Brennick Estate - Western Wing Drawing Room
Lord Willem Brennick's frustration had evolved past anger into something approaching genuine fear—an emotion he hadn't experienced in two decades of owning slaves and wielding absolute authority over hundreds of human beings. The blind boy shouldn't be this competent. Shouldn't be predicting movements that hadn't occurred yet. Shouldn't be making Brennick look incompetent in his own estate while servants watched through cracked doorways.
"How?!" Brennick's voice cracked with rage as another lightning bolt missed by centimeters, John's staff already positioned to intercept before the discharge left his fingertips. "You're blind! You can't possibly—there's no way you should—"
"Should what?" John's voice remained eerily calm, almost conversational despite the exertion evident in his breathing. "Should be able to fight back? Should make you look weak? Should survive this long against the man who used me as furniture?" His staff swept in horizontal arc, forcing Brennick to retreat three steps. "You're right. I shouldn't. But here we are."
Soren's attack came from the side—sword thrusting toward John's kidney with Bloodlust-enhanced speed. But John had already begun his dodge two seconds earlier, the blade passing through space his body had occupied before the attack was even launched.
"This is impossible," Soren growled, his bandaged face turning toward John's new position with uncanny accuracy despite his ruined eyes. "No one reads attacks this cleanly. Not even masters with decades of experience. You're doing something—some technique, some Uncos ability we haven't identified—"
"I'm doing what you forced me to learn," John interrupted, staff blocking Soren's follow-up slash with precise timing. "You hunt someone for months, nearly kill them twice, massacre innocent people looking for them—they get motivated. They train. They improve." He spun the staff, redirecting Soren's blade into Brennick's lightning path, making the two attackers interfere with each other. "Turns out survival is excellent teacher."
Brennick's hands began glowing brighter—blue-white electrical discharge intensifying until the light hurt to look at, until ozone smell became overwhelming, until the air itself hummed with potential energy. His mana channels were fully open now, decades of cultivation releasing maximum output. This wasn't restraint or measured application. This was everything he had.
"I don't care how you're doing it," Brennick said, his voice dropping to dangerous quiet. "I don't care if you can see the future itself. You're still just a child. Still weak. Still mine." Lightning began arcing between his hands, building toward discharge that would exceed anything he'd thrown before. "And I'm going to burn that fact into your flesh until you remember your place."
Soren's Bloodlust Uncos flared in response—crimson aura expanding, becoming almost solid in its intensity. His desire to kill had reached fever pitch, obsession feeding enhancement until his speed pushed past human limits into something approaching supernatural. The sword in his hand vibrated with barely restrained violence, his entire body trembling with need to attack, to cut, to finally achieve the death he'd been dreaming about for months.
John's ki perception tracked both power increases with perfect clarity—Brennick's mana signature swelling to three times its previous intensity, Soren's enhancement amplifying past sustainable levels into territory where the Uncos would start damaging its user's body. They were both going all-out now. Abandoning restraint in favor of overwhelming force.
Good. John wanted them at maximum output. Wanted them committed. Wanted them to burn through their reserves in desperate attempt to kill him.
He raised his staff, pointing it directly at both opponents with deliberate challenge. Light Uncos began channeling through the ironwood—not the blinding flashes or UV radiation he'd used before, but sustained emission that made the staff glow like torch in darkness. The light intensified until it became uncomfortable to look at directly, until shadows in the drawing room sharpened into absolute black, until the wooden shaft itself began heating from energy passing through it.
"I'll do everything in my power to kill you," John said quietly, the light around his staff pulsing with each word. "Both of you. Not for justice. Not for revenge. Just because you deserve it. Because the world will be better when you're dead. And because I refuse—refuse—to let weakness stop me again."
The light exploded outward—omnidirectional flash that filled the entire room, brilliant enough to be visible from outside the estate, hot enough to ignite nearby curtains. Brennick and Soren both flinched, momentarily blinded despite Soren already being blind, their attacks disrupted by the unexpected intensity.
John didn't wait for them to recover. He attacked first—staff striking toward Brennick's knee with force designed to cripple. The blow connected. Audible crack of breaking patella. Brennick screamed, collapsed partially, lightning discharge misfiring into ceiling and bringing down plaster in dusty cascade.
But Soren's Bloodlust-enhanced reflexes let him adapt despite the flash. His sword came around in wild horizontal slash, aiming for John's torso, accepting that he couldn't see and relying on muscle memory and spatial awareness to guide the strike.
The blade found flesh. Cut deep across John's right side—not the old injury from monastery but new wound, ribs opening, blood flowing hot and immediate. Pain exploded through John's nerve pathways, his ki perception wavering as shock tried to shut down higher cognitive functions.
John's counterattack was reflexive—staff's end catching Soren in the throat, crushing windpipe partially, making the man stagger backward choking and gasping. Not fatal. Not yet. But debilitating.
They separated briefly, all three fighters wounded now. Brennick kneeling with shattered knee. Soren clutching his throat, breathing labored. John bleeding from his side, left hand pressed against wound while right maintained grip on staff.
One second of stillness. Assessment. Recognition that the fight had just escalated past posturing into genuine mutual destruction.
Then they attacked again.
Brennick Estate - Kitchen and Adjacent Corridors
Kiran's flames were diminishing.
Not extinguishing—still present, still hot enough to cause burns, still radiating from patches of fur along his shoulders and spine. But the intensity had dropped noticeably over the past five minutes of sustained combat. Where before the fire had been bright orange with white-hot cores, now it flickered toward dull red, heat declining, the flames requiring conscious effort to maintain rather than manifesting automatically.
Elara noticed first. Her feline perception caught the change in heat signature, the reduction in ambient temperature that meant the wolf's enhancement was flagging. She grinned—expression mixing satisfaction with predatory anticipation.
"Getting tired, pup?" She circled left, looking for opening. "That fancy fire trick takes a lot of energy, doesn't it? Can't maintain it forever. And once it's gone—once you're back to regular beast form—you're just small wolf fighting three trained hunters."
Kiran's response was lunging attack—jaws snapping toward her throat, claws seeking vulnerable flesh. Elara dodged, but barely—the wolf was still fast despite diminishing flames, still dangerous despite fatigue.
Marcus attacked from the side—professional blade work, twin swords seeking the gaps in Kiran's defense that exhaustion created. The right blade found purchase—cutting across Kiran's shoulder, drawing blood, forcing the wolf to disengage and create distance.
But as Marcus pulled back for follow-up strike, he stumbled. His left leg buckled unexpectedly, knee giving out for just a moment before he caught himself against nearby counter. Confusion crossed his face—he'd blocked Kiran's earlier paw strike cleanly, blade intercepting claws before they could reach flesh. The block had been perfect. No contact should have occurred.
Except his ribs ached where Kiran's other paw had hit—strike he'd also blocked, blade positioned correctly, defense executed properly. But somehow the impact had transferred through his guard, force reaching his body despite the interception.
Kiran noticed Marcus's stumble. Noticed the confusion. Chuckled—sound emerging half-growl, half-human laugh that carried disturbing satisfaction.
"I'm not... the only one... slowing down," Kiran said between labored breaths, his speech degrading as wolf physiology interfered with human vocal structures. "You think... you blocked... those strikes. You did. But force... still transferred. Just... delayed."
He turned his head toward Kael—the massive draconic fighter who'd been pressing frontal assault while Elara and Marcus worked the flanks. "Your ribs... left side. Where my claws... raked you. Hurts worse... than it should. Doesn't it?"
Kael's expression shifted—the confident grin faltering as he registered what Kiran was describing. The laceration across his left side did hurt worse than its depth suggested. Felt like the damage was deeper than visual inspection indicated, like internal tissue had been compromised despite scales providing protection.
Impact Delay. Kiran's evolved beast form didn't just provide strength and fire—it incorporated technique where physical force penetrated defenses through temporal displacement. Hit someone now, damage manifested seconds or minutes later. Block an attack, still take partial impact after delay.
Elara touched her throat where Kiran's teeth had nearly closed during earlier exchange. The skin was unbroken—she'd checked immediately after the encounter. But now it ached, muscles feeling strained, as if the bite had connected despite clearly missing.
"Clever," she admitted grudgingly. "But doesn't change the math. Three against one. You're running out of energy. We're just getting warmed up."
They attacked in coordinated assault—Kael from front, Elara from left, Marcus from right. Professional hunting pattern designed to overwhelm single target through superior numbers and positioning. No honor, no fair combat—just tactical efficiency applied toward killing dangerous prey.
Kiran met them with increasing ferocity.
His flames might be diminishing, but his physical combat was improving. Where earlier he'd fought with combination of human tactics and wolf instincts, now the beast was taking over completely. His movements became more fluid, more animalistic—no longer trying to use human strategy, just pure predator responses.
He went low under Kael's overhead strike, hamstringing the big man from behind with precision claw swipe that targeted tendons rather than scales. Kael roared, staggered, his mobility compromised.
Elara's claws found Kiran's back—four parallel cuts that went deep, drawing blood, causing pain that should have been incapacitating. But Kiran's wolf form suppressed pain responses through adrenaline and predator instincts. He spun into the attack rather than away, jaws closing on Elara's extended arm. Didn't bite through—just held, teeth applying pressure that communicated clear threat.
Marcus's blades came at Kiran's exposed flank. The wolf released Elara, twisted to avoid the strike, but wasn't quite fast enough. One blade opened his side—shallow cut but bleeding freely.
Kiran's retaliatory strike caught Marcus across the chest—claws raking through armor and flesh, the delayed-impact technique ensuring damage would worsen over next several minutes despite Marcus's immediate defense.
They separated again. All four fighters breathing hard now, all wounded, all recognizing the battle had reached critical juncture.
Kael's hamstring was bleeding, his stance compromised. Elara's arm showed deep puncture wounds from Kiran's teeth, the flesh already swelling. Marcus clutched his chest where claws had found flesh, his breathing suggesting possible rib damage.
But Kiran was worse off. Multiple lacerations across back and flanks. Shoulder wound bleeding freely. His flames had dimmed to barely-visible flickers. And his movements were becoming less controlled, more instinctive—the wolf taking over as conscious thought receded.
If this keeps going, I'll lose myself completely, Kiran thought, the words forming with difficulty as human cognition struggled against beast instincts. Been using this form too much. Too long. Too intensely. Each time it gets harder to come back. Harder to remember I'm not just wolf. Not just predator.
His parents had warned him—back when they'd still bothered speaking to him as anything other than tool or burden. Extended transformation carried risks. Stay in beast form too long, let instincts dominate too completely, and the human mind could submerge beneath animal consciousness. Become trapped. Become actually the beast rather than human wearing beast shape.
Two months of constant training, pushing his Uncos to limits, maintaining transformation for hours daily—it had strengthened his beast form but weakened the boundary between human and animal. Each fight made it harder to maintain his sense of self. Made the wolf's thoughts feel more natural than his own. Made human concerns seem distant and unimportant compared to immediate prey-predator dynamics.
He could feel it happening now. The concern about maintaining control was human thought—wolf didn't care about control, just about hunting, fighting, surviving. The worry about losing himself was human emotion—wolf didn't fear loss of humanity because wolf had never been human to begin with.
Just a little longer, Kiran told himself, clinging to human identity even as it slipped away. Hold on. Finish this. Then change back. Before it's permanent.
But he wasn't sure he could. Wasn't sure the human part of him was strong enough to resurface after this much time in beast form, after this much violence, after letting predator instincts dominate so completely.
The three hunters saw the change—saw Kiran's movements becoming less tactical, more feral. Saw his eyes losing the calculating intelligence that had made him dangerous, becoming instead pure animal rage. Recognized that if they could just hold out a little longer, the wolf would burn himself out or lose control completely.
"Delay tactics," Marcus said quietly, adjusting his grip on blood-slicked swords. "Don't commit to killing strikes. Just wound, retreat, make him chase. Let his own Uncos consume him."
Elara nodded, licking blood from her claws—Kiran's blood, taste making her smile. "Works for me. I want to watch him lose himself. See the moment human disappears and only beast remains."
Kael tested his injured leg, finding he could still bear weight despite hamstring damage. "Then we finish him while he's mindless. Easier than fighting something that can think."
They spread out, creating triangle formation that forced Kiran to divide attention. Began probing attacks—quick strikes meant to draw responses, force energy expenditure, accelerate exhaustion and loss of control.
Kiran attacked the closest target—Elara, because predator instinct identified her as most vulnerable after arm injury. His charge was pure wolf now, no human strategy, just desire to chase and kill the wounded prey.
She led him on—retreating, letting him pursue, making him burn energy in chase that served no tactical purpose. Marcus and Kael harried from sides, landing minor strikes, drawing blood without committing to engagement.
The wolf barely noticed the minor wounds. Only cared about the retreating prey, about closing distance, about achieving kill that instinct demanded.
Human concerns—about control, about consequences, about what would happen if he couldn't change back—faded beneath immediate predator imperatives.
Hold on, the human part whispered, voice growing distant. Don't lose yourself. Remember who you are. Remember John. Remember why you're fighting.
But the wolf didn't care about any of that.
The wolf just wanted blood.
Western Wing Drawing Room
John and his opponents had abandoned defense almost entirely now—each fighter accepting injury in pursuit of landing their own strikes, the combat devolving into brutal exchange where whoever could endure most damage would eventually prevail.
Brennick's lightning caught John's left arm—electricity coursing through flesh, making muscles convulse, forcing him to drop the staff momentarily. But John's response was immediate—rolling toward Brennick despite the pain, scooping up staff with right hand, driving the end into Brennick's already-shattered knee.
Brennick's scream was inhuman. His lightning discharge misfired, hitting the wall and igniting expensive wallpaper.
Soren's sword found John's shoulder—deep cut that severed muscle, compromised his left arm's functionality. But John's counterattack caught Soren in the ribs—staff strike with full force behind it, breaking bones, collapsing part of the ribcage.
They separated again, all three bleeding, all wounded critically, all knowing the next exchange might be the last.
John's left arm hung useless. His right side was opened from earlier cut. His breathing was labored from exertion and blood loss.
Brennick couldn't stand—his shattered knee made weight-bearing impossible. His hands still crackled with lightning but the discharge was weakening as mana reserves depleted.
Soren's ribs were broken, his breathing shallow and pained. His Bloodlust enhancement was consuming his body now—enhancement pushed so high that it was causing internal damage, muscles tearing from strain, blood vessels rupturing from pressure.
But none of them stopped.
Couldn't stop.
Wouldn't stop until someone was dead.
Brennick began channeling his remaining mana into single massive discharge—everything he had left, enough voltage to kill instantly if it connected. His hands glowed brighter than before, painful to look at, the air around them ionizing visibly.
Soren's Bloodlust peaked at maximum—crimson aura becoming solid, his body moving beyond human capability into territory where physics itself seemed to bend. The sword in his hand hummed with violence, eager to finally achieve its purpose.
John's light Uncos flared through his staff—not for blinding or burning, but channeled into beam of concentrated photons, laser-hot, focused to pinpoint.