The world narrowed further.
The crowd, the devil's mocking grin, even the ragged gasps of his squadmates—all of it blurred into silence. There was only the wolf before him, looming with its monstrous fangs bared, its breath like a furnace of shadows. Erebus lunged again, claws sharp enough to cleave stone, yet Loren moved—not with grace, not with flawless technique, but with desperate precision. His blade intercepted the blow, his feet skidding backward, sparks leaping into the stale air.
The impact rattled his bones. He should have collapsed. He knew he should have.
Yet his body… responded differently.
A strange clarity coursed through him. His muscles, though trembling, still moved with a speed he hadn't felt before. His blade seemed lighter in his grip, his footing steadier, his reaction sharper. The exhaustion that had been mounting only moments ago was still there, but dulled—like something in him refused to let fatigue fully claim him.
He barely twisted away from another snapping maw, the wolf's breath raking against his cheek. He countered with a wild slash—not elegant, not perfect, but enough to carve another shallow line across the wolf's hide.
Each exchange should have broken him, yet he held.
And as the realization bloomed in his chest, memory stirred.
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He was a boy again, no older than ten, standing in the training grounds of Moonspring's guild estate. His father towered over him—Virgil Vance, the indomitable guildmaster whose name commanded respect across the land. Not just for his rank, not for his guild alone, but for something else.
"Remember this, Loren," Virgil had said, his voice carrying that deep, commanding weight that made even adults listen. He had crouched then, meeting his son eye to eye, his massive hand gripping Loren's wooden practice sword.
"Our art is called Pride Hunter for a reason. Against humans, it's strong, yes. Against swordsmen, it can cut, yes. But its true power? Its heart?"
He tapped Loren's chest with a finger, firm enough to make the boy flinch.
"It awakens against beasts. Against the creatures that roam the wilds, against the monsters that threaten kingdoms. That is where our strength sings. You must never forget this."
The boy had nodded back then, wide-eyed, but only half listening. All he had cared about was winning spars against the other guild brats, boasting of his father's fame, proving himself the "genius heir." He hadn't needed to fight monsters. He hadn't needed to remember the lesson.
He had forgotten it. Google seaʀᴄh 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅✦𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾✦𝗇𝖾𝗍
Forgotten that Virgil Vance's title was not "duelist," not "warrior," but Beast Slayer. Forgotten the stories of his father carving through hordes of monstrous creatures that others feared even to name. Forgotten the truth of why the Pride Hunter Style was revered in the first place.
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Loren staggered, his chest heaving as he barely sidestepped another strike. His mind reeled with the revelation.
That's why… I'm still alive.
It wasn't luck. It wasn't some sudden awakening of hidden talent. It was the art itself—the very technique he had inherited but never honored. Against Erebus, the wolf of darkness, the Pride Hunter Style was thriving, drawing from its purpose. His body wasn't stronger because of his willpower alone—it was because his sword art was built for this. Every strike against the beast brought out his peak. Every clash drew out its hidden gift.
His father's voice echoed in his ears. Never forget this.
And yet he had. He had laughed at the lessons, turned away from the old glory, chosen instead to flaunt his superiority among humans who had never known the terror of monsters. He had wasted years fighting for status, when the blood in his veins carried the legacy of something greater.
Now, in the jaws of death, that legacy roared to life.
Loren's blade trembled, but he lifted it higher. His stance steadied. His breathing slowed, synchronizing with the wolf's movements.
So this is it… the secret of our style.
He parried another strike, not cleanly, but with just enough precision that the wolf's claws glanced away instead of tearing his chest open. He countered immediately, his blade tracing an arc upward, sharper and heavier than any strike he had thrown before. Erebus twisted back, and for the first time, its growl carried more than disdain.
It was acknowledgment.
Loren's lips twisted, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He almost laughed, a bitter, breathless sound.
"Father… I finally understand."
The words weren't for anyone else. They weren't for the squad, or the devil, or even Erebus. They were for himself—for the boy who had forgotten, and for the man who had finally remembered.
But with that understanding came a new weight.
Because he also realized how hollow his past victories had been. Every duel, every boast, every smug grin—none of it had ever mattered. He hadn't faced monsters. He hadn't earned the right to call himself strong. He had been a shadow of his father's legacy, puffed up by borrowed pride.
And now that legacy was saving him. Not his arrogance. Not his skill. Not even his courage.
The thought cut him deeper than any wound.
Is this strength really mine? Or is it only my father's gift, carrying me now when I least deserve it?
His sword rose again, blocking a swipe that rattled his arm to the bone. He twisted, drove his blade into the wolf's side, not deep but enough to draw another spurt of black blood. His body screamed, his vision blurred—but he held.
For the first time in his life, Loren Vance wasn't boasting. He wasn't thinking of glory or reputation. He wasn't even thinking of victory.
He was simply fighting.
Fighting to prove that even if this strength came from his bloodline, from the art his father had forged into legend—he could still claim it as his own.
Each clash with Erebus was no longer a struggle for survival alone—it was a question.
Am I Loren Vance, the arrogant heir who wasted his legacy? Or am I Loren Vance, son of Virgil, the one who will carry the Pride Hunter's art forward?
The answer hadn't come yet. But as he met the wolf's golden eyes and refused to falter, Loren knew one thing with absolute certainty:
This battle would decide it.