger but not this absurdly strong. Even so, he shook off the shock in an instant. Without hesitation, he let go of his sword, stepped back, drew a dagger, and stabbed it into Thorne’s chest.

But it was useless.

Thorne didn’t remain still. With effortless grace, he dodged the desperate attack, and with terrifying calm, he swiped his claws. They tore through the knight’s metal armor like it was old cloth. His claws dug into the man’s flesh, slicing him apart like blades.

With complete indifference, Thorne withdrew his bloodied hand and punched the knight with such force that he was launched backward. He landed hard on his back. The front of his armor bore four deep, bloody holes—from his right chest to his waist. Anyone who saw them would doubt they came from mere claws.

The knight lay frozen, paralyzed, unable to move. His strength left him. Death crept close. Blood poured from his body, forming a pool beneath him. He stared at the sky with vacant eyes. A bitter smile touched his lips as he muttered:

"...I should’ve run."

Thorne didn’t spare him a glance. Without pause, he resumed the chase. Arvan was already far ahead but Thorne needed only seconds to catch up.

"Stay away from me!"

"Get back!"

Arvan screamed in terror, tossing several explosive scrolls behind him. They detonated the moment they hit the ground—but Thorne dodged them with ease, his eyes locked on his prey.

At the same moment, the last surviving mage turned and unleashed a wide-range spell "Scorched Earth" burning the last of his mana.

Flames engulfed the ground in front of Thorne, turning it into a raging inferno. But he didn’t stop. He charged straight through the flames without a hint of hesitation. His fur and skin burned, but his body was so tough that the damage was negligible. His scorched fur even began regenerating visibly fast.

The mage trembled in horror at the sight and whispered in despair, "...It’s useless. We’re dead."

"Damn you..."

But Arvan didn’t give up. He kept running with insane desperation, cursing like a madman.

Suddenly, a chilling sensation ran down his spine. He turned his head and saw Thorne reaching him. His legs turned to jelly. He wet himself again in terror but didn’t care. Or rather, he didn’t have time to care.

Thorne reached the mage first, tore his body apart with frightening ease, and then lunged at Arvan.

...

Elsewhere, Arthur followed at a steady pace. As soon as he saw Thorne pounce on Arvan, he smiled with satisfaction. ’This is it. The decisive moment.’

In the novel "Rise of the Sword Sovereign", this was the moment when Novarian intervened and saved Arvan from certain death. But this time, no one would come to his rescue.

Arthur’s heart pounded with anticipation. At long last, he was about to be rid of the pest that had plagued him for an entire month.

As expected, no obstacles appeared. Thorne easily reached Arvan and attacked, aiming to rip him apart.

Arthur’s eyes widened. His heart raced then his expression soured. Unexpectedly, the healer shoved Arvan aside, causing him to fall and avoid the strike. But the healer wasn’t as lucky. He hadn’t pulled back in time and Thorne’s claws severed his arm.

The severed limb fell beside Arvan, splattering him with blood. Terrified, Arvan began crawling backward, screaming:

"Stay away from me!"

"You beast!"

"Get back!"

"Do you even know who I am?!"

Thorne didn’t stop. He walked slowly toward him, savoring the fear, wanting him to taste terror before he died.

Arthur frowned, annoyed. ’Just kill him already, damn it.’ He knew even a short delay could spell trouble.

...

Meanwhile, Arvan kept begging as he crawled away. But the only reply was a cold glare brimming with killing intent. He swallowed hard and, fueled by a sudden surge of fury, shouted:

"I am Arvan Ravenshade, you filthy beast! How dare you attack me?!"

Thorne gave a faint, sorrowful smile and replied, "I don’t care."

Without another word, he lunged forward, driving his claws into Arvan’s gut and hoisting him into the air like a ragdoll. Arvan’s eyes widened in disbelief as he gasped, "How... dare you..."

Despite everything, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. His arrogance was so overwhelming that it blinded him. Even in the depths of his fear, he truly believed he would survive. But reality told a different story: he was going to die.

Suddenly, the panic faded. Amid the pain, a strange calm took hold. He didn’t know why, but his thoughts shifted. With icy detachment, he stared at Thorne and hissed:

"You’ll die with me."

With the last of his strength, he pulled an explosive scroll from his ring and tried to drop it beneath him hoping to kill them both.

But before he could, the claws impaling him vanished. Thorne released him.

Arvan dropped to the ground, groaning from the pain. But he ignored it and looked up at the werewolf—only to see Thorne shrinking rapidly. His fur was falling away. His body was getting smaller. Strange cracking sounds echoed from within him.

Thorne’s face twisted in unbearable pain. But what truly haunted him wasn’t the agony. ’Damn it... not now... I was so close. Just a bit more...’

The "Final Howl" had ended and now came the consequences. That immense surge of power hadn’t come free.

His life was the price or at the very least, crippling injuries that would leave him immobile for a long time.

Arvan, seeing his wretched state, burst into laughter. Mad, howling laughter. Every breath hurt, but he didn’t care. He laughed from the depths of his soul, reveling in Thorne’s suffering.

"Look at yourself now, you son of a bitch! Where’s your strength? Where’s your savagery, mutt?! Let’s see what you can do now!"

Surviving death against all odds had revived his arrogance and belief in his own invincibility.

Quickly changing his mind, Arvan returned the explosive scroll to his ring and pulled out a prison scroll instead. He threw it at Thorne’s feet. Chains burst out and bound the weakened werewolf in place.

Thorne stared blankly at Arvan, unable to move, only able to regret every second he had wasted.

’I’m sorry, sister. I failed to avenge you...’

He didn’t know if he’d survive the backlash of the "Final Howl" but it hardly mattered. He was as good as dead. Arvan would never let him go.

Pain wracked his body. His muscles tore. His bones cracked. He couldn’t stay silent anymore. Groans of agony escaped him.

To Arvan, those groans were music. Smiling with twisted delight, he calmly pulled out a healing scroll and pressed it to his wound. The injury began to heal rapidly and he exhaled in relief.

But then suddenly, without warning—dozens of thorny roots burst from the ground and coiled around him. They bound his arms and legs, hoisting him into the air.

He froze in disbelief. Terror surged through him once more. He looked around frantically but this time, he couldn’t summon anything from his storage ring. His hands were bound.

Thorne, writhing on the ground, forgot his pain. He stared up at the suspended Arvan with a strange look. He felt no fear. In truth, he no longer cared about his own fate. All he wanted... was Arvan’s death.

Before either could process what was happening, Arthur stepped forward and in a cold voice, said:

"Now then... should I kill you both?"