Chapter 84
Over the past three years, his territory had suffered rogue attacks more than once—and the frequency had only increased. This was already the second attack this month. Normally, rogue incidents happened once or twice a year, usually when food in the forests ran scarce and desperate rogues crossed borders in search of prey. Smaller, isolated trespasses were common. But full-blown assaults involving large numbers of rogues—those were rare, often happening only once a year.
Yet something had changed.
Zion had noticed a disturbing pattern in these recent attacks. They weren’t random anymore. They felt orchestrated. Intentional.
And that was why, this time, he waited. He observed. He needed to be sure.
And now that he was—he was done holding back.
In a matter of seconds, Zion killed the rogue in front of him with a single, devastating swipe of his paw. His claws tore deep into the wolf’s throat, leaving a gaping, bloody wound. The rogue staggered back, blood pouring freely from the gash—so much that his healing abilities couldn’t keep up.
Instinctively, the wolf shifted back to his human form and collapsed to his knees, clutching at his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. But the wound was too severe. His trachea had been torn open, flesh hanging grotesquely as blood gushed between his fingers like a broken faucet. There was no saving him.
“Ugh—Cough!” the rogue groaned, spitting out a mouthful of blood as his body trembled. The other rogues stiffened, clearly shaken by Zion’s sudden, lethal strike. But Zion’s attention wasn’t on the dying man—it was locked on the tattoo inked over the rogue’s chest, just above his heart.
A spider lily intertwined with a crescent moon.
Zion’s eyes narrowed, his instincts screaming that the symbol meant something more.
The moment the brown wolf noticed where Zion was staring, his reaction was swift and brutal—he lunged forward and ripped out the dying rogue’s heart, shredding the tattoo along with it in a single vicious motion.
Zion’s jaw clenched. That one act confirmed his suspicion—there was something about that mark. ’An emblem? A crest?’ Whatever it was, they were willing to kill to keep it hidden.
As soon as the brown wolf moved, the others snapped out of their stupor and launched themselves at Zion all at once. One lunged for his front leg, another for his hind leg—they were clearly trying to immobilize him by taking out his footing.
But Zion wasn’t just any Alpha. After three years of fighting on the front lines, his battle instincts were honed to a razor’s edge—far beyond what these rogues could handle.
Instead of wasting time on the lesser threats, Zion sprang straight toward the brown wolf, jaws wide as he aimed to tear into the side of its face. But the wolf was quick—agile enough to narrowly dodge Zion’s lethal bite. The others immediately rallied to protect their leader without hesitation, their coordination confirming once more that this attack was far from random.
One rogue even threw himself directly into Zion’s path to shield the brown wolf. Big mistake.
Zion’s fangs closed around the rogue’s neck in a brutal snap. The crack of bone echoed through the air as Zion crushed his spine without a second thought. His gaze never left the brown wolf—focused, locked in, and burning with ruthless intent.
Zion didn’t stop.
The other wolves lunged at him, but he moved with uncanny precision—dodging as if he had eyes on the back of his head. Every time they struck, he shifted just enough—darting forward, sideways, or twisting his massive frame—throwing them off balance. And each time, he countered with brutal efficiency.
One wolf lunged at him from the side, claws outstretched. Zion leapt back in a blur, the rogue’s paw missing his face by mere centimeters. In that same instant, Zion shifted into his human form, grabbed the rogue by the scruff of the neck, and slammed him into the ground with enough force to leave a small crater.
The wolf let out a sharp, pained whine.
It never got the chance to rise.
Without hesitation, Zion lifted his foot and brought it down hard on the rogue’s skull, crushing it beneath his heel.
The remaining wolves, witnessing Zion’s sheer power and brutal efficiency, instinctively froze. One by one, they took a step back, their bodies stiff with tension. Zion’s alpha aura was radiating from him in thick, oppressive waves—intimidating and heavy with lethal intent.
Combined with the carnage they had just witnessed, it triggered a primal fear in them. Their survival instincts screamed, warning them that this was no ordinary opponent.
Though the rogues’ human sides remained aware and calculating, their wolves were governed by instinct—and instinct told them to flee.
One of them cracked under the pressure. Overwhelmed by Zion’s presence, the rogue turned to run, tail literally tucked between its legs. But it didn’t get far.
In a flash, the brown wolf—their leader—pounced on the fleeing rogue and tore into its throat without hesitation. The wolf dropped instantly, its wound even more savage than the one Zion had inflicted earlier. Blood pooled around the body as the brown wolf stood over it, cold and ruthless.
The message was clear: fight or die. There would be no mercy for deserters.
Then the brown wolf lifted its gaze to Zion. Its eyes gleamed with something sinister—taunting, calculating. It wasn’t just challenging him; it was provoking him. Trying to push Zion over the edge.
Because once Zion went berserk, reason would vanish. He would lose control, lashing out at everything and everyone around him—ally or enemy. The brown wolf was counting on it. If Zion lost himself, the rogue could steer the chaos straight toward Zion’s own pack, letting him become the weapon that destroyed everything he swore to protect—without the brown wolf ever needing to lift a paw.
Fortunately for Zion, Shura—his wolf—was disinterested at the moment. If not, Zion would be in real trouble. He could see it clearly in the brown wolf’s calculating eyes: it was trying to provoke him, to make him lose control. But Zion knew better. He just needed to kill it—one clean strike to the throat.
Why the throat?
Because for werewolves, the throat is their greatest weakness. In the wars of centuries past, werewolves fought in pairs—especially those with mates. Fighting side by side made them stronger. The closer they were, the deeper their bond, and the more lethal they became in battle. Their coordination was perfect, flowing as one being. It was a terrifying sight on the battlefield.
She-wolves had a critical role. Often, they acted as shields for their mates, especially the alphas. In combat, they would lower their heads as if submitting, appearing weak and vulnerable.
But that was a strategy—a way to protect their mate’s exposed throat from surprise attacks. When two alphas clashed and couldn’t resolve their conflict, it often came down to a fight in their wolf forms, and their mates stood by them to prevent any underhanded tactics from being used.
But the cost was high.
She-wolves often died on the battlefield—protecting their mates, throwing themselves between danger and the one they were bonded to. And with every loss, the consequences rippled. Male wolves who lost their fated mates were devastated—some never recovered.
Worse still, the population began to dwindle. The death of so many she-wolves led to a steep drop in births, and so, the werewolf council intervened.