The night felt heavier than usual.
Fenrik stood alone on the rooftop, the city stretched beneath him like a sea of dim lights and moving shadows. Cars passed far below, people laughed somewhere distant, life continued—yet it all felt strangely disconnected from him now. As if he were standing on the edge of two worlds, belonging fully to neither.
The Wolf Slayer axe rested beside him.
It no longer felt foreign.
That thought unsettled him more than the battles ever had.
Fenrik leaned against the railing and closed his eyes. The wind brushed against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and rusted metal. Every time he blinked, memories returned—dungeons filled with stone and echoes, the weight of killing intent, the sound of claws scraping against the ground.
And then… silence.
Too much silence.
"You're really here now," he muttered to himself. "No turning back."
His hand slowly reached for the axe's handle. The metal was cold, but familiar, like it had been waiting for him long before he ever touched it. When his fingers wrapped around it, a faint pulse ran through his arm—not power, not pain—just acknowledgment.
Fenrik exhaled.
He wasn't strong yet. Not truly.
He had survived. That was all.
A sudden memory hit him without warning.
A bench.
A broken smile.
Laughter that ended too soon.
Fenrik's grip tightened.
His best friend's face surfaced in his mind—clearer than it had in days. The way he used to talk about impossible things. The way he always looked forward, even when the world felt stacked against them.
"You should've been here," Fenrik whispered.
The city lights blurred.
For the first time since everything began, Fenrik allowed himself to sit down. Right there on the rooftop floor, back against concrete, axe laid carefully beside him like something sacred.
He didn't cry loudly. There was no dramatic collapse.
Just quiet tears sliding down his face, disappearing into the night.
"I didn't choose this," he said under his breath. "But it chose me anyway."
The mark on his back tingled faintly.
Not burning. Not awakening.
Just… present.
Like a wolf watching from the dark.
Fenrik wiped his face and stared at his hands. They looked the same as before—no claws, no glow, no sign that he was anything more than a regular guy standing on a roof at midnight.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, he knew that wasn't true anymore.
He had crossed a line.
The Sage's words echoed in his memory—not spoken recently, but impossible to forget.
There are others like you.
And many more who will stand in your way.
Fenrik laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Ten more," he murmured. "And I don't even know where to start."
He looked at the sky.
The moon hung above the city, pale and calm, as if unaware of the chaos slowly growing beneath it. Fenrik felt something stir in his chest—not rage, not ambition—but resolve.
Slow. Steady. Real.
"I'll get stronger," he said, voice firm now. "Not for power. Not for revenge."
He picked up the axe and stood.
"But so I don't lose anyone else."
The wind howled softly across the rooftop, almost like a distant wolf's call—but Fenrik didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
He could feel it.
Watching. Waiting.
The night swallowed his silhouette as he stepped away from the edge, carrying the weight of tomorrow on his shoulders.
And somewhere beyond the city, beyond the dungeons, something ancient shifted—
—not yet ready to appear,
—but aware that Fenrik had taken another step forward.