Chapter 36
La to Balaka (1)
Clang, clash.
Beseemer swung his axe. The wolf king’s claws deflected it, sending sparks flying.
Grrrr!
A hell wolf, waiting for an opening, lunged at Beseemer. He managed to cut one down, but another immediately latched onto his shoulder. Beseemer allowed it—just briefly. The hell wolf bit into his shoulder and shook its head violently, trying to tear the limb away.
Beseemer frowned slightly and drove his fist into the wolf’s snout.
Yelp—!
The hell wolf let out an uncharacteristically pitiful cry and recoiled. It was a reflex to escape pain, but that moment of retreat ended in an axe blade slicing upward.
Its neck was cut halfway through in a fatal blow.
Blood, only just beginning to dry, made the axe handle slippery again as fresh blood smeared over it. Right in front of the watching hell wolves, Beseemer casually began skinning a dying wolf.
Whimper… whimper…
The dying wolf struggled in agony, but it could not resist as the axe blade dug into its spine and the thick hide was brutally peeled away.
When Beseemer finished tearing it off, the wolf was already dead.
Riiip!
He tore the partially separated hide further with raw strength and wrapped it around his axe hand like a bandage, securing his grip. He was practiced—almost routine.
None of the hell wolves dared approach. Watching their dying comrade convulse in agony had drained their aggression. Their ears and tails drooped.
Only one remained upright and unwavering.
The wolf king.
His right eye glowed yellow, but his left eye—scarred and clouded white—had lost sight entirely. The scar prevented fur from growing, making it even more grotesque. Blood from his torn ear seeped into the blind eye and ran down his face.
Beseemer tightened the hide around his three-fingered hand and met the wolf king’s gaze.
He knew exactly why that left eye was blind.
As a child, Beseemer had wanted to become strong. His brothers told him eating “demon mushrooms” would grant strength. He believed them and ventured deep into the Black Forest—only to encounter a monstrous beast.
A creature more monster than bear.
When death seemed certain, his father—the chieftain, the great warrior—had saved him.
With a single devastating axe strike, he brought the beast down… but could not fully avoid its claw.
“Don’t cry. You are a warrior.”
His father had said it calmly, even with half his face soaked in blood.
The blind eye of the wolf king mirrored that memory.
It was the last trace of his father.
And the reason for this battle.
How long had he waited for this moment?
How long had he longed for this conversation?
Everything he had never been able to say—grief, longing, resentment—Beseemer intended to send it all through this axe his father had given him.
“La to Balaka.”
He exhaled deeply and gripped the handle.
Crash!
The wolf king dodged the upward strike and kicked off the ground with terrifying force. Mud and blood scattered as he charged.
He aimed for Beseemer’s axe arm, jaws wide open, intending to rip it off entirely.
Beseemer twisted aside—but instead of biting, the wolf king slammed his massive body into him.
“Ugh—!”
The impact, driven by sheer mass and speed, was devastating. Beseemer was sent flying, crashing through a burning tent.
“Is he going to be alright like that?”
“Leave him. That’s what Beseemer must do.”
Carlson instinctively raised his sword, but Isaac grabbed his arm.
The situation was strange.
The battle between Beseemer and the wolf king had created a strange stillness. The hell wolves and soldiers alike had stopped fighting and formed a circle, watching in silence.
Watching their leaders.
And Isaac spoke calmly:
“There’s no better situation than this.”
Carlson looked between the battlefield and Isaac—and realized he was right.
They were outnumbered, and individually weaker. If this dragged on, they would have suffered catastrophic losses.
The only solution was the death of the wolf king.
And now, because of this duel, the wider battle had stopped.
If Beseemer won, no more blood would be shed. If he lost, the exhausted wolf king would still be easier to kill.
And Isaac and Carlson could recover their strength.
From the wreckage of the tent, the giant staggered out.
His body was covered in soot, blood, and torn flesh. He wiped his face with his free hand, smearing blood and ash across his skin like a war mark.
Five paces away, he stopped.
He raised his axe.
The wolf king bared his teeth.
“Sir,” Carlson said.
“Yes,” Isaac replied.
Mana—visible now—gathered around them both.
It was instinctive. Not learned, but something like breathing.
Then—
At the same moment, both charged.
Clang!
Axe and claw collided again and again like thunder.
Shockwaves rolled out, freezing the soldiers’ spines.
The battle turned.
Beseemer was losing ground.
Every strike was too heavy. His bones rang. His feet sank into the mud.
But strangely—
He did not feel fear.
He did not feel like he was going to die.
The wolf king stopped using his teeth.
Only his limbs now moved like weapons.
And Beseemer recognized the pattern.
It was familiar.
A very old memory resurfaced.
“Stand up! Beseemer!”
“A warrior who stops fighting only has death!”
His father’s voice.
Training. Brutal lessons. Impossible attacks meant to break them.
And now—
The wolf king’s movements were identical.
Like fighting his father again.
Like a final rite of passage that was never completed.
Beseemer’s expression slowly twisted into a smile.
“…So this is it, Father.
He stepped forward.
He struck.
He dodged.
He remembered.
And finally—
He was thrown to the ground.
The wolf king loomed above him.
Jaw open.
Death descending.
“Beseemer!”
A voice cut through everything.
Isaac.
The sound pulled him back.
And in that instant—
He saw it.
Carlson had already cut down many wolves.
Isaac stood beside him, calm as ever.
And Beseemer understood.
This wasn’t just survival.
It was something else.
A conversation.
A final one.
Beseemer remembered his father’s last lesson:
“Wait until the very last moment. When all seems lost—that is when your chance appears.”
The wolf king struck—
And Beseemer moved.
He twisted.
Rolled.
Turned his fall into rotation.
Snap!
The axe slipped free, circled once—
And struck the wolf king’s face.
The beast staggered.
Beseemer leapt again.
A clean line toward the forehead.
“I’m late, Father…”
The forest burned in memory.
Dead warriors lay on pyres.
And there—Beseemer as a child again.
Small. Afraid.
Beside his father.
The wolf king was no longer a beast.
It was his father.
A chieftain.
A warrior.
And the child before him… was Beseemer.
“You arrived just in time.”
The wolf king spoke.
“I’ve waited too long,” Beseemer said.
The hand on his shoulder was heavy.
“Will you answer it this time?”
“…With the death of Viper and the end of my people… what meaning remains?”
“Do you resent me?”
Silence.
Then—
“I will be free,” the wolf king said. “And so will our people. That is your doing.”
But—
“Are you free?”
Beseemer could not answer.
“What will you live for now?”
“I don’t know… but I will find it.”
The wolf king nodded.
Then placed a heavy hand on his head.
“Take care of Vinfelt.”
Thud.
The great wolf collapsed.
An axe buried deep between his eyes.
Beseemer had no strength left to hold it.
He sat down against the corpse.
“…I’ll be waiting in Balaka.”
It sounded like his father’s voice.
