Crack! Black claws flashed toward him like a wind carrying snow, their chill piercing.
Swinburne twisted his hips and shifted his footing. Power rose from his soles, passed through his waist to his shoulders, then flowed down his forearms into the heavy sword in his hands. The blade hummed as it collided with that black gust, ringing out with a sharp, powerful clang.
Swinburne already bore claw marks across his chest, abdomen, and arms. Fortunately, his armor and bracers had kept him from bleeding heavily. Otherwise, the wounds might have cut down to the bone, and he could never have fought his opponent with his current strength and speed.
The wolf king truly deserved its title. Not only was its body formidable, but its fighting spirit was extraordinary. Against this battle-hardened Silver-Pattern Leader, it had never once fallen behind. Though it had gained little advantage itself, the fiercer, more loyal wolves surrounding it allowed it to keep suppressing its opponent and rapidly drain his stamina. At this rate, Swinburne's defeat was only a matter of time.
The Silver-Pattern Shield Wolves held a contest for the throne every year. Like a kingdom's struggle for its crown, it played out within each pack annually. Sometimes a dozen wolves, sometimes several dozen, fought for the title of strongest. Their supreme command was truly earned through bloody combat. How terrifying a wolf king capable of commanding a pack of two thousand Silver-Pattern Shield Wolves must have been was easy to imagine.
Swinburne was not to be underestimated merely because he could gain no advantage, nor were his wounds a reason to look down on him. Had an ordinary person or one of the Viking Warriors around him faced the wolf king's relentless, ferocious attacks, they would have died dozens of times over.
Red liquid