----He had a dream.
He dreamed of a frigid, bitter night.
He dreamed of a pure white full moon.
He dreamed of pitch-black mountains.
He dreamed of a feast of blood.
The boy stood there.
The cold wind brought by the winter night lashed painfully against his skin.
The darkness brought by the mountains stole away his vision.
The soft light brought by the full moon was obscured by the trees.
The scent brought by the blood seeped into his nostrils.
Yet to the boy, all of this was merely routine training.
The boy could only look around him.
There, the wolf pack that had attacked him mere minutes ago had all become corpses, lying one by one in pools of blood.
Looking closely, one could see that the boy was tightly gripping a small knife.
Blood was slowly dripping from its blade.
Perhaps no one would believe the scene that had taken place here.
Because no matter how one looked at it, it was the boy's one-sided slaughter of the beasts that had regarded him as food.
Of course, to the boy, all of this was utterly ordinary.
Even if he had been unable to do such things at first, after years of grueling training, the boy had become capable of doing it all with ease.
Faced with such a boy, the adults praised him like this.
"You are the most perfect creation in the history of our clan."
Faced with such a boy, the children feared him like this.
"Why can you do these things?"
And this praise and fear accompanied the boy as he grew, always surrounding him.
Then, one day, the person who was the Clan Leader said something to the boy.
"From today onward, you are my son."
In other words, the boy would become