In Don’s grasp, the weapon seemed almost alive. The air around it shimmered faintly, rain bending toward the trident as if drawn in by gravity itself. Every droplet that fell from the darkened sky curved mid-fall, weaving into the weapon’s form. Thin rivulets streamed down the length of its three points before hardening into edges sharp enough to split the air.
This was no beast weapon, no artifact crafted from the bones or claws of monsters. This was something entirely different, an armament born from his own elemental mastery. The water obeyed him absolutely, molded not by heat or hammer but by will and precision.
A figure broke from the chaos ahead, a Werewolf, broad-shouldered and heavy, its entire form encased in thick, beast-forged armor. The plating gleamed faintly in the stormlight, battered and scratched from battles past. Rainwater slid down its surface, catching on jagged ridges before dripping into the shallow pools underfoot. It moved like a knight in a charge, each heavy step sending ripples across the flooded ground.
Its purpose was clear: take the brunt of Don’s strike and buy a fatal opening for the rest of the pack.
The trident shifted in his grip, water rippling along its length. His movements were fluid, almost lazy, yet his eyes tracked the charging beast with the precision of a predator. When the Werewolf closed the last few meters, Don thrust the trident forward in a single, smooth motion.
The weapon’s three points sank into the center of the Werewolf’s chest as though the armor were made of soft clay. A twist of his wrist, a slight shift in stance, and the steel-like plating split. The beast’s breath caught in its throat, eyes wide with disbelief as the weapon slid clean through.
Before the body could even crumple, the trident’s tip erupted. A pressurized beam of water blasted out the other side, moving so fast it blurred against the rain. It punched through the chest of a second Werewolf standing behind, one who had been raising a ranged weapon to fire. The impact threw the creature backward, its weapon spinning from its grip before it collapsed in a heap.
Two enemies, gone before the first even hit the ground.
But the others didn’t pause.
A storm of ranged attacks filled the air, the onslaught blending the feral with the mechanical, a flurry of claw-formed projectiles, compressed energy bursts, and steel-tipped bolts. The air hissed and cracked under their passage.
No one could dodge an attack from so many angles at once.
Whether they could harm him, however... was another matter entirely.
The shallow pool beneath Don’s feet surged without warning. With a deafening roar, it exploded upward in a spiraling column of water, scattering the incoming barrage. Droplets became a wall, shrouding him in a dense curtain that turned sight and sound into a blur.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was chaos, attackers blinded by the spray, unsure where to aim.
Then came the strike.
From the misted veil, a single, narrow streak of water shot forward, so fast it seemed like a silver line drawn through the air. It passed cleanly through four Werewolves standing shoulder to shoulder. None moved at first. Then, almost in unison, they collapsed, each one severed cleanly at the waist, torsos sliding from legs as crimson spread through the shallow water.
He had somehow moved behind them, combining his bladed arm technique with the crushing force of a water jet. The kill was so fast, so precise, that most hadn’t even seen him appear.
Broodie’s eyes tracked every movement, his mind struggling to match the speed with understanding.
He doesn’t rely on massive, wide-scale destruction... His strikes are focused, condensed, and that’s what makes them so devastating. His elemental control is beyond anything I’ve witnessed.
Austin’s thoughts mirrored the sentiment. Those water-forged blades... they looked capable of cutting through anything. Maybe, just maybe, the only part of his own body that could withstand such a strike would be his horns. Even then, it wasn’t just the cutting edge that was dangerous. It was the way Don commanded water as though it were part of his own body, every movement of his limbs sending it whipping through the air with lethal purpose.
And he didn’t even need to touch someone to break them. A sweep of his arm, a flick of his wrist, and water hit with the crushing weight of an Altered’s punch.
Now they had seen the trident in action, they knew it wasn’t just a weapon, it was an extension of him. And through it, he could channel even more force, more precision.
Austin tried to imagine the fight: using portals to dodge, to create unpredictable angles, to land one decisive strike. But even in his mind, he couldn’t see Don faltering. He couldn’t picture the man showing weakness at all.
From this display alone, Austin knew, Don Tinge’s power was king-level.
Broodie had reached the same conclusion.
It’s impossible for us to win this. It’s only a matter of time before he cuts us all down. Numbers mean nothing to this man, he is an un crowned king.
And that was the true terror. This was supposed to be their strongest strike force. The most talented Werewolves stood here, clad in the finest beast armor, each one capable of taking on dozens in battle. They were meant to be the hammer that broke the enemy line, the wave that decided the war.
We can’t just die here in front of everyone, Broodie thought, tension burning in his jaw. If we could get to Ylva, if we could gain the Luna’s blessing, maybe then we’d have a chance. Even then... I still believe the only one who could truly face this man is Lupus.
The choice was clear, yet impossible: retreat... or force a path through Don to reach Ylva. And with the White Rose’s strongest warrior in their way, was either option even real?
Ylva, Broodie prayed silently, I hope you can see the mess we’re in.
What he didn’t know was that Ylva already had her hands full, with another titan of the battlefield. A man whose name was whispered with the same weight as Don Tinge’s.
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