Silas never got to bury me.
A tide of beasts surged from the treeline—exactly as the plot demanded.
In the original tale, my death would have crowned his ascension. Divine power would've scattered these creatures like chaff.
But I breathed. He remained mortal.
So he ran. Dragging me by the tail.
Let it be known: tiger tails possess alarming tensile strength.
Also: excruciating pain.
Silas Brooks, first disciple of the Demon-Subduing Sect, had a resume written in monster blood. Now, cornered and crippled, every scar he'd ever dealt screamed for repayment. Wolves with Gideon's sigil on their collars led the charge, fangs dripping ancestral grudges.
Even genius falters against a hundred claws.
When I seized his sleeve and hauled him into a cave, his silence spoke volumes.
Resistance was impossible.
A wolf had crunched through his left calf. Gashes mapped his torso like crimson tributaries.
My own fur? Pristine, save for dust. He'd shielded me with brutal efficiency. Surprisingly decent for an ascetic murderer.
I nudged closer, letting his battered head sink into my flank—a velvet pillow in the gloom.