Chapter 53
The Werewolf Realm.
It had been days—maybe weeks—since people began disappearing. Mostly werewolves, mostly adults. Packs were unsettled, but no one treated it as a crisis. Everyone's minds were fixed on one thing: Roosevelt.
He hadn't attacked yet, and that silence lulled the realm into a dangerous hope.
A hope that maybe… just maybe… the demon king had retreated.
But today, hope shattered completely.
The demons never announced their arrival. They always slipped into realms quietly, creeping out of shadows without warning.
Yet this time, the sky itself tore open with the sound of an ominous trumpet.
A sound no one had ever heard before—and one that didn't echo over only one pack.
Every werewolf, from the smallest cub to the oldest elder, heard it.
A united shiver crawled across the entire realm.
The war wasn't over.
Roosevelt was here.
Worst of all, he chose to descend on a pack no one was paying attention to:
The White Moon Pack.
Draven's territory.
The very place Penelope once fled from to avoid becoming Levi's forced bride.
No one expected this pack to become ground zero.
Within minutes, carnage painted the pack grounds crimson.
Before help even arrived, half the White Moon Pack lay dead. Bodies were thrown across the field like broken dolls—some with throats torn out, others ripped open so savagely that the ground shimmered with blood.
Demons feasted without mercy.
The White Moon Pack never stood a chance.
As the trumpet rang, every race reacted instantly.
Alphas armed themselves without hesitation.
Elves summoned their green-lit blades.
Vampires sharpened their claws and vanished into shadows.
And the Goldrens stayed hidden, clinging to a strategy that, in hindsight, was clearly the worst decision they had ever made.
They had already swallowed the potion meant to fake defeat—a plan meant to weaken Roosevelt's morale.
Except now, that plan threatened to get them all killed.
Teleportation circles burst open as packs from across the realm, along with elven and vampire warriors, rushed to the White Moon Pack.
But by the time they arrived…
It was already a nightmare.
Alpha Levi, Micha, King Johnson, and Michael froze the moment they saw the battlefield. There was no room for strategies or heroic speeches. Only the stench of blood—thick, metallic, suffocating—coated the air.
Everyone understood the same thing:
This was not a battle to win.
This was a battle to survive.
The instant reinforcements launched their attacks, the entire field exploded into chaos.
King Johnson's long white hair whipped in the wind as he unleashed spell after spell. Silver light blasted demons apart, his armor gleaming like a fallen star in the middle of a hellish night.
He alone killed several demons in minutes.
Michael fought beside him, ferocious and unrelenting—each punch cracking bone, each strike filled with urgency.
Meanwhile, Levi and Micha found themselves trapped by a demon whose wounds healed almost instantly. Their attacks barely slowed it down. When an elf joined them, the three finally managed to corner it and bring it down.
But demons kept coming.
Waves. Endless waves.
Strong, fast, ruthless creatures hungry for flesh.
The dread in the air was suffocating.
Finally, King Johnson realized something terrifying—they were winning too fast. They were overpowering the low-ranked demons far more easily than expected.
They were risking drawing Roosevelt out completely.
They needed to start the plan. They needed to fake defeat.
Now.
He gave the order sharply:
"Begin with the vitals!"
Elves, wolves, and vampires lifted bottles to their lips. One by one, they began drinking the potion intended to make them appear weak, defeated… dead.
Bodies collapsed in seconds.
The demons paused, confused.
A werewolf took the drink mid-battle, staggered, and collapsed with a choking gasp. A shadow bent over him—a demon licking his lips with a slow, hungry smile.
"Weak, huh?" the demon whispered.
"Not bad. More souls to devour."
The werewolf's eyes snapped open in confusion.
"S–souls? What do you me—"
His words broke off into an agonizing scream as the demon ripped his soul out of his chest.
The scream echoed across the battlefield.
King Johnson felt his heart drop.
"This isn't possible…" he whispered.
"They're devouring souls?"
More screams followed.
More bodies went limp—truly lifeless this time.
Panic cut through the battlefield faster than any blade.
King Johnson's voice cracked with urgency as he screamed:
"Abort the formation! Destroy the vitals! DO NOT drink it! Focus on surviving—RUN! If we stay, we die!"
Elven mages scrambled to create a portal. Warriors gathered close, desperate to escape.
But then—
FWOOOOSH.
A violent gust of wind ripped across the field, nearly knocking people off their feet.
Everyone froze.
A shadow darkened the sky.
Three demons—Jyra, Devyani, and Daksha—descended with wicked smirks. Their wings folded neatly behind them, their skin pale as moonlight, their eyes burning with fury and grief.
Jyra sneered,
"Trying to run? Too late."
Devyani added coldly,
"You all die here today."
Daksha only smiled—a twisted smile that promised death.
Levi exhaled shakily.
"…We're not escaping. We fight."
Johnson nodded.
"And no more faking defeat."
The demons attacked with intelligence and cruelty, preventing any proper formation. Their strikes were merciless, their speed overwhelming. Warriors fell left and right.
Levi wasn't sure he'd survive the next minute.
Micha fought with the image of his unborn child burning behind his eyes.
Thank the Moon Goddess,Zaki stayed with Kira and Kate,to protect them.
But in their arrogance, the demons made one mistake—they underestimated desperation.
The warriors, finally united, began synchronizing attacks. Levi and Micha teamed up with an elf and a vampire, managing to kill another demon in a coordinated strike.
King Johnson and Michael, paired with elite fighters, became a terrifying force.
And slowly…
The tides shifted.
For the first time since the battle began, the demons showed fear.
Jyra's jaw clenched.
"We relaxed too much… they're forming groups. This will be troublesome."
Devyani hissed,
"We'll handle it. Don't panic."
But panic was exactly what they should have done.
Daksha, blinded by rage, rushed straight toward the strongest formation—King Johnson, Michael, an elite elf, and Paul the vampire.
He charged without strategy.
Straight into a trap.
Michael's fist shattered his jaw.
Johnson's blade slashed his thigh—and this time, the wound didn't heal.
A Goldren-blessed blade.
Daksha screamed.
The elf bound him with thorned roots, draining his energy.
Paul ripped into him, enjoying every slice.
Daksha was finished.
Broken. Bleeding. Terrified.
Johnson raised his sword for the final strike—
SCRRREEEEEEECH!
A monstrous cry split the sky in half.
Everyone froze.
A gigantic dark creature descended, wings stretching so wide they blotted out the sun. Its presence alone forced warriors to their knees as the sky dimmed under its shadow.
And sitting on its back—
Roosevelt.
The Demon King.
Levi's voice cracked with horror.
"…Oh shit…
we're dead."