"Move, Gray Wolf."
"The Lord is waiting."
Angry’s voice echoed once more, snapping Silver back to reality.
The werewolf reluctantly continued walking.
’I understand now...’
’I understand perfectly what the Shadow Sect is trying to do.’
The werewolf growled inwardly as he advanced.
This was their way of imposing dominance upon him.
A method designed to make him understand exactly where he stood—
and to crush any unnecessary thoughts before they could even form.
They knew his race possessed extraordinary senses capable of detecting auras with unnatural sensitivity.
And they had exploited that fact perfectly.
Despite the overwhelming pressure crushing him from all sides, Silver walked proudly onward while being guided by two guards.
One smiled constantly.
The other looked permanently sorrowful.
The march lasted several minutes.
The werewolf passed through numerous areas inside the majestic castle, yet his mind remained numbed by the countless terrifying auras surrounding him.
He could barely even process what existed around him anymore.
Eventually, he reached his destination.
The guards opened the doors before him, revealing a grand hall whose occupants carried names heavy enough to drown the poor werewolf beneath pressure from another world entirely.
For an entire minute—
Silver lost consciousness while still standing.
Unable to endure it.
The hall was crowded.
Countless glowing eyes observed him from both sides, examining every inch of his being.
A long path stretched before him.
And at its end stood a magnificent dark throne upon which sat a young-looking man with long gray hair.
He wore astonishing black armor and a mask of the same color that concealed his face completely.
To his right stood a middle-aged man with black hair streaked partially white.
To his left rested a frail ancient elder leaning upon a cane.
The man seated upon the throne raised his hand.
Instantly, the suffocating pressure vanished completely.
And for the first time since arriving—
Silverfang could finally breathe.
The Nameless One extended his hand toward him.
The werewolf stared at it with tearful eyes, all seriousness and harshness erased after being utterly overwhelmed by the auras of those present alone.
Silver walked forward with lowered head until he finally reached the Nameless King—
then knelt before him respectfully on one knee.
And the Nameless King spoke his very first words to him.
"Raise your head, Silverfang of the Gray Wolves."
His voice carried gentleness.
A complete contradiction to everything the werewolf had expected from someone he believed to be a tyrant.
Confused, Silver answered hesitantly.
"You... know my name?"
The Nameless One nodded calmly.
"Of course I do."
"And I know the names of everyone gathered within this hall."
"You entrusted your name to me."
"A name the entire world will eventually forget."
"A world that will know you only as a soldier of the Shadow Sect from this day onward."
The Nameless One spoke softly before his eyes faintly illuminated with a deep violet glow.
"But I will never forget it."
"That much, I promise you."
Silverfang remained silent, unsure how he was supposed to answer.
He feared them.
He feared all those monsters surrounding him from every direction.
But strangely enough—
he felt no fear whatsoever toward the Nameless King sitting before him.
No pressure.
Not even the slightest trace of overwhelming power.
He seemed like nothing more than an ordinary man seated upon a throne.
Yet Silverfang was no fool.
He understood that the one before him was undoubtedly stronger than everyone else in this hall.
Otherwise, how could he possibly command them all?
And despite his fear, Silver gathered enough courage to speak.
"M... My Lord."
"Forgive my insolence... and pardon my audacity."
Silver stammered nervously before continuing.
"I beg you... take whichever warriors among my people you desire."
"But please spare those incapable of fighting."
"The women... the children... and the elderly."
Silver lowered his head even further while pleading desperately.
"They regained their freedom because of you."
"They finally recovered the ability to smile again..."
"So please... do not take that away from them!"
Silver shut his eyes tightly and waited fearfully for the king’s response—
yet remained brave enough to speak on behalf of his entire race.
But the Nameless One answered him in a way Silver could never have imagined.
The king removed his mask.
And revealed his face.
Frey smiled at him, completely casting aside the mystery surrounding himself.
"Do not make me repeat myself, Silverfang."
"I already told you to raise your head."
"You do not need to kneel just to ask me something like this."
"And naturally... I never intended to exploit the helpless among your people."
"So you may rest easy."
Frey’s words brought warmth to the werewolf’s heart as Silver continued staring at him with reddened eyes.
"I did not come here to steal your freedom."
"I merely came to offer you a choice."
Frey extended his palm.
A strange violet circle formed above it, covered in magnificent runes.
"Bare your chest and accept my gift."
"Join me."
"Or refuse... and walk away from both my sect and my lands."
Frey spoke, leaving the choice entirely in his hands.
At that moment, a smile slowly formed on the face of the old man, Maskith, who sat watching from the left side after noticing the subtle manipulation hidden within Frey’s words.
Because although Frey had seemingly given him complete freedom to choose, he never once mentioned what would happen if he refused.
And the answer was not difficult to imagine.
Yet none of that truly mattered.
Silver complied immediately, utterly captivated.
He removed his armor and revealed his chest without hesitation—
a broad torso covered in fur and layered with hardened muscle.
Frey nodded in satisfaction, almost pleased, before finally extending his hand and granting him the gift.
The runic circle carved itself into Silver’s chest.
The werewolf let out a pained groan, yet endured it admirably.
And thus, the baptism was finally complete.
"Welcome to the Shadow Sect, Silverfang."
Frey welcomed him calmly.
The werewolf struck his chest in loyalty.
From that moment onward, his blade belonged to Frey alone.
And the next time he drew it—
it would be by the Nameless One’s command, upon whatever battlefield he chose.
Soon after, Silver departed, and the next warrior was summoned forward.
Naturally, this was a procedure Frey performed personally only for the strongest among them.
The rest of the werewolves were baptized under Maskith’s supervision instead.
And the old man understood perfectly what Frey was truly doing.
Maskith let out a slow breath, awe flickering within his eyes after seeing traces of the father within the son.
Meanwhile, Abraham silently watched the departing werewolf’s back before turning toward his son.
"How long are we going to continue this?"
he asked quietly.
Frey answered without hesitation.
"Until I obtain enough souls."
Abraham clearly disliked what was happening.
Yet he endured it, placing his trust in the son who had recently revealed many truths to him.
As for Maskith—
he looked deeply satisfied.
Because at last, he had discovered the real reason behind Frey’s desire to rebuild the Shadow Sect.
The very first thing the Nameless One did after announcing his return...
was baptize all his followers by granting them what he called ...
the gift.
’That is no gift...’
’It is a curse of life and death.’
Its effect was deceptively simple.
It merely applied the sixth aspect of Shadow Adaptation upon all of them—
specifically, the aspect tied to death.
Whenever one of his followers carrying the gift killed someone...
that soul would instantly be imprisoned and transferred directly to Frey.
Because Frey had now become connected to every single warrior within the Shadow Sect.
Every soul slain by their hands.
Every life extinguished through them.
Would become direct fuel for his growth.
And so, the Shadow Sect moved with unprecedented violence and hostility.
Countless massacres were carried out beneath the banner of the Nameless One—
the man they all placed their faith in.
’Yes, Frey... this is it.’
Maskith’s smile widened further, admiration gleaming within his eyes.
’Use them all.’
’Exploit them however you wish...’
’They are nothing more than tools in your hands.’
This ...
was the proper mindset of a true Writer.