Chapter Thirty-Five: That... That... Damn Wolf!

With great effort, he pushed the corpse of the Storm Howling Wolf off his body and sat up from the ground, gasping for breath. At this moment, he was covered in blood, three gory wounds across his chest so shocking that one couldn’t help but avert their gaze. His arm bore several gashes as well, the crimson blood already soaking through his sleeve, dripping steadily onto the earth—injuries inflicted when those razor-sharp fangs tore into him as he thrust the ice spike into the wolf’s maw at the last moment.

He shifted his body, but inadvertently triggered his wounds, causing him to grimace in pain as blood continued to seep from his chest. Yet this was not what concerned him most. Instead, he closed his eyes at once to examine his sea of consciousness.

As expected, in the midst of his life-or-death struggle with the Storm Howling Wolf, he had managed to break through, reaching the fourth rank of mage! Though most of his magical energy had been spent, the faint mist lingering in his sea of consciousness was proof enough of his advancement.

Joy was impossible to conceal on his face, but even more so was the relief of having survived an encounter with a mid-level magical beast, so far above his own rank. The thrill of such peril left him exhilarated.

He tore a strip of fabric from his own clothing and hastily bound the wounds on his chest, then cast a water-based healing spell upon himself. The injuries dealt by the Storm Howling Wolf were deep, and the spell’s effectiveness was hampered by his rank; for the moment, he could only stem the bleeding. After all, he still had a task to complete on this mountain, and his battle with the Storm Howling Wolf had already cost him precious time. If he lingered here to tend his wounds, the battle at the foot of the mountain might well be over before he was ready.

***

“Count, sir!?”

A guard standing beside the portly man watched as flashes of crimson fire erupted among the wolves, puzzled. “Is someone coming to aid us?”

“It seems so. The newcomers must be mages,” the portly man replied, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the chaotic mass of wolves before him.

“Mages? Impossible!” The guard was skeptical; to him, mages were arrogant, useless folk, little different from the conceited nobles. To imagine a mage would risk their life to fight their way through hundreds, even thousands, of Storm Howling Wolves to offer support? No one would believe such a thing!

The portly man understood what the look on the guard’s face meant and chose not to explain—perhaps he simply had no patience for it. The situation in the imperial capital was growing ever more chaotic. If the matter of the artifact became public knowledge, not only the Empire of Vera, but the entire magical continent would be swept up in a frenzy. What did the artifact signify? Its power and value aside, the very word “artifact” could stir the hearts of all who heard it.

An artifact—an instrument wielded by gods.

Though he could not foresee the chain reactions this would set off, his sole desire now was to return to the capital and deliver what he knew, then wash his hands of the rest. The deeper one became entangled in such affairs, the more perilous it became for all involved.

Time, then, was his greatest concern. And yet...

“Damn these wolves!” he cursed inwardly, drawing a breath to steady himself. Then he called to the nearby guard, “Go and assist them!”

“Yes, sir!”

The guards assigned to protect Count Charles were chosen from the elite of the empire’s forces. They obeyed without question, immediately commanding a squad to force a breach in the wolf pack. At that moment, two blazing fire dragons burst from the midst of the wolves, cutting a path through the horde. Amid the scarlet flames, more than a dozen figures emerged, rushing to join the soldiers.

The soldiers sent to receive them could scarcely believe that fewer than twenty people had managed to fight their way through such a swarm of wolves. The soul warriors leading the group were expected, but when they saw several dressed in mage robes, wielding the distinctive staffs of mages, they nearly froze in astonishment.

Semily and his companions noticed the soldiers’ expressions. Even Robbie and the other soul warriors were exhausted, gasping for breath; the mages, frail in comparison, were utterly spent. Once they reached safety and their nerves relaxed, fatigue washed over them, and they cast aside all dignity to sit down and rest.

After several deep breaths, the cool night air entered Semily’s overheated body, clearing his mind. He gently pushed aside Robbie’s supporting arm and addressed a burly man dressed as a guard: “I am Semily of the Mage Guild, sent by Court Mage Master McClure Jack to meet and support you. I must speak with the Count.”

Based on their previous opinions of mages, the guards would have cared only for Master McClure Jack himself. But seeing Semily and the other mages risk their lives to charge through the wolves, their respect grew, and they didn’t mind Semily’s unusual attire (some nobles favor such dress, for instance, carrying... well...). Without further ado, Semily was led to the Count’s carriage.

When Semily beheld the plump Count Charles Berger, his gaze showed no surprise, but he greeted him with the noble’s standard salute. “Count Charles, I am Semily of the Mage Guild.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Berger replied, nodding to Semily. He took the handwritten parchment from Semily, carefully reading it.

Throughout, Berger’s brows alternately furrowed and relaxed. After a long while, he returned the parchment to Semily. “I understand the situation. Burn this now. My men are under attack by the wolf pack—do you have any means to resolve it?”