Chapter 202: Wolf Cub
The earth was trembling.
The struggling Leo and Vito fell silent, carefully sensing the vibration.
Such a degree of tremor could never have been caused by these Werewolves.
Lower-Ranked Transformed Werewolves were mostly made from human bodies as material, and the transformation would drain the body’s strength. Once complete, they usually ended up more shrunken than before, and because of the Werewolf’s hunched back and hind legs, they appeared even smaller than normal humans.
They possessed beast-like combat instincts and the hunting instinct of Werewolves, which made them difficult for ordinary, untrained, and unarmed people to deal with.
However, a trained warrior with some armor could easily kill such Lower-Ranked Transformed Werewolves.
Only true, rational Lower-Ranked Werewolves could contend with elite warriors.
These Werewolves had a certain degree of rationality, able to fight while retaining their beast instincts, yet still possessing judgment and the ability to grow normally. Physically, they were no weaker than humans.
When they reached the level of Upper-Ranked Werewolves, their bodies became even larger, and their raw physical strength could rival that of knights.
But in the end, they were still Werewolves, relying as much as possible on the advantage of their bodies—fast and nimble in action. This meant that no matter how many of them there were, they could never produce the kind of earth-shaking noise they were hearing now.
Thus, Leo and Vito both reasoned clearly: this was the charge of knights.
And not just any knights—these were fully armored, mounted on barded warhorses, with accompanying cavalry.
On the chaotic periphery of the wolf pack, a dark mass slowly appeared—knights launching a raid with their squires and cavalry.
Lances stood tall, violently tearing through the tide of gathered Werewolves. Iron hooves crushed their bodies, lances skewered them until the shafts broke, and the raging wolf tide was cut clean in half by this absolute battlefield power.
They avoided the piled-up mound of Werewolves, where a group of them seemed oblivious to the approaching knights, still tearing away at the two people pinned beneath them.
The knights discarded their lances. The leading Knight Julian waved his hand, and three knights on each side, along with their squires and some cavalry, drew their longswords and wheeled around.
Thud, thud, thud—foot soldiers’ boots struck the ground.
Wielding spears, their well-crafted leather armor could not stop a Werewolf’s claws, but the sharp wall of spears could steadily push down all remaining Werewolves. The knights guarded both flanks of the infantry phalanx.
“Awooo~” A chorus of howls, like a warhorn, rose from the Werewolves. The wolf tide split by the knights’ charge quickly filled the gap again, then surged toward the infantry.
“Hoo! Ha!” The warriors shouted in unison, steadily advancing. They lacked the shock and brutality of the knights’ charge, but each step was firm, each step crushed dozens of Werewolves beneath them.
Even though the Werewolves outnumbered them several times over, stripped of their speed advantage, distracted by the three Guardian Knights, and then ground down by the knights’ advance, the slaughter of this unyielding wolf pack was only a matter of time.
Knight Julian glanced at the battlefield. The mound of Werewolves was conspicuous, and he said, “Doesn’t look like Puniel’s army.”
Then he tugged his reins. “But it makes no difference—they’ve drawn in the main force of these Werewolves, and for some reason driven them to such madness.”
He took the sling from his horse’s side. “Everyone, ready your slings—smash that pile of Werewolves.”
Speaking, he urged his warhorse forward, the thirty or so men behind him following suit.
They swung the slings overhead twice, found their mark, and hurled.
In an instant, more than thirty stones took half the mound apart, and the knights wheeling back with swords took another layer off.
Feeling the crushing weight on them greatly lighten, Leo and Vito forced out the last of their strength, kindling thin Holy Light, shouting as they pushed the Werewolves off.
Finally, the knights from York Territory saw the armor soaked almost entirely in blood—and recognized them.
“They’re knights of the Church of the Sanctuary!” someone shouted.
Only then did Julian realize the identity of those who had stirred the Werewolves into chaos.
He had spoken with Knight Borien before and knew Borien and his group were not truly knights of the Church of the Sanctuary. When he had left, the only enlisted knight of the Church he knew of was George.
Still, looking at the two before him, Julian felt some respect.
At least he himself would never lose his senses enough to charge, with only two men, into a gathering of thousands—tens of thousands—of Werewolves.
Breaking free, Vito saw the mounted knights and shouted with all his strength, “We are Guardian Knights of the Church of the Sanctuary! Unknown knight, I now request your aid—deeper inside, another knight has made a strike. I need you to take your army there to help him!”
The knights stirred. Most of them had left the Glory Fortress of the Church of the Sanctuary to join Puniel, and thus deeply understood the Church’s doctrine and influence.
They could guess their lord’s stance, so some wanted to speak up and suggest going.
But knightly discipline kept them silent—after all, they were here on their lord’s orders, under Knight Julian’s command.
Julian, however, was no fool. He sensed his men’s shifting mood.
Yet there were still many Werewolves left. He had to clean them up before advancing; otherwise, if the army pushed forward and the unpurged Werewolves struck their rear, once the formation broke, even if they won, losses would be severe.
Thus, Julian said firmly, “There are still many Werewolves here. My warriors must clear them before we advance.”
Then he added, “My warriors are efficient—you won’t be waiting long.”
Vito was silent for a moment, exhaled, and said, “You are the commander. I trust your judgment.”
Julian felt relieved. If the other had kept pressing in the Church’s name, he might have lost control of the knights and warriors from York Territory.
Just as the air was calming, Leo blurted, “Got anything to eat? Give me some and I’ll head on ahead.”
But before Julian could reply, they saw a golden light shoot into the sky in the distance, piercing the clouds, then exploding with a layer of dark red Morning Star light slanting through the opening to shine on the ground.
When the sky cleared, they realized it was already dusk.
“It’s Knight George!” Vito exclaimed. “But what could make Knight George so furious?!”
He knew such a powerful burst of Holy Light would drain George’s strength and spirit greatly, possibly leaving him temporarily unable to fight.
Thus, unless it was a final blow or rage at its peak, George would never unleash Holy Light like that.
At that moment, the Werewolves assaulting the infantry formation seemed summoned, madly charging toward the gap in the clouds. The clouds above, torn open by George, began to roil and rapidly close.
“No—we must go at once!” Vito said, looking to Julian.
Julian didn’t hesitate. With the Morning Star’s afterglow still above, advancing now would be easier than when the clouds closed again. He ordered, “Knights, call the guard knights—take your squires and cavalry to make a rapid strike! Knight Bode, you take temporary command.”
Then he summoned his two squires and had them dismount.
Julian said, “You may eat on horseback, but don’t act rashly—follow Knight Bode’s orders!”
Vito and Leo nodded naturally. Having held Holy Land Town for so long, they were no mere hotheads.
The knights spurred their warhorses toward the light, while Julian regrouped the warriors.
Time rewound.
After cutting through the Werewolves, George found fewer as he advanced, and even saw some smaller than normal Lower-Ranked Werewolves—like they were in their juvenile stage.
That meant ahead was the true paradise.
George’s heart surged.
But when he passed through these equally ferocious juvenile Werewolves and saw humans penned up, his head nearly burst with fury.
Completely naked, one man and several women were kept together in the purest breeding arrangement.
He saw, with his own eyes, a heavily pregnant woman lying on her back, legs raised, her lower body a blur, as a wolf cub emerged.
The cub’s first act was to turn around and crawl back in, biting out the placenta and womb, chewing them like the finest delicacy—the very ‘home’ from which it had just emerged.
In one of the pens, a grotesquely fat figure, pushing chunks of flesh George found familiar, spotted him. Wielding a hook in place of a hand and a slaughter knife, it charged.
George, dazed, stepped forward and cleaved the figure in half. Black, water-like blood and chunks sprayed out, staining the ground. The black liquid, corrosive, erased the grass and seeped deep into the soil.
His armor was splashed with the black water, but the faint Holy Light around him purified it.
The noise of killing the fat figure seemed to alert the cub that had finished eating its ‘home.’ It howled shrilly.
Soon, other juvenile howls answered from the other pens.
Like mature hunters, the wolf cubs crawled out and bounded toward George on all fours, heedless that the ‘lump of steel’ before them was beyond their young claws and teeth.
“You have committed such a crime, Ymir!” George roared in fury!
He felt as if eyes were mocking him: I know I can’t stop you, so I’ll let you see the ultimate beauty of paradise—the birth of life, the life of Werewolves.
Thus arranged so that at the exact moment George arrived, a cub would be born—right in his line of sight.
Rage flooded his mind—since his baptism, never had George been so angry. Behind his helmet, his eyes were bloodshot.
Holy Light erupted, melting the nearest cub instantly, but the others still charged.
George ignored them, looking far ahead—within sight were seven or eight more such ‘paradises.’
He recalled Ymir’s words: there were thirty thousand people in paradise.
From this site alone, there must be nearly a hundred such places.
The more he thought, the more George trembled.
If he relied only on sword and Holy Light to kill them, when would the cubs be gone? And in these ‘paradises,’ how many Werewolves were born—and how many humans died—each day?
Without hesitation, George channeled all his Holy Light into his sword, then slashed toward the sky.
With a boom, the clouds split. At dusk, the Morning Star’s light poured down, dissolving the cubs into white smoke.
Another fat figure charged but collapsed in two steps, swelling, then exploding.
The black water sizzled under the heat but still seeped into the earth, corroding it.
In nearby pens, dazed humans splashed with it had chunks of flesh instantly eaten away.
The captives stopped their tasks, sat blankly, eyes trembling with a faint flicker—only for it to die out, leaving them vacant once more.