Translator: AnubisTL
The Howling Moon Clan's territory was shrouded in darkness.
Russell stood on a rocky outcrop in Crescent Moon Valley, his once-vibrant blue mane now streaked with gray.
Graymane werewolves had short lifespans, rarely exceeding fifty years.
Six years had transformed the once-young chieftain into a middle-aged one. His fur was no longer as lustrous, but his eyes remained as sharp as knives.
Below in the valley, the werewolf warriors were resting.
Their bodies bore fresh and old scars—some from previous ogre attacks, others from hunting and internal conflicts.
Russell was acutely aware that discontent was growing within the clan.
Manefire, a young challenger, had publicly questioned his decisions at gatherings on more than one occasion. The old shaman, over sixty years of age, was nearing the end of his life, his mind growing increasingly clouded and his ability to steady the clan's morale fading.
Awoo! A low wolf howl echoed in the distance.
The patrol team was returning.
Russell leaped down the valley slope, returning to the territory below to converse with the patrol team and gather information.
The news they brought was grim.
The Bonechewer Clan's ogres continued to expand, and it was unclear when they might again threaten Crescent Moon Valley.
Russell exhaled silently.
He looked up at the night sky, as if waiting for something.
Six years ago, the dragon lord had promised to return, but time was wearing thin the clan's patience. Some members had already forgotten the dragon's power, and dissenting voices were growing within the clan.
Russell began to walk, patrolling his territory.
At a fire pit deep within the territory, several werewolf warriors, fresh from patrol, were tearing into the leg meat of their prey. Grease dripped onto the embers, sizzling and spitting.
"Manefire challenged the chieftain again in the training grounds today," a young werewolf said, spitting out a bone fragment. He lowered his voice. "He defaced half of the war totem the chieftain carved into the rock face, right in front of everyone."
Manefire, as the werewolf was nicknamed, had parents who opposed pledging allegiance to dragonkind. Russell had personally defeated them, transforming them into giant wolves.
As a result, Manefire harbored a deep resentment toward Russell.
Over the past six years, this talented young werewolf had grown into the strongest warrior of the new generation. He no longer concealed his hostility toward the chieftain and sought to challenge his authority.
The old warrior sneered, revealing his broken canine teeth.
"Six years ago, Manefire trembled before the evil snake, hiding behind its mother. Now, it dares to point its claws at the chieftain."
"But the chieftain is indeed aging," the she-werewolf murmured, her ears swiveling alertly.
"During the last rock bull hunt, the chieftain's charge was half a beat slow. If Frostfang hadn't cast her spell in time, the prey would have escaped."
The campfire crackled and popped.
Russell's figure appeared on the other side. The young werewolf warrior hunched his neck, not daring to speak.
Passing by several warriors, Russell acted as if he hadn't heard anything, striding directly toward a stone hut nestled against the cliff face.
Around a campfire,
Manefire was sharing the freshly caught wild boar with three trusted followers.
The raw meat, still steaming, was torn into bloody strips by sharp teeth. They ate it directly, without cooking or roasting—young werewolves preferred it raw.
Manefire was a tall, powerfully built werewolf.
His gray mane was streaked with red, and as it whipped in the wind, it resembled a blazing fire—the source of his nickname.
As he tore into the raw meat, Manefire's gaze fell on Chief Russell, watching as the chieftain entered the old shaman's hut.
"The old man's authority is waning. He nearly let the prey escape on the last hunt."
Manefire licked the blood from between his claws, his fur flickering in the firelight. "His claws and fangs are no longer as sharp as mine, and his body isn't as strong."
The werewolf with the scar across his face murmured, "The chieftain has been visiting the shaman's hut more often lately. Do you think he's preparing some ritual to strengthen himself?"
Manefire slammed a claw against the rock wall, sending a shower of gravel cascading down.
"The shaman is already losing his mind. He can't possibly empower anyone."
"At the next Full Moon Festival, I will challenge Russell in front of the entire clan," he snarled, baring his bone-white fangs. "When that day comes, I will become the new chieftain of the Howling Moon Clan!"
The old shaman was near death.
Frostfang, Russell's daughter, had been chosen to succeed him, but she was still a young and inexperienced shaman. Without the old shaman's prestige, she posed no real threat.
Manefire had made up his mind.
He would replace Russell, no matter the cost.
Russell gently pushed aside the animal hide curtain hanging at the entrance of the stone hut. A thick, musty air, thick with the smell of burning herbs and decay, rushed out.
The old shaman's hut was even darker than it had been six years ago.
It huddled on the bed in the corner, its hunched figure almost blending into the shadows.
Beside it sat a slightly smaller female werewolf, her teeth gleaming like polished ivory. Her mane was woven into intricate braids, and a necklace of animal bones rested against her throat.
Frostfang Belle, Russell's daughter and the shaman's successor, was carefully grooming the old shaman's fur, patiently picking through it for fleas. When she saw her father arrive, she stopped and retreated outside.
Hearing footsteps, the old shaman's cloudy yellow eyes slowly turned, their pupils clouded with gray, devoid of life.
"Russell... you've come."
His voice rasped like air escaping a leaky leather bag, each word slow and punctuated by the gurgling sound of phlegm in his throat.
Russell nodded silently and squatted by the fire pit.
Six years ago, this stone hut had been the most sacred place in the clan, and the old shaman's prophecies could pinpoint the exact hour the rainy season would begin.
Now, only withered branches burned in the fire pit, their flames weak and sickly.
"I can barely suppress the Manefire anymore," Russell sighed, weariness etching itself onto his brow. "He has exceptional talent and grows rapidly, while I have long passed my peak."
Manefire was ferocious, vengeful, and lacked the vision and strategic thinking required to lead a clan.
As a warrior, he was exceptional, but as a chieftain, he would be a disaster for the Howling Moon Clan. However, the clan revered strength, and if Manefire defeated Russell through the proper challenge process, they would be powerless to prevent his ascension.
"No, it's fine. The dragon lord is about to arrive," the old shaman said, a faint smile in his cloudy eyes.
Russell was momentarily startled, his eyes suddenly brightened. "Is that true? Are you certain?"
As if experiencing a final surge of vitality, the old shaman coughed lightly, and his voice grew clear and steady. "My life is nearing its end. Fortunately, perhaps due to the protection of the ancestral spirits, I have glimpsed fragments of the future."
"What future?" Russell asked.
The old shaman didn't answer.
The future was not immutable. Revealing prophecies could bring backlash upon both the seer and the listener, and could even alter the course of events.
Every spellcaster or shaman who could see the future was an exceptional keeper of secrets.
The old shaman raised his withered, clawed hand and gripped Russell's arm tightly. He spoke each word with deliberate force: "You must, you absolutely must, follow the dragon lord! No matter what happens, never waver in your loyalty! This is the Howling Moon Clan's most crucial opportunity."
Russell nodded solemnly, then watched as the old shaman slowly closed his eyes.
A wave of sorrow and grief washed over him.
This revered elder had passed away. The old shaman's soft snoring interrupted Russell's melancholy.
He hadn't died after all; he had merely fallen into a deep sleep.
The old werewolf was sensitive to cold, so Russell carefully tucked the blankets around him.
Boom!
Suddenly, a low rumble of thunder approached from the distance.
It sounded like the breath of a colossal beast, or the thunderous beat of massive wings.
The old shaman, who had just closed his eyes, abruptly opened them again. The haze in his eyes cleared, and after a moment of surprise, Russell's expression lit up with excitement.
The cubs born in recent years didn't understand the meaning of this rolling thunder.
But Russell and the old shaman both recognized it instantly.
"Help me up!" the old shaman said, bracing himself.
(End of the Chapter)
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