The pupils of Vanalath’s eyes constricted as something shifted in him. He retracted his tongue, and the rich taste of blood filled his mouth. Powerful blood. Everything changed color in that moment. Red painted the world, and heat pulsed in his core, filling him with an angry flame. He climbed to his feet, taking in the sight of the flailing griffon, still shaking its head and screeching in pain.

Had someone seen Vanalath in that moment, they might have been struck by his similarity to Anamu. His pupils had turned into mere pinpricks, bright yellow eyes shining with a dangerous light. He bared his teeth in a feral grin. There wasn’t a single shred of the human he had once been in his appearance now. Several of his bones were broken—ribs and a clavicle, maybe others—and his left arm wasn’t responding properly. That creature injured him. Him. He took a step towards the injured beast. Prey didn’t strike its predator.

Prey? It’s stronger than you.

But the griffon was hurt. His strike just now had cut into its left eye, blinding it. That weakness was like an invitation. A growl ripped through Vanalath’s throat, and he ran forward, hacking at one of the monster’s legs as it reared back, still thrashing in pain. The creature slammed down, trying to land on him, but Vanalath darted back with bestial speed as four massive limbs struck the ground, making the earth shudder. Without thinking, he imitated the griffon, falling on all fours. Using his injured arm to push off the ground, he attained a burst of speed that allowed him to dart back in before the griffon could orient itself. Bones in his shoulder ground against one another, worsening his injury, but that didn’t matter to him. Pain that would have crippled a living creature was easily ignored.

He began to dart around the creature’s feet, maneuvering more swiftly now, holding the blade in his unhurt hand, occasionally striking out with it.

The instant he adopted this method, the tide of battle visibly shifted. Instead of barely dodging the creature’s strikes as he had been doing before, Vanalath was now able to land an occasional blow against his enemy. His quick, unpredictable movements, coupled with the griffon being half-blind, resulted in a fight unlike any other he had experienced.

It was odd. This was nothing like anything his body’s experiences or his scattered memories had prepared him for. This was not a skill he had trained in life, but something new. What was also new was this internal voice, the unattached narrator observing his own actions from a distance. It was as if there were two of him now: one half consumed by anger, the other a spectator, both sharing the same body.

But this stance… what in the world was it?

A knight’s sword is no weapon against a beast. A beast’s sword is needed.

He was like a wild animal, lashing out wherever he sensed weakness, putting all the strength of his body behind every move he took. His muscles coiled and released like never before. He was wild. He was free. A frenetic, wrathful joy swept through that half of him, fueling his onslaught.

[Skill increased]: (Lv.2) -> (Lv.3)

The griffon kept stomping, trying to crush him under its weight, but Vanalath danced around the beast, clipping its limbs with his sword like a wolf might nip at an elk’s heels. The strikes were shallow, but the monster couldn’t block them, and the small injuries added up. Eventually, dozens of cuts covered the griffon’s limbs, the ground below it painted red. Inch by inch the griffon slowed, until it no longer pounced at every opportunity. Its movements became sluggish in direct contrast to Vanalath’s own growing ferocity.

All at once, the griffon stopped. It crouched down, tucking its feet underneath its body. Vanalath paused his assault, circling the monster, but it shuffled around, orienting itself so that its functioning eye—amd dangerous beak—was pointed at the wight. It had taken the defensive and no longer pursued him like before. This presented an entirely new bundle of problems.

Vanalath took a step towards it and a warning instinct flared to life, making him dart back, hissing through his teeth. The two enemies remained still for a moment, watching the other. A part of the wight knew this was the most dangerous moment—with the monster injured, but not fatally. If he continued going for shallow strikes, the griffon might ignore all thought of self-preservation and rush him down. That couldn’t be allowed. He had to finish it quickly. How? His instincts warred against one another. He wanted to charge the beast, tear it apart and indulge in its flesh. He wanted it so badly that he began to salivate. Then, he spoke. Before he knew what he was doing, he spoke to himself. It was just a simple thought:

Control yourself, fool.

He blinked, and the beast in him shrank back, allowing the world to come rushing back in. His surroundings opened up, and he was again aware of the ongoing battle around him. He hadn’t truly been unaware of it before then, he simply didn’t care. Conceptualization still functioned even when he was consumed by that wild anger, but as the events didn’t affect him directly, he hadn’t paid it any thought. Now, however, he quickly scanned the state of the fight.

The main force was still embroiled in a chaotic battle. Three of the griffons lay in crumpled heaps about the plateau, Orimo’s arrows sticking out of them. A fourth monster was covered in a swarm of undead, letting out feeble squawks as it died. Six griffons still remained—three of the original number while the Gold and his two escorts fought Rellika, Vanalath, and his Peons.

Their undead were suffering heavy losses, mostly from one of the monsters. The first griffon to land—the large one that three squads of ten ghouls had been sent to fight—was standing over a small hill of corpses, looking fatigued but uninjured. A crowd of weapon-wielding ghouls under Iokina’s command followed it around, keeping it hemmed in so that it didn’t rampage among the lessers. A few arrows stuck out of its feathers, but largely it seemed that Orimo had given up trying to take it down to focus on the smaller griffons. The large griffon was the same size and coloration as the one Vanalath was fighting, marking it as an evolved monster.

A memory-not-memory itched somewhere in his mind. If that griffon of Rellika’s was a Gold, then these light brown griffons were… Bronzes? They were similar to the greater ghouls in terms of Tier, only stronger, due to their size. Fighting this Bronze griffon felt almost as difficult as his bouts with Orimo, though the stakes were much higher here than they were in those duels. And he didn’t win many fights with Orimo.

He checked the rest of their enemies. The two smaller griffons sported injuries but were still going strong, shrugging off the attacks of the lessers. Orimo seemed to be having trouble finishing them, as well. A glance at the hunter told Vanalath that his rapid usage of powerful skills must have exhausted his energy reserves. He wasn’t built for extended fights. Against humans and normal beasts, his normal arrows would be deadly enough, but for these monsters it was a different matter. In time, he and the rest of the ghouls would bring down the two remaining unevolved griffons, though the Bronze was another matter entirely.

Anamu and Kalaki appeared to be doing fine, acting together to counter their own Bronze. Anamu ran around, acting as the bait while Kalaki struck at it with his spear when it came into range.

Vanalath finally turned back towards his own griffon. It hadn’t moved so much as an inch as he observed the battlefield, and he spent a moment to look for any weaknesses. All he saw was the Bronze’s towering frame, steel claws and armor-like feathers. This monster was a fortress. If he could reach its softer underbelly or side he might have a chance at ending things, but as things stood, that wouldn’t happen. It was approaching this far too carefully.

He needed a strategy. He wasn’t cracking that defense. The griffon had to move, to extend itself. But how could he make that happen?

Movement nearby tugged at his attention. He saw Rellika fighting with the Gold. Somehow, she had managed to grab a fistful of its feathers and was riding it. No—not riding, she barely clung on, hacking away at one of its wings as it careened through the air, trying to shake her. The golden griffon landed, rolling over to crush her, but she let go and jumped away, landing on her feet before darting back into the fray. The monster snapped at her in a movement so quick that Vanalath had trouble even seeing it, but she ducked underneath and brought her sword up to cut into the griffon’s neck. Unfortunately, its mane was thick there and she only managed to hack away a few feathers before she was forced to retreat from a kick that would have eviscerated her. Frankly, the entire fight was ridiculous. If Orimo and the Bronzes were at the peak of Tier 3, those two had to be at least Tier 4.

An inkling of a plan began to form. Would it work? He wasn’t sure, but there was only one way to test it.

Forcing himself to turn his back on his opponent, he began to stride over to where Rellika fought, keeping an ear out for any sounds of movement behind him. He heard the griffon shift, but then fall silent. He picked up the pace until his stride turned into a jog. Was he right about this? From what he’d seen of the griffon’s behavior, it seemed plausible that this would spur it to action, but he couldn’t be sure until—

A splash as a heavy paw trod through a puddle of water was his only warning. He flung himself to the ground just as a massive shape soared overhead. Talons carved three deep gashes in his back, cutting through his shoddy armor like it was paper.

The griffon had snuck up on him, somehow moving its injured body stealthily enough to nearly catch him unawares. He had no idea it could move that quietly. He had been expecting it to chase him and it still caught him on the back foot. The Bronze landed, then half-turned to glare at him. It had placed itself directly in his path towards the Gold. It once more initiated its defensive posture, but Vanalath flashed a smile, showing it his ichor-stained teeth.

That answered one of his questions. The griffon didn’t want him reaching the Gold. Things were suddenly much simpler.

Vanalath dropped to all fours again, the knuckled fist of his sword hand crunching against loose pebbles. He darted forward at an angle, making it look like he was trying to get around his opponent. The griffon followed him with its eyes, gnashing its beak in agitation. When he moved past, it climbed to its feet and chased after him. Now that it was coming at him from the side rather than from behind, he could see just how fast the thing was. It tucked its talons underneath its body and leaned forward, solely propelling itself with its powerful feline limbs. It became a sleek predator, completely silent and as fast as an arrow. The wing Vanalath had broken was the only flaw in its form. It jutted out awkwardly, but did little to slow it down. If he continued forward, the monster would collide into him with the force of an avalanche in seconds.

Suddenly, Vanalath stood upright, jamming his sword into a crack in the stone. His body continued on, but he grabbed the hilt with both hands, bending the blade but successfully arresting his momentum. The surprised griffon tried to turn, but without a method to stop like Vanalath employed, its body carried it forwards. At once, everything fell neatly into place. He pulled his sword free as the griffon passed, cleaving into the beast’s flank in one vicious motion. The sword bit more deeply this time than it had from all his earlier blows. As the griffon continued past, his sword was tugged free with a wet sound. A splattering of blood declared the maneuver a success. His eyes followed the monster as it galloped on, leaving a red trail behind. Eventually it managed to stop, turning to regard him. It held itself upright, but it was obvious that it was struggling to keep its weight off its injured side. Heavy breaths rasped from the griffon’s beak, and its eyes had lost some of their earlier luster. Once again, he observed the quantity of blood that painted the ground. It looked like gallons, and more streamed down its leg as it stood there, watching him.

The creature was dying. Still, it held itself valiantly, poised for battle.

It let out a shriek, challenging him again. Accepting the challenge would mean charging in, pitting his life against the griffon’s own in one last, bloody engagement. It was the honorable thing to do, a final show of respect between worthy foes.

Griffons were strange creatures to Vanalath. The wight hadn’t seen it at first, but these beasts were monsters that prioritized honor, and their concept of it showed little difference from the human idea. Loyalty to their offspring, to their leader—the Gold—and an indomitable warrior spirit defined these creatures. Just as it defined the hunters. Vanalath might have thought of the idea of an honorable monster a joke, but the sight of the griffon before him, its life steadily bleeding away while it refused to retreat, made the truth clear.

Ambush predators. Monsters with honor. It was almost funny.

He turned, walking away from the mortally wounded griffon. His destination appeared the same as before: the Gold. A weak screech sounded out behind him. He ignored it, bracing himself.

Claws scrabbling on rock and unsteady steps announced the third and final charge of his enemy. Vanalath neatly dodged the incoming griffon as it barreled towards him. His sword flashed out, cutting into the creature’s other flank. It continued on for a few seconds before it hit the ground, sliding over ten feet on the damp, mossy stone. It tried to get its feet underneath it and stand, but it couldn’t find the purchase. It flapped its wings, but it was futile.

Vanalath approached from the creature’s blinded side. Its motions grew more frantic as it heard him approaching. He jumped back to avoid one of the legs, which kicked out at him desperately. Despite its weakened state, a direct blow would tear flesh and break bones.

Growling, he circled around the front, looking for a safer angle of attack. Strangely, when he came in view of the griffon’s working eye, its struggles slowed, and it gazed up at him almost placidly. Its feathery coat was caked in blood, breaths faltering. Too weak to even stand, it appeared ready to accept its fate.

An unknown death had frightened the beast, but now that it was known, the griffon stopped thrashing. Relaxed now, it never once broke its gaze from Vanalath’s own, even as his sword came down for the last time.

[Level increased] x 3

Strength + 3

Stamina + 1

Agility + 4

Dexterity + 2

Ichor + 1

Miasma + 1

Vanalath walked away, wrath drained, feeling less satiated than he had expected. The levels were welcome, as they preceded the incoming rush of power. This time, he gained as many stats in three levels than he would have after six levels when he was a ghoul.

His musculature shifted slightly to accommodate his new strength, and he could feel it affecting the injury on his shoulder, setting the bone as it reinforced his entire body. He rolled his shoulder lightly, testing it, but a warning pang told him it hadn’t healed completely. Strenuous movement would break it again, possibly making the injury even worse.

A nearby crash brought him out of his revelry. His two Peons had grounded down their griffon at last. Kalaki’s spear having scored dozens of strikes against the monster until its wounds rendered it too weak to fly. He once more glanced at Rellika and the Gold. They were on the ground now, though it was difficult to say who was winning, as neither had been significantly wounded yet. He toyed with the idea of helping her, but decided to join his Peons. His earlier ploy to goad the griffon into charging him had been just that—a ploy. He had no intention of taking on the monstrous Gold without sufficient backup.

As he rushed forward, he couldn’t help but think back on what he had done after the griffon injured him. What was that swordsmanship form? It was no human stance, that was certain. He’d been on all fours like an animal, yet it felt to him that he was more capable like that than on his own two feet. He successfully contained his Brand of Wrath in the end, but somehow, he was left unsettled. His own actions had shown him that he was capable of things he had never imagined before. What other things could he do? What else was he capable of?

It was a taste of the creature’s essence that had provoked that new style from him. He lifted his bloody sword as he ran, running a tongue across the metal. Though the rich flavor of the monster’s blood made him shiver, he couldn’t help but think back on the griffon’s abnormal sense of duty. For some reason, this ended up tainting the flavor. He lowered the sword, no longer enjoying the taste.