The path beyond the Valley of Rituals stretched endlessly, the sun dying into a pale dusk. A faint fog hugged the roots of the trees, and every gust of wind carried the same sickly odor–rot, decay, something old and festering.
Kiaria slowed his steps, eyes scanning the crooked rooftops and the cracked stone walls in the distance. "Diala," he murmured, "do you smell it?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Rotten… and metallic. Like blood left too long."
He nodded slightly. "Strange. The villagers look alive, but the scent says otherwise."
They entered the narrow street. People watched them from behind windows and open doorways. The smiles they offered were too stiff, their eyes too still. Children laughed without mirth. The butcher wiped his knife clean again and again though there was no blood on it. Everything looked alive–but felt dead.
Only the drunkard's warning echoed in Kiaria's mind: The wine here is strong. When trouble comes, drop it on the floor… I will be there.
Kiaria tightened his hold on the jar. "We leave this place now," he said under his breath.
He took Diala's hand and began walking faster without using techniques–he wanted no hidden signatures that might provoke what lurked unseen. But the deeper they walked, the heavier the air became. The scent of rot thickened. Even the birds had gone silent.
They had nearly reached the last bridge of the valley when shadows began to gather around them.
"Leaving so soon?"
A dozen men stepped from the dark, faces hidden beneath silver masks, their black robes moving without wind. Each carried a dagger in one hand and a short wand in the other. The wand's handle was carved into a skull, its hollow eyes filled with faint green flame.
The tallest one–towering, inhumanly broad–grinned through his mask. "Look what we have here… a boy with pretty blood and a trembling girl. You walked into the wrong forest, children."
Diala froze, color draining from her face. "Kiaria… the skull handle. It's the mark of the Dark Guild."
The leader, taller than the rest, stepped forward. His voice rasped like metal dragged across bone. "Ah, a child who knows her nightmares. Good. It saves me the effort of explaining."
He raised his dagger, the skull on his wand glowing faint red. "Boy. Surrender quietly, and the girl lives. Resist, and she will die slowly. You'll serve us as vessel and slave."
Diala's knees trembled. She clung to Kiaria's sleeve, unable to speak.
Kiaria stood unmoving. The air around him thickened, quiet and deadly. "You think threats make me kneel?"
The guild leader chuckled. "How noble. How pointless. We'll tear your spirit out and feed it to the skulls."
Kiaria said nothing. He could crush them–he knew it–but revealing his strength here would draw eyes from powers far beyond this valley. That drunkard's warning echoed in his mind. If trouble comes, drop the jar.
He reached into his cloak. The wine jar still hung at his side, sealed with wax. Its scent had lingered faintly since morning–wild, ancient, intoxicating.
He met Diala's terrified gaze. "Close your eyes."
"What are you–"
The jar slipped from his hand.
It shattered against the stones.
The fragrance exploded–sharp and powerful, spreading like wind. The ground trembled.
A voice rose from the scent itself, low and amused.
"Ah… the fragrance of my favorite brew wasted on dirt. You really do have nerve, boy."
From the fractured air stepped the same man who had sat slumped in the tavern. The drunkard. Only now, there was no trace of laughter in his eyes. His posture straightened, and the weight of his presence crushed the world around them.
The forest went silent.
The Dark Guild men staggered back. Even the tall leader took a step behind.
Another voice slithered from the crowd.
"Leader… his spirit is pure. Why not use his body as the furnace of our magic?"
The leader's eyes turned to fire.
"Who gave you the right to speak? Do you have a deathwish?"
The underling froze, lips trembling, retreating into silence.
One of them stammered, "L-Leader… that aura… it can't be… him…"
The leader's mask tilted, trembling. His dagger fell from his grasp. "Saint… Saint Wolf…"
The name ripped through their ranks like thunder.
Saint Wolf–one of the ancient Sovereign Beasts who had walked among men. A legend, said to have vanished centuries ago.
The drunkard's grin turned to steel. Behind him, a massive ethereal wolf's head formed, its eyes burning crimson, its fangs shimmering with divine light. The ground cracked under its growl.
"You dared to draw blood in my presence," the Wolf said, his voice layered with the echoes of both man and beast. "And worse–you dared to threaten my heir."
The leader fell to his knees, forehead pressed to the dirt. "We didn't know, Elder! Please, spare–"
"Silence." The word alone flattened the air.
The Wolf's aura surged like a storm. Diala stumbled back, clutching Kiaria's arm. But before the final blow could fall, she cried out through her tears, "Elder! Please! They've done wrong, but… spare them. Please."
The aura hesitated.
Then, slowly, Saint Wolf turned to look at her. The fury in his eyes softened–not fully, but enough to let the air move again.
"Hmph." He exhaled, the wind shaking the leaves. "For the girl's plea… I will spare their lives. But crawl. Crawl out of my sight before I change my mind."
The Dark Guild didn't wait to be told twice. They scrambled away, tripping over each other, vanishing into the valley's mist.
Silence returned.
The Wolf turned toward Kiaria, studying him. "You suppressed your strength," he said quietly. "You could have destroyed them."
Kiaria bowed slightly. "A cultivator must learn patience. Even mercy has purpose."
A faint smile tugged at the Wolf's lips. "Good. Then you are ready."
Kiaria blinked. "Ready… for what?"
"To inherit my name," the Wolf said simply. "The Emperor Wolf bloodline stirs within you, a ruler of its kin."
The air seemed to stop moving. Diala looked from one to the other, speechless. "Heir…?"
The Wolf nodded. "This is fate, child."
He turned and gestured. "Follow me."
They entered the valley's inner sanctum–an ancient cavern veiled in mist. Its walls were carved with runes older than kingdoms, their light faint but alive.
"This is my final altar," said Saint Wolf. "Where all my strength once slept."
He pressed his hand to the stone wall. The carvings flared with blue-white light, letters detaching, rising, swirling like rivers of celestial fire. They circled Kiaria, faster and faster, until his entire body glowed.
The Wolf's voice deepened. "Accept them. Let your spirit open."
Kiaria sat cross-legged, closing his eyes. The glowing letters rushed forward–streams of light that entered through the scar on his forehead.
Inside his sea of consciousness, they became formless–shapes shifting endlessly, waiting to become whatever he willed them to be. The spiritual sea roared as though rejoicing.
Saint Wolf's voice echoed within him:
"These are the Divine Verses left by the ancients. Guarded for generations and I inherited only fives letters from 111 verses. Learning those are not simple. What you can inherit, it will come to you at right moment. What you protect, they will guard. Let your soul remember the wilderness, and you shall never lose your path."
Kiaria opens his eyes, the birthmark scar expanded with new two white branches, unfurling into a wolf's staring head pattern, at the center pitch black scar projected out its dominance in it.
The Elder's gaze deepened. "Kid, there is one more gift for you. After that, it will be her turn. I hope she won't let me down."
He turned to Diala. "Now, girl, it's your turn. Don't waste what I offer next."