Fenrir's Sorry State

A series of loud cracks rang out through the forest, and strange-looking heads poked out from the ramshackle wooden huts.

Several bedraggled figures emerged from the woods. Once they removed their black robes, who else could they have been but Werewolves led by Fenrir?

The other Werewolves were clutching either their chests or their arms, all of them looking like defeated soldiers.

Fenrir, at their head, was bleeding from the chest. He repeatedly cast healing spells over the wound, but even after a long while, he had only barely managed to stop the bleeding.

Seeing their leader return in such a sorry state, the Werewolves hurried over.

They were all crude brutes, tugging and pulling at one another until Fenrir grimaced in pain.

"Get the hell away from me!" Fenrir snarled under his breath. The sight of these useless fools irritated him.

The Werewolves scattered at once.

Inside Fenrir's house, Burke watched everything through a grimy window. He clicked his tongue in amazement at Fenrir's severe injuries, though there was also a trace of regret on his face. Naturally, he regretted that Fenrir had not simply been killed.

Fenrir shoved away the subordinate trying to support him and struggled across the muddy ground. Every so often, he tugged at the wound on his chest and bared his teeth in pain again.

He stopped at his own doorway and solemnly tilted his head to either side. His subordinates promptly withdrew and vanished among the cluster of houses.

When Burke saw Fenrir approach, he quickly stepped away from the window and put on the appearance of someone who had been pacing by the door for ages, like a comical actor performing a trick.

Fenrir violently flung open the door. The moment he saw Burke standing there, the rage on his savage face