Discal clashed against the three beasts with excitement in his eyes. Unlike the grim glints of the others, he showed no fear but only the thrill found in combat. He wanted to engage in battle and win.

But though barbaric his desire was, it was not unrefined; it was the same yearning a nobleman would have in overcoming his foes. He desired to conquer what was before him. His bearing was similar to a warrior, ever on a quest of perfecting his trade. And through the forges of conflict, he would realize his goal.

He met the first of the three, the wolf’s rotten teeth biting down. Armed with only meager skills, he stood daze, contemplating on what to do. He was a scholar, and to assume he could be the heroes in his books because he read them was foolish. He was nothing more but a greenhorn in combat.

But even then, the excited glint in his eyes did not dim at all. Instead, it was now suffused with a longing to learn. Rather than forcing himself to fight like a warrior he knew almost nothing of, he opted to have a scholarly gaze. He planned in learning the fundamentals of a fight by putting his life at stake.

The direwolf neared him, and his eyes flashed towards his left hand. It was clad in an old vambrace he received from the Guild.

That should work, he thought with a smile.

His left hand reached out in an arc, and Miria stared in confusion. ”What are you doing!?” she yelled as she neared him. She gritted her teeth, and kept her dagger close. I knew we shouldn’t have taken his request, she thought as he looked at the scholar’s foolish move.

But the scholar ignored her and the wolf’s jaws came down on his left hand. Discal pulled and could still feel his arm in place. He sneered at the mistake of the beast.

Being kicked in the shin hurt more than this!

He lifted the beast up overhead. His body erupted with strength as muscles turned taut. Miria stopped her steps, her eyes wide in shock.

The beast struggled but Discal held it in place.

“There’s no escape for you, beast!” He raised his sword and stabbed the beast under the rib and to its heart. It flailed for a moment then its body went slack. The scholar, triumphant, threw the direwolf aside.

It was dead, and its teeth known to maul a limb off with ease had not hurt him at all. The discovery made him jubilant. But he had to be cautious still, for the vambrace might have helped. He glanced at his left hand, bleeding ever so slightly through the holes punctured by the wolf’s teeth.

Keeping his elation at bay, he turned to the two remaining beasts. He could feel their fear of him, and how they were hesitating to strike. But Discal frowned at their pause. He had to hunt them down, and prevent their escape.

He moved forth, intending to tackle one down and Miria recovering from her shock followed him to help. She too knew the implication of letting the beasts escape: more help would come. And with them exhausted, having to compete in speed with beasts meant for the hunt would be their bane.

Discal closing in, the direwolves despaired, preparing to run. They turned their backs, and ran at the gap the party came from. Discal and Miria’s expressions fell, but they continued their chase. But in mere moments, the distance between them grew wider, and their faces fell even further. The wolves were quick, and it would be a matter of time before they disappear from sight.

The scholar was anxious as the wolves drifted away.

What to do…!?

He did not want to be a burden to the party. He wanted to show his worth. As his thoughts ran amuck, the strap on his shoulders were digging into his skin.

The bag!

He dropped the bag in one swift move. “Miria, I’ll go ahead.” He sprinted off, leaving a dumbfounded Miria behind. Beside her were two metal slabs strewn on the field.

She halted in place, unable to keep up with the scholar’s speed. Her brows furrowed, pondering what to do. Her gaze flew by the running scholar, and the others fighting still. She clenched her teeth, left Discal’s bag and ran to the others with dagger in hand.

“You fool!” she said, remembering the scholar’s fleeting form.

Discal felt free. The weight that had been a problem ever since he left the outpost was no more. He ran in great strides and drew ever closer to the frightened beasts running in haste. Soon, he was a few steps away from the nearest fiend.

But something seemed odd. He noticed the distance between the two fleeing wolves was far and wide, as if the nearest beast to him was intentionally lagging behind. He considered why, and smiled.

“Crafty beasts,” said the scholar. He glanced at his shoddy sword, and gazed at the wolf far ahead. “It’s a simple matter to catch the first wolf, but what of the other one?”

He shifted his grip on the sword and raised it overhead. Like holding an oversize knife, his muscles coiled and tightened. Filled with unbound strength, he aimed the blade. His eyes locked at the farthest wolf and tossed the sword. It whistled in the air, spinning as it carved a path. In a blink of an eye, the blade struck true and impaled the wolf to the ground.

At the same time, the scholar jumped on the one near him. The wolf was confused, seeing its partner lodged to the ground, writhing in pain. It recoiled back, afraid of what caused the disaster to its kin. But it had made a grave mistake. It turned and in front was a man, more akin to an encroaching beast. The wolf growled in impunity.

The scholar became the hunter, and the wolf, the prey.

Discal pounced on the despairing wolf, and pushed it on its back. He mounted the beast and grabbed hold of its jaws. The beast’s jaws snapped a couple of times before the scholar held it down. It mewled like a pup on its birth.

But Discal gave no quarter. He pulled his right hand back far, and punched the direwolf in the chest. It cried in pain preceded by the sound of cracking bones.

With the scholar mounted on top, the beast tried to struggle free. It relied on its inborn strength but the man firmly held it in place. It whimpered in pain as the scholar punched again and again.

Its sternum shattered under the scholar’s fist. The luster in its eyes was lost and only an inkling of life remained. Discal seeing the beast’s state, punched again and its chest caved in. The beast breathed its last, but the scholar pulled his arm back once more.

“Just to be sure…” Discal murmured, and punched again. The sound of flesh being crushed rang out and the beast’s beating heart finally stopped. He slowly removed his fist from the twitching dead beast. Unknowingly, a sliver of white smoke flowed from the caved chest and to his beating heart.

The scholar heaved a deep breath.

He looked over, and the bones of the wolf jutted out in sharp ends, while the flesh was torn and mangled. Even with his change, breaking through the beast’s chest with his bare fists took almost all he had. If not for his abnormal strength, he would have been the prey.

He wiped the sweat and blood from his face and stood up. He felt strange for being unbothered at the gruesome sight. Back then, he was squeamish of a pool of blood.

Maybe I have change, much more than just a new layer of skin

He glanced over the corpse, before heading for the writhing wolf from afar. With solid steps, he neared the beast. He crouched down and saw the direwolf trying to dislodge the sword.

Its jaws clamped down onto the blade and pulled back, but it ended in vain. The sword was embedded too deep. Understanding its fate, the wolf slumped down and its limbs relaxed. It breathed calmly and stared back at the scholar, its eyes glimmering with restrained hate.

With a placid face, Discal pulled back his hand and made a fist. He stared at the beast’s eyes and slammed his fist. The skull cracked and its eyes lost color. A smaller string of white smoke he had not seen flowed from the beast’s gaping mouth and to his own heart. He punched once more, to be sure.

He wiped the gore from himself on the beast’s fur. He stood up, bore his weight down onto the corpse and recovered the embedded sword. He stepped back and looked at the blade. It was cracked and twisted, it would be a surprise if it was still of use. But he kept it still. It might be useful later on, he thought and sat down near the corpse.

He rested on a patch of dried leaves.

His excitement and thrill of his first battle gradually died down. His wish of being of worth was also somewhat fulfilled. He was becoming a new man, and it made him delighted. He looked at his hand and clenched tightly, as if afraid to lose what he had attained.

I’m not useless, anymore, he thought. After this quest, I should celebrate.

A minute had passed and he stood up. He then looked at the sky’s orange tint.

“I should head back,” he said.

He swept his gaze, and skylight beamed down. A gust of wind came by and ruffled his bloodied clothes. Slowly, drops of blood fell from the hem of his mantle and shirt.

Another gust swept by and the leaves rocked to and fro. Rustling sounds and the creaks of swaying branches filled the air. He closed his eyes, relishing the passing cold wind.

He breathed deeply, and walked off.