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Rave tried to find an opening, but the wolf gave him none.
'Just one,' he pleaded silently, eyes darting around.
But there was nothing. No terrain advantage, no fallen log, no cliff to leap from. Nothing this time.
It was just him, the wolf, and the sword.
They were clashing like animals—because they were. Each knew only one of them would walk away alive.
His blade glowed with divine light, but even with the advantageous attribute, it wasn't enough. The beast's claws tore through the air with raw power, still overpowering his every strike.
And Rave—despite being in Wil's stronger body—was slowing down.
Every swing burned in his shoulders. Every step landed heavier than the last. His breath was ragged. Wil's body, old and strained, was reaching its limit.
The wolf lunged again, fast and low. Rave tried to sidestep, but it scraped his arm—barely missing a fatal hit.
He stumbled.
'I can't keep this up...'
The wolf paced in front of him, growling. It had sensed it too—his exhaustion. It was waiting for the final opening.
Then, it charged.
Fangs wide. Eyes locked.
Rave didn't flinch.
Instead, he whispered under his breath:
"Switch."
The mask shimmered.
In an instant, his body shrank—muscles pulling in, bones bending. He dropped into his true form.
His real form.
The small, wiry frame of a boy missing an arm. A body on the edge of collapse.
But that size—those reflexes—that speed.
The wolf swiped with its claw.
Rave dropped. Slid under it. The claw missed him by inches.
The world spun around him in a blur of motion and instinct. As he hit the dirt, he hissed:
"Switch—now!"
His body erupted with light again—rushing back into Wil's form mid-roll.
Larger. Heavier. Stronger.
He gripped the sword with both hands again.
And with a growl, he pushed up from the ground, spun, and brought the blade down in a massive overhead arc—straight into the beast's exposed back.
The light sword cleaved through fur and flesh like it was paper.
The wolf howled—violently. But it was too late.
The sword sliced deep. Through its spine. Through its core.
The beast crashed into the dirt, limbs twitching once... twice... then going limp.
The jungle went silent.
Rave stood over the body, panting, the glow of the blade dimming in his hands.
His heart thundered in his chest. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin.
And though he still wore his mentor's face, beneath it was a broken, bleeding boy.
But he had done it.
He had killed a mutant Shadow Wolf.
Alone.
Using only grit, timing, and a cursed mask.
He looked down at the fallen beast, its dark form dissolving slowly into shadow.
Then up at the trees.
And whispered to no one:
"I'm not weak anymore."
***
The adrenaline faded.
His legs gave out.
The blade slipped from his hands, falling beside the lifeless body of the wolf. He dropped to his knees, then collapsed entirely. The forest spun. His body felt like a ragdoll—ripped, burned, drained.
Then—darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, there was… nothing.
Pitch black.
But he could still see.
He was back in original body, he looked at himself. But saw nothing, but he knew that he was back in his original body, he felt it.
There was no floor beneath him, no sky above, yet he stood. No sound, no wind, no pulse of life—just endless, featureless black stretching in all directions.
Rave turned around slowly, his breath steady but shallow. Something felt wrong. Not like a dream.
Not like death, either.
He took a step forward. The ground—or whatever held him—didn't echo, didn't shift. It simply was.
Then he saw it.
Standing just ahead.
The Shadow Wolf.