[Shin’s POV]
Ah. What a profound and entirely unnecessary pain in the ass.
The slanting afternoon light was a particular nuisance, casting sharp, distracting glares that made precise observation more difficult. Before stood a werewolf with a mangy, rust-red coat—a disgrace to the noble Crimsonheart na—and a nasty, poorly healed scar bisecting its muzzle. Its lips were pulled back in a continuous, rumbling snarl, thick saliva dripping onto the bed of brown pine needles below. It was clearly waiting for to transform, to engage in the tireso posturing that typically preceded a fight.
I remained standing exactly as I was, hands resting loosely at my sides. I offered a slight, almost imperceptible sigh that did nothing to disturb the air around . "We are both of the sa species from the sa pack," I stated, my voice flat and devoid of any inflection that might be mistaken for aggression or fear. "This conflict is illogical. Can we not simply agree to a draw and go our separate ways? It would be a far more efficient use of our ti and energy."
The rust-red werewolf stared at , its snarling faltering for a second, replaced by pure, unadulterated confusion. Then, as my words processed, the confusion curdled into insulted, sputtering rage. "Are you mocking ?!" it roared, its voice a gravelly ss of sound and spittle.
It was. It lunged, a single, massive claw swiping through the air where my head had been a fraction of a second before. I didn’t leap back with a dramatic flourish; I simply calculated the arc of its swing and took a single, precise step to the side, letting the force of its own wild montum unbalance it. The tips of its claws missed the plain gray wool of my tunic by a hair’s breadth. I could sll the stale sweat, old blood in its fur.
I let out a deep, weary breath. The air felt heavy and inconvenient in my lungs. I guess I have no choice. This is so inefficient.
"Mon, go to the wagon. Guard the unconscious bandits," I instructed, my tone no different than if I were asking him to pass the salt. The monkey chittered in understanding, leaping from my shoulder and scampering to his post with a seriousness that belied his small size.
Energy, cold and focused—entirely unlike Kai’s hot, passionate surge—flowed through . My transformation was swift and silent, a ripple of change rather than a series of violent cracks. Where Kai was a knight of fire and emotion, my werewolf form was a logical extension of my mind: a tool of pure function. My fur was a deep, crimson, neat and unmarked, and my eyes, usually so impassive, now glowed with a pale, icy light that processed the world in a stream of data—distance, trajectory, muscle tension.
The red stray recovered and charged again, a brute-force avalanche of teeth and claws ant to overwhelm. I did not et the charge. I flowed around it. As he barreled past, a perfect study in wasted kinetic energy, I extended my leg and placed my foot at the exact optimal angle. His own shin connected with my ankle, and he crashed headlong into the thick undergrowth with a roar of pure frustration, tearing up a patch of delicate ferns.
His technique was abysmal. All power, no control. Every move was telegraphed a full second in advance by a tightening of muscle, a shift of weight, a predictable flicker in his wild, unfocused eyes. He swiped a claw at my head; I ducked under it, my movents economical, using not an ounce more energy than necessary. He tried to sink his teeth into my arm; I pulled it back just enough for his jaws to snap shut on empty air with a sound that was more frustration than legitimate threat.
He was tiring himself out, his breaths becoming ragged, wet bellows, while my own breathing remained even and calm. This wasn’t a fight; it was an analytical exercise. A dissection of poor technique. He was a flawed equation, and I was solving him with the minimal number of steps.
In a final, dramatic display of inefficiency, he reared up on his hind legs for a powerful, two-clawed slam aid at crushing my skull. It was a foolish move that left his entire torso exposed. As he reached the apex of his rise, I did not roar. I did not lunge. I simply took one asured step forward and drove my closed fist, with focused, pinpoint force, into the specific cluster of nerves just below his sternum. The strike was short, sharp, and chanically perfect.
The effect was imdiate and absolute. All the air left his body in a choked, gurgling gasp. The blinding rage in his eyes extinguished, replaced by stunned, vacant agony. His massive form shuddered violently, his neural pathways overloaded and his muscles forgetting their commands. He crumpled to the forest floor like a sack of grain, curling in on himself, wheezing and completely paralyzed from the nerve strike. Efficiently and utterly incapacitated.
I looked down at his twitching form for a mont, my expression unreadable.
"What is your purpose here?" I asked, my voice still level. "What was the objective of this ambush?"
He just let out a wet, pained laugh between gasps. I did not expect this one to possess either the intelligence or the willingness to divulge anything useful.
I had ended the confrontation with one blow, precisely calculated to achieve maximum effect with minimum violence and ss. It was clean. It was logical.
What a pointless waste of ti and calories, I thought, already turning my head to visually confirm the status of Kai and the other knights. The entire encounter had taken less than a minute. My fur wasn’t even ruffled.
Then, my nostrils flared. A new scent, carried on a subtle shift of the wind. It was faint, but distinct. Not werewolf. Sothing else. Sothing... clinical. Cold.
Soone else was watching. And they were very close.
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