The Wasteland Wolf, documented in the Universal Codex as a high-tier magical beast, lives up to its name—roaming only the wastelands. A rare solitary species among canine magical beasts, it’s long been viewed by mercenaries and hunters as a lucrative target for quick profit.

This land is the Sindel Wastes. Ever since the Abyss Uprising was quelled, it grew desolate. For years, it has been claimed by the Bloodwolf Mercenary Company under Thulaken. As the captain who built the company from nothing, Thulaken stands tall in the hearts of his followers—many idolize him without question.

It’s said that of every hundred who join the Bloodwolf Company today, ninety-nine are Thulaken’s devoted fans. Even if he ordered them to strip naked and run laps around the wastes, they’d ponder the hidden meaning instead of doubting him.

Except Morris.

He didn’t even know who Thulaken was.

Notably, while others remained in the dark, Morris—the current Pope—knew full well: a beast of this caliber could be subdued by ten Artificer-tier wizards, and even ten apprentices or strong commoners could finish it off. Yet Thulaken gathered a full hundred Arcane Source Wizards, the strongest among them reaching Lawform Tier. Rumor said he’d posted recruitment notices across the capital: any Arcane Source Wizard submitting credentials would instantly join as a temporary member, with rewards so generous they seemed unreal.

Morris couldn’t fathom Thulaken’s motive—but even Lawform-tier wizards would struggle to resist such terms.

And all this… for a single Wasteland Wolf whose pelt, stripped bare, wouldn’t cover half the cost?

Morris clicked his tongue. Thulaken’s reputation had utterly bewitched them. Even wary wizards were swiftly absorbed into the company’s thick-skinned, carefree vibe—silliness is contagious, my friend!

By morning, everyone stood poised at the wasteland’s edge. The prey—the thirty-meter-long gray-furred giant—lay crouched in the shade of a stone platform, utterly at ease.

“Ten people would handle this beast easily,” someone chuckled lightly.

“Lord Thulaken is overly cautious. But caution is admirable,” another nodded.

“Fine, fine,” Morris yawned, grumbling, “as long as he doesn’t desecrate the corpse with Arcanum techniques after. So sleepy.”

“Already tired before the fight starts?” Sif stood beside him, arms crossed. She pinched his cheek, huffed, and released him only after he yelped. “Awake now?”

“Wide awake,” Morris rubbed his cheek helplessly. *When did I ever endure this?*

“Fellow comrades!” A deep, resonant voice boomed behind them. Morris turned. A man in a white hunting robe stood there, rare bird feathers adorning his collar, blades of varying lengths strapped to boots and waist. His face was unremarkable yet radiated quiet resolve—a face that felt oddly familiar. “Welcome to the hunt!”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Sif gripped Morris’s hand, eyes sparkling. “Look! That’s Lord Thulaken!”

“Oh… uh-huh,” Morris muttered flatly. “Hurry up and start. I need to know what scheme your captain’s cooking.”

After a brief rallying cry, Thulaken raised his arm. “Hunt begins! As tradition holds: sever the head, claim double bounty!”

Dozens of figures shot forward. While Morris blinked in confusion, Arcane Source Wizards surged toward the beast, chaos swirling in their wake.

Morris had zero interest in the kill. He only sought the source of the unease nagging him since last night.

“Hurry, Morris!” Sif tugged his wrist. Through her sleek black tights, pale skin faintly showed. Morris later learned Sif’s popularity rivaled Thulaken’s—every mercenary boasted of squad-ing with her.

*No matter how hardened or tragic your past,* he mused, *everyone still favors a cute girl.*

“Alright, alright, I’m—” Morris froze. A familiar figure.

Clad in pure white, she darted through the wind like a lingering phantom. The wolf lifted its head—then a blazing white cloak descended. A slender longsword erupted from its white-bronze scabbard, thrusting straight for the beast’s crimson-gold eye. Claws met steel; sparks flew. A deafening roar shook the air. Black mist flooded the area. Panic spread—until Thulaken’s voice cut through:

“Stay calm! This is the wolf’s innate Arcanum technique—[Black Mist]! Watch for ambushes!”

Sif grabbed Morris’s hand. “Be careful! You’ve no combat experience—you can’t grasp how terrifying this beast is…”

She turned. The wolf meant nothing to her—but Morris startled her. His face was ashen, gaze hollow, like a condemned man awaiting the noose.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m recalling… something pleasant,” Morris grimaced. *Finally. I know why I felt uneasy.* “Today? We do nothing. Just watch her.”

He shuddered. *Should I run? She’s here—she knows I am. How? If I flee, now’s the time… but then I’ll never learn Thulaken’s plan for the Abyss.*

“What are you—” Sif began, watching his turmoil—

The ground trembled. Through the swirling black mist, distant sparks erupted relentlessly. Each burst carried a sharp *clang* of steel, echoing from all directions, source unseen.

But Morris saw clearly: the girl moved with the wolf through the gloom. Sharp glints flashed beneath her white hood; her blade shimmered faintly. Wounds bloomed across the beast’s hide. Its proud white tuft of fur lay severed on the stone. Arcanum swirled around her. Calmly, she swung her sword—a vortex erupted. Iron blades leaped from sheaths, melting into glowing filings and crackling sparks.

Formless Arcanum surged like a crystalline torrent, flooding the sword’s surface. Faint runes glowed, then dimmed into condensed shadow—only a deathly black stillness lingered along the edge, like a dragon folding its wings after a deep breath.

Yet beneath the hood, undying radiance ignited in her crimson pupils.

One swing. The vortex locked the wolf in place. She leaped. Ethereal magic elongated the blade dozens of meters. A slash of pure light. Ghastly crimson bloomed. A final howl. The mist cleared. Blood saturated half the wasteland.

Dumbfounded, the crowd watched the cloaked girl step down from the corpse. Arcanum faded. Her sword returned to normal length—spotless.

All in seconds.

Time froze—until a man roared: “MY GOD!!!”

He sprinted to her, seizing her hand. “Are you in a party? A temporary Bloodwolf member? Please, join my squad—”

“Your squad dares host such a deity? Honored Wizard! Consider *my* team!” Another shoved him aside.

“Get lost, bastards! Honored Wizard, review *our* terms!”

“What tier are you? Lawform? Higher! You look underage! Join us!”

Sif gave Morris a wry smile. “Turned into a bizarre recruitment drive.”

Morris shuddered. *Macedon has no idea what monster they raised.* They saw only the Holy Maiden’s quiet grace, minor church spars—never grasping the chasm between leviathan and minnow.

Seeing Morris’s face, the girl’s blood-red eyes flashed. She dashed to him, startling Sif aside. Before anyone reacted, she latched onto his arm, soft chest pressed against his side, eyes closed contentedly.

“Apologies. My fiancé and I are already a team.”

“Fiancé?”

The crowd froze.

“Fiancé…?”

“Fiancé?!”

“Wryyyyyyyyy fiancé?!”

Murderous glares pinned Morris. Sif stared, eyes cold with judgment. “Mr. Morris… you had a fiancée this young?”

“No! Wait! Let me explain!”

“Explain *what*?!” a red-haired man bellowed. “You have *this* fiancée yet were cozy with Sif-chan?! Today, I deliver heavenly justice!”

“Sif-chan?” The girl nestled closer against Morris’s chest, voice sweet. “Has she ever slept with you like I have?”

“Slept with you…” Sif’s expression hardened. *Societal scum.* “Mr. Morris… before eighteen?”

“Misunderstanding! When were we *ever* like that?!” Morris wailed—but no one listened.

On a distant hill, Thulaken smiled warmly at the chaos. Perfect. No one noticed the wolf’s blood seeping silently into the Abyss.

“My Lord,” he bowed his head, whispering, “I pray for Your awakening. You shall repay blood with blood, tooth for tooth… and claim this world as Your own.”

He fixed his gaze on Sif amid the crowd and murmured, “The sacrifices are complete: the blood of one hundred Arcane Source Wizards and high-tier magical beasts—more than sufficient to restore one-tenth of your power from your prime.”

A low chuckle escaped his lips. “And you shall sweep through this nation… a land devoid of Pope-tier Sorcerers and Saints.”