Chapter 83

Knowing how much Levi had grown and how formidable he’d become, Zion felt a sense of reassurance. With Levi leading the warriors on the eastern front, he could focus all his attention on the southern border without worrying about being spread too thin.

Not long after, thanks to Zion’s immense agility and powerful build, he arrived at the southern border. The sounds of clashing bodies and growls filled the air—his warriors were already engaged in a fierce battle against the incoming rogues.

“Argh!” one of Zion’s warriors cried out as a rogue wolf clamped its jaws around his throat. The rogue was larger than the others, its fur a muddy brown and a deep claw-mark scar slashed across its right eye. With a vicious shake of its head, it tore the warrior’s throat wide open—killing him instantly. The gruesome display wasn’t just savage; it was a message. A taunt aimed directly at Zion.

But instead of reacting with rage, Zion merely snorted, his piercing eyes locking onto the scarred wolf. He could tell—this one wasn’t just stronger; it was leading the attack on this side of the border.

A low growl rumbled from his chest as a few more rogues began to circle him, their snarls cutting through the forest. They moved with eerie coordination, clearly trying to isolate him. Meanwhile, the rest of the rogue force was keeping his warriors occupied, preventing them from rushing to his aid.

“Do they really think they can take us down just because they have numbers? Pathetic,” Shura scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. He sounded more annoyed than interested, as if the rogues weren’t even worth his claws.

Zion growled in frustration. “You said you needed an outlet. So what are you waiting for? Take it out on them!”

“They’re beneath me.” Shura replied haughtily, his tone bored.

Zion’s eyes darkened. “Oh, they’re beneath you? And yet you trash my office like a rabid animal every time you’re in a bad mood? You trying to drive Levi insane?”

“That’s different,” Shura responded, unbothered. “I only lash out when I lose my temper. And sometimes… it just happens.”

His indifference grated on Zion’s nerves, but Shura wasn’t finished. Deep down, he was still holding a grudge. ’Addison’s disappearance is your fault,’ Shura thought bitterly. He had warned Zion against bringing Claire back. Had begged him not to treat Addison coldly. But Zion hadn’t listened.

A wolf’s instinct was simple—hunt, kill, protect, mate. There were no mind games or complicated emotions. To Shura, Zion’s betrayal of their mate defied everything they were.

And now? Shura couldn’t care less about a few rogue wolves. Not when the real enemy, in his eyes, was still within.

But it was true—ever since losing his mate, Zion had been trapped in a storm of pain. The constant ache of her absence, compounded by the excruciating agony of an unfulfilled rut, left him in turmoil. Shura, overwhelmed by heartache, would often go feral, lashing out without warning. And when his rage faded, he would retreat into silence, slipping into sleep until something provoked him awake again.

Zion, on the other hand, was left to carry the weight of it all—stress, guilt, regret, and the burden of leadership. Now, watching Shura act indifferent, as if toying with him, only made Zion’s blood boil hotter. His jaw clenched, and a dangerous gleam overtook his eyes as his bloodlust began to seep from every inch of him like a rising tide.

He didn’t hold back anymore. His fury needed an outlet—and the rogue wolves who dared trespass on his land were about to face the full force of it.

When Zion took a single step forward, the rogues mirrored him, maintaining a cautious distance. They were deliberately keeping just a few feet away, moving in sync—not out of fear, but calculation.

It was clear they were guarding against him, trying to prevent him from gaining the upper hand. Their formation and coordination were far too disciplined for a group of strays who just happened to meet outside the borders.

Zion’s sharp eyes narrowed. ’These rogues… they’ve formed their own pack.’ It was rare but not unheard of—exiled werewolves, outcasts who had committed grave sins: murdering packmates, rebelling against their Alpha, stealing sacred items, or even forcing themselves on mated wolves. Crimes that left them permanently stained.

And the longer a rogue remained without joining a recognized pack—one sanctioned by the Moon Goddess and the Council—the more foul their scent became. That rancid, tainted odor clung to them like rot, and even from meters away, a true werewolf could smell the filth that marked them as fallen.

But something was off about these rogues. Zion’s sharp senses picked up another scent beneath the overwhelming stench of decay and filth—a faint trace of something unfamiliar. The foul odor of the rogues usually masked any other smell, but this time, something else clung to them.

His suspicion deepened. ’Was this an organized attack?’ Were the rogues acting on their own, having formed a structured pack? Or worse—were they being used by someone else to launch this assault?

It didn’t make sense.

Rogues were usually wild, unstable, and consumed by bloodlust. Their human side weakened the longer they stayed rogue, leaving only the savage instincts of their wolf: to kill, to mate, to destroy. Strategy wasn’t part of their nature—chaos was. But these wolves moved with purpose.

And that… was far more dangerous.

Zion couldn’t understand how these rogues were so coordinated. The more he thought about it, the more unsettling it became. He began to observe them more closely. Normally, rogues never waited—they attacked without hesitation, driven purely by instinct. But these wolves were watching him as intently as he watched them. Calculating. Measured. Controlled.

They were… sane.

If not for their stench, Zion would have assumed they were trained warriors from an enemy pack pretending to be rogues—perhaps to avoid suspicion and shift the blame. And the moment that thought struck him, it hit like a thunderclap. His eyes snapped to the brown, scarred wolf—its nostrils flaring, eyes locked on him, alert and aware.

’Could they really be imposters?’

It wasn’t impossible. A skilled group could pose as rogues, but the problem was the scent. The stench of a rogue wasn’t easy to replicate. It was foul, distinct, and carried the weight of exile, madness, and blood. That couldn’t be faked with simple masking agents.

But… what if that other scent he’d picked up earlier—the one buried beneath the decay—wasn’t something clinging to them by accident?

What if it was the result of a failed attempt to imitate the rogue stench?

His blood ran cold. That would mean these weren’t just rogues—they were trained warriors pretending to be rogues. And that meant this was more than an attack. It was a setup.

Zion snapped back to the present and launched his attack. With a powerful leap, he lunged forward and swiped his massive paw at the wolf in front of him. The rogue sensed the danger and tried to step back, but it was too late—Zion was faster. Much faster.

Unlike Shura, who fought purely on instinct and unrelenting ferocity, Zion was a strategist. He always analyzed his enemy before making a move. That was precisely why he hadn’t attacked right away.