I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Twenty: The Challenge
The next day, morning broke with a sharpness in the air—a biting chill that clung to my skin and filled my lungs with every breath, crisp and clean like nature's way of waking the world up. It was the kind of cold that didn't just make you shiver—it made you alert. Focused. Alive.
The dew was still fresh on the grass, leaving it damp and cool beneath my bare feet as I trailed behind Richard. He walked with that same deliberate confidence he always carried, each step silent despite the crunch of leaves underfoot. We circled around the cabin to the backyard, where the forest stood like a wall. Trees stretched upward, their branches swaying slightly in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across the clearing. They loomed tall and silent, sentinels of wood and bark that had likely stood there longer than either of us had been alive.
It felt like stepping into a hidden world—a place separate from the cabin and the comforts of civilization. A natural arena, sealed off from the rest of existence by a ring of trees. No witnesses. No distractions. Just the earth, the sky, and whatever this was about to be.
Richard finally came to a stop. He turned to face me, arms folding across his chest. The deep lines etched into his face seemed sharper in the morning light, like the sun had chosen to trace every scar, every crease, every unspoken story. His voice came low but steady, grounded in years of hard truths.
"Kids born into hunter families," he said, meeting my eyes, "don't get the luxury of a normal childhood. They don't learn how to ride bikes or catch fireflies in the summer. They start training before they even lose their baby teeth. Before they know what it means to be afraid, they're being taught how to survive."
He paused, letting that sink in. Then continued.
"They learn hand-to-hand combat first. Then weapons. Knives, bows, spears—anything you can hold with two hands that doesn't need electricity or a reload. Cold weapons. Reliable weapons. They're taught to track movement, to read signs, to know what hides in the dark. Not just how to fight, but how to kill. Efficiently. Quietly. Without hesitation. And most of all… they're taught about the things that shouldn't exist. The supernatural. The corrupted. The inhuman. What they're weak to. How they move. How they think."
I stood still, absorbing his words like I had a hundred times before. His lessons always carried a weight. But even though I'd heard bits of this story in pieces over the years, I'd never asked the one question that had been sitting in the back of my mind from the very beginning.
"What about guns?" I said, tilting my head. "You always carry one."
For a beat, Richard didn't say anything. No reaction. Just silence.
Then, without warning, he moved.
His hand blurred behind his jacket, a flick of muscle memory so fast I barely registered it—until the crack of the gunshot ripped through the stillness.
My instincts kicked in a heartbeat before the sound. I twisted sharply, and the bullet sliced through the air where my head had just been. Close enough to feel it. Close enough to feel its heat, like a ghost of fire trailing across my cheek.
I staggered back, pulse thudding violently in my throat.
"What the hell?!" I snapped, eyes wide.
Richard calmly holstered the pistol like he hadn't just fired it at me. "How'd you dodge that?" he asked, voice almost casual.
I stared at him, heart still hammering. "I watched you. The way your shoulder tensed. The angle of the barrel. I knew where you were going to shoot before you pulled the trigger."
He nodded slowly, like I'd just passed a test.
"Exactly," he said. "That's why guns are worthless against most of the creatures we deal with. Too slow. Too obvious. Too damn loud. They might scare the average civilian, but the moment you try pulling one on something that isn't human, you've already lost. They hear it. Smell it. Predict it. Most of the time, bullets don't even work on them. The only reason I still carry this thing is to keep up appearances. Scare off the occasional nosy human who asks too many questions at a gas station. You point a gun at a shapeshifter? They laugh. You show one to a Karen in the parking lot? She backs off."
I exhaled slowly. "Got it," I murmured.
Richard walked over to a thick wooden post buried in the ground and rested his hand on it, fingers splayed. He didn't look at me when he spoke again.
"You're lucky," he said quietly. "You didn't have to train like we did. You didn't have to fight like a human. You were born different. With claws. With speed. With instincts stronger than most hunters will ever have, even after years of training."
He finally turned back toward me, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"But…" I prompted, because I could hear the but in his voice.
"But instincts aren't enough," he finished. "Not in the long run. They'll get you through the first fight. Maybe the second. But when things get complicated—when you're tired, bleeding, cornered—instincts don't make decisions. Training does."
I nodded again, trying to stay composed. But beneath the surface, I could feel it—the low, coiled tension rising inside me. The wolf stirred when Richard questioned it's instincts. Not angry. Not yet. Just alert. Watching.
Richard caught it, of course. He always did.
Then he turned toward me fully, his gaze sharpening. "How old do you think I am?"
The question caught me off guard. I gave him a once-over, eyeing the weathered face, the silver in his beard. "Early fifties, maybe? But you're a hunter, so… slower aging, like most of us." I hesitated. "I don't know. A hundred?"
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Try a little over a hundred and twenty."
My eyebrows rose. That was older than I'd expected. A lot older.
"In hunter years," he went on, "I'm a damn relic. Most of us retire from the field by seventy—assuming we live that long. Me? I should've hung it up decades ago. My strength's not what it was. My speed's dropped. Reaction time, too. But I'm still here because I know how to stay alive. My instincts are still sharp. My experience sharper."
I nodded again, this time more slowly. I could feel it in my bones—even as a ten-year-old werewolf, my body was already stronger than his. Faster. Sharper. Nature had built me for the hunt in a way no human training could replicate. I had fangs. Claws. Reflexes that kicked in before my thoughts could catch up.
But Richard wasn't finished.
His tone shifted just a little—quieter, almost like a warning. "Don't let the gray hairs fool you, kid. I may be old, but I can still drop a young pup like you without breaking a sweat."
The wolf inside me growled—not aloud, not in sound, but in sensation. It rose to its feet in the depths of me, ears perked, shoulders squared. Ready.
I didn't respond. I didn't have to.
My silence said it all.
Richard saw it. His eyes gleamed, not with mockery, not with arrogance, but something far more dangerous.
He tilted his head just slightly, and that ever-present smirk returned, curling like a dare.
"Why don't you come at me," he said, voice low, "and see what happens."
And just like that, the air changed.
Something in it turned sharper. Tighter. The trees seemed to lean in. The wind paused.
The wolf inside me howled in anticipation, claws unsheathed, teeth bared.
And I stepped forward.