CHAPTER 37: THE BEAST-GIRL’S RAGE

The moment Lord Alaric’s words left his lips, the luxurious study transformed.

The shadows in the corners deepened. Coalesced. Detached themselves from the walls. Eight figures, clad in the stark, functional black leather of the Inquisition’s covert squads, materialized from the gloom.

Their movements were utterly silent. Not the silver-clad Templars. These were the Inquisitors’ scalpels. Their spies and assassins. They fanned out. A perfect, inescapable semi-circle. Their shortswords and consecrated daggers were drawn.

Edward was trapped. The door was behind him. The armed assassins were in front of him. And the architect of his demise was sitting comfortably, sipping brandy.

Lord Alaric’s smile widened. A look of supreme and arrogant satisfaction. "You see, this is the difference between us, boy," he said. His voice was a low, condescending lecture. "You are a rabid dog, acting on instinct and rage. I am a master. A player of the great game. I knew you would come. I knew your Syndicate handlers would see this gala as an irresistible opportunity. And I knew the Inquisition would be more than happy to let me use my own pest control."

He took another slow sip. "A simple, elegant solution that solves so many problems. Your little rebellion is quashed. The Syndicate is sent a message. And I solidify my alliance with the Holy Order. Tidy, wouldn’t you say?"

Edward didn’t reply. His mind was a whirlwind of cold, rapid-fire calculations. Eight highly trained assassins. All wielding consecrated weapons that would burn him on contact. One S-Rank nobleman. And one unknown. The chained beast-girl in the corner.

The odds were not in his favor.

He could feel the hungry hum of the Shadowfang Dagger. He could feel the chaotic, roaring power of the souls he carried, straining against his control. He was outmatched. Yes. But he was far from helpless.

"Kill him," Lord Alaric commanded. His voice was bored. "And try not to ruin the priceless Isfahan rug."

The assassins moved as one. A silent, coordinated wave of black leather and gleaming, holy steel.

Edward exploded into motion. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t break through their line. He charged. Not at the assassins. Directly at the massive, ornate desk that separated him from Lord Alaric.

A move of such audacious, unexpected insanity that it momentarily threw the assassins off their rhythm. They had not expected him to charge the very man they were supposed to be protecting.

He vaulted over the corner of the desk. Lord Alaric, his calm demeanor finally shattering, yelped in surprise. He threw his heavy crystal brandy glass at Edward’s head. Edward slapped it out of the air. The glass shattered against the far wall.

He was now on the same side of the desk as the nobleman. The assassins were momentarily blocked. He had bought himself two precious seconds.

He didn’t go for the Lord. He went for the girl.

He saw the look in her golden, wolf-like eyes. Not just fear. A deep, burning well of pure, unadulterated hatred. A rage directed at the man who had chained her. She was not a broken, submissive slave. She was a caged wolf. And all he had to do was open the cage.

He spun. His Shadowfang Dagger was fast. He didn’t strike the iron cuffs on her wrists. He struck the chain itself. Where it was bolted to the wall. The black, soul-forged dagger sliced through the thick, cold-iron chain with a single, screeching spark.

He had just freed the wildcard.

Lord Alaric, his face became pale, sputtering fury, drew a thin, elegant rapier. "You foolish, sentimental boy! What have you done?!"

He would soon find out.

The beast-girl, whose name was Fenris, stumbled forward. Her wrists were still bound. But she was free. She looked at her broken chain. Then at Edward. A look of stunned, feral disbelief. Then she looked at Lord Alaric.

A sound, a low, guttural growl, started deep in her chest. It rose into a full-throated snarl of pure, unrestrained rage. The fear was gone from her eyes.

The assassins, having finally navigated around the desk, charged. Two lunged at Edward. The other six, seeing the now-freed beast-girl as the more immediate threat, turned to engage her.

The study erupted into a chaotic, three-way melee.

Edward met the two assassins head-on. A whirlwind of steel and shadow. Their consecrated shortswords hissed through the air. But Edward was a phantom. His movements were fluid and economical.

He parried a thrust from one. Spun him into the path of his partner. He ducked under a wild slash. His own dagger traced a thin, red line across an exposed throat. The fight was brutal, close-quarters, and over in seconds.

But the real show was on the other side of the room.

Fenris met the charge of the six assassins not with fear, but with a joyful, savage fury. She was a brawler. A creature of pure, primal instinct and overwhelming force. She couldn’t use her hands. So she used her entire body as a weapon.

She ducked under a sword thrust. Slammed her shoulder into the lead assassin’s chest. The sound of his sternum cracking echoed. She kicked out. Her powerful legs snapped an opponent’s knee with a wet, ugly crunch. She headbutted another.

She was a whirlwind of untamed, predatory violence. She wasn’t fighting with trained, disciplined skill. She was fighting like a cornered animal.

A wolf defending its territory. And it was terrifyingly effective. She took cuts, but she didn’t seem to feel the pain. Her rage was a potent, all-consuming anesthetic.

Edward, having finished his own two opponents, watched. A flicker of grim admiration in his eyes. He saw the assassins’ perfect tactics falling apart. And he saw her primary handicap. The heavy iron cuffs that bound her wrists.

He moved. A silent shadow slipping through the chaos. He reached Fenris’s side. She saw him coming. And with a level of instinctual, combat-based trust, she didn’t flinch. She simply offered him her bound hands.

He brought the Shadowfang Dagger down. A single, powerful blow. He shattered the thick iron chain that connected the two cuffs.

Her hands were free.

The growl in her chest erupted into a full-throated, triumphant roar. She flexed her fingers. Her knuckles cracked like firecrackers.

And then, the real fight began.

She was no longer just a brawler. She was a master of a savage, unarmed combat style. She waded into the remaining assassins. Her hands were a blur of open-palm strikes. Brutal elbow jabs. Devastating, claw-handed slashes. She moved with a speed that almost rivaled his own.

Edward fought alongside her. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They moved in a perfect, unspoken synchronicity. A dance of two predators who had found a kindred spirit. His cold, precise, lethal efficiency was the perfect complement to her hot, savage, overwhelming force.

He would create an opening. She would exploit it. They were a perfect, horrifying engine of destruction.

The last of the assassins fell. His body slumped to the priceless Isfahan rug.

Silence descended. Broken only by their own ragged breathing.

They stood back-to-back in the center of the room. Surrounded by the bodies of the dead. A pair of blood-soaked, victorious predators.

Lord Alaric stood by the fireplace. His face was pale, sweat-sheened disbelief. His perfect plan. His trap. All torn apart by a single, Rankless boy and a piece of "merchandise." His rapier trembled.

Edward and Fenris turned as one. Their gazes, one cold and predatory, the other a burning, feral gold, locked onto the last man left standing.

The master of the great game had just been checked. Now, he was cornered.

But the Lord of the Manor had one last, desperate, spiteful move to play. He reached into his coat. He pulled out a small, jagged, pulsating object. A dark crystal. A shard of pure, chaotic dungeon energy. It seemed to suck the very light and warmth from the room.

"If I am to be dragged down into the abyss," Lord Alaric screamed, his voice a high-pitched, hysterical shriek, his composure utterly shattered, "then I will take you all with me!"

He raised the crystal high. "This entire estate is built upon a nexus of unstable portals! Let’s see how you fare when your battlefield is reality itself!"

He slammed the crystal down onto the marble mantelpiece. It shattered. A silent, violent implosion of purple light. A Dungeon Core Destabilizer.

The world began to scream. The floor buckled and twisted. The solid stone walls of the study seemed to melt and flow like wax.

The entire, grand, luxurious mansion began to groan. To tear apart at the seams. Its reality collapsed inwards. Forcibly, chaotically, transformed into a new, unstable dungeon.