Chapter 211: Learn Quickly or Die

The three Midnight Werewolves didn't charge immediately. That was the worst part.

They were stalking, which meant they were intelligent—likeky more intelligent than most Demons given their humanoid form.

Their massive, green-smoking bodies moved with an unnatural, fluid grace, circling through the black trees like smoke given form. The glowing emerald pits of their eyes never left Percival and Eristasia—hungry, intelligent, and utterly malevolent.

Eristasia's heart hammered against her ribs. Her bound hands trembled behind her back, fingers twitching uselessly. Every instinct screamed at her to summon a gale, to blast these creatures into mist. But Percival's words echoed in her skull like a curse.

If what the Necromancer said was to be believed, she couldn't do anything to these monsters. Not physically at least. But his vacuum idea seemed very plausible.

"You're going to untie me, I assume?" she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice barely a whisper. "Or do you expect me to fight with my hands bound like a common criminal?"

Percival didn't look at her. His blue eyes tracked the leftmost werewolf as it dragged a clawed finger across a moss-covered ruin, leaving a smoldering gouge that wept green embers. "I'll remove the bindings. But the Slave Crest stays active. You try to run, you try to betray me, and you'll drop to your knees before you take three steps."

"Fantastic," she spat. "Truly, you are a generous master."

"You're welcome," Percival groaned.

He reached back, and with a single flick of one of his small hidden blades, the ropes binding her wrists fell away.

Eristasia rubbed her raw skin, flexing her fingers. She interacted with her core, trying to get mana flowing through her body and into her hands. She felt the familiar tingle of her wind magic brushed against her consciousness.

Even though it was alive, it was muted, leashed by the pulsating crest burned into her hand. She could use it, but she couldn't turn it against him. Not yet.

"Now listen closely," Percival said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. He drew the Basilisk Blade fully, the dark steel shimmering as Soulfire ignited along its edge, drinking the light around it.

"These are Midnight Werewolves. Level seventy-five. They're fast, and from the looks of it, they're smart too."

He inspected their details.

⸢ Threat: Midnight Werewolves (x3) ⸥

⸢ Level 75 ⸥

⸢ Main Skills ⸥

⸢ Savagery: They're empowered by the savagery of their opponent. Attack them harder and they grow stronger. ⸥

⸢ Stalk: Midnight Werewolves possess high intelligence and plan their attacks carefully. Despite their brute strength, they fight tactically as well as savagely. ⸥

⸢ Devil Howl: When hit with their howl, you can be disoriented. Howl also notifies nearby Werewolves. ⸥

⸢ Acid Claws: Their claws carry a corrosive miasma, rotting one from inside out even with just a small scratch. ⸥

Percival's eyes narrowed. "Do you see all that?"

"I do," Eristasia replied, her eyes squinting as she watched the creatures circle. "Just lovely. Anyway, how exactly am I supposed to use this vacuum compression when I've never once practiced it?"

"You're a high ranked Wind Mage. You'll learn quickly," Percival said. "Or you'll die. Whichever one you're fine with."

Eristasia hissed with frustration. "Have I told you that I despise you?"

Percival scoffed. "Have you ever stopped?"

Suddenly, the lead werewolf attacked with a powerful lunge.

Unlike beasts and even most Demons, it didn't roar, didn't even announce itself. One moment it was thirty feet away, half-hidden behind a weeping black trunk. The next, it was airborne, its massive clawed hand arcing toward Percival's skull with enough force to shatter stone.

Percival activated ⸢ Grave Step ⸥ and reappeared a few feet backward. But somehow the werewolf had launched itself mid-launch, and its claws were right at his face once again.

Percival's blue eyes widened.

Immediately, he dropped into a low crouch. His long dark hair was in the way and as the werewolf's claws whistled past his head by less than an inch, it sliced off some of his obsidian mane.

The Soulfire on Percival's blade flared brighter as he prepared his counter. While the werewolf was still in the air, he drove the Basilisk upward, straight through the creature's exposed ribs.

But the blade didn't bite into flesh like it should have.

It met resistance—a thick, smoky density that clung to the steel like molasses. The werewolf's green, smoking body rippled around the wound, and the creature let out a snarl from its gut that sounded something like a laugh.

The gash in its side began to close almost instantly, the smoke stitching itself back together.

"You see?" Percival said, not sounding the least bit surprised. He ripped the blade free and kicked the werewolf back, sending it stumbling into a tree "Direct slashes won't work. You have to burn them or crush them."

The other two werewolves took that as their cue.

They came from both sides simultaneously—a pincer movement executed with predatory precision. The one on the left lunged for Eristasia, its jaws gaping wide enough to swallow her head. The one on the right swept low, aiming to take Percival's legs out from under him.

Eristasia screamed. It was a cry of fury and fear, not that she would admit the latter. She threw her hands forward, palms out, and unleashed a torrent of wind.

"⸢Gale Burst⸥!"

It was a conventional blast. A hammer of air that would have sent a normal monster flying through a wall.

The werewolf didn't even slow down.

The wind passed through its smoky body like a breeze through fog. Its green mass rippled, reformed, and kept coming. Those burning eyes grew wider, hungrier, as if the creature was laughing at her.

"No, no, no—" Eristasia stumbled backward, her heel catching on a root. She fell hard onto the carpet of blood-red ferns, her hands scraping against mossy stone. The werewolf loomed over her, raising a clawed hand for the killing blow.

Crunch.

Percival's Soulfire-covered boot connected with the side of the creature's head.

He hadn't dodged the low sweep—he'd jumped over it, twisted in midair, and delivered a roundhouse kick that would have shattered a normal creature's skull.

Normally his feet would have phased past the beast but because of Soulfire, it connected. The werewolf's head snapped sideways, green smoke billowing from the impact, but it didn't fall. It just turned those burning eyes toward him, annoyed now.

"Lady Eristasia," Percival said calmly, landing in a crouch beside her. He grabbed the collar of her robe and hauled her to her feet with one hand, never taking his eyes off the three wolves. "Compression. Not propulsion. Suck the air out of the space around them, don't shove it at them. Do you understand the difference?"

"I—yes—I understand the theory, you insufferable—"

"Then do it."

The werewolves attacked again. All three at once.

Percival stepped into the charge.

The first werewolf came at him with a brutal overhand claw swipe. Percival ducked under it, the wind from the swing rustling his hood.

He brought the Basilisk Blade up in a rising diagonal slash. He wasn't aiming to cut, but to ignite. The Soulfire along the blade caught the creature's smoky arm, and this time, the green mass sizzled.

A high-pitched shriek tore from the werewolf's throat as the pale flame ate into its spirit form, leaving a black, charred wound that didn't heal.

"Just like always," Percival noted, almost conversationally. "Soulfire hurts Demons."

Eristasia eyed him. "If only you had given me some of it."

"Stop whining and compress."