I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 143: Storm
The lodge was chaos — chaos confined, pressed tight between wood and blood and the faint scent of wolfsbane.
The alarm rune had barely finished screaming before the front door ceased to exist. It didn't break, didn't splinter — it detonated. Shards of oak scattered across the entryway like shrapnel, smoke curling in from the winter air outside. Through that smoke came Lucas — silent, deliberate, unstoppable.
He didn't rush; he moved, a dark shape threaded with faint light. His claws shimmered faintly, charged with the low hum of restrained power, like a storm about to break. Every step carried weight. Every breath felt electric.
The first hunter never even registered him as human. There was a blur — a whisper of motion — and then the hunter was gone, collapsing bonelessly to the floor before the sound of impact even reached the others.
The second hunter managed a shot. A steel bolt sliced through the haze toward Lucas's chest — only for his hand to flick out, impossibly fast, catching the projectile midair and tossing it aside as though swatting a mosquito.
Then came the shouting — commands barked in panic, boots thudding on wood, weapons being loaded and cocked. The hunters spread out, training dictating their every move. But training meant nothing against what faced them now. They weren't men fighting another man — they were soldiers trying to cage a hurricane.
Every strike that landed slid harmlessly aside. Every bolt missed by inches, every blade stopped by reflexes honed beyond human comprehension. Lucas didn't fight for blood — he fought to end movement, to end resistance. By the time the fifth man hit the ground, the remaining hunters faltered. By the seventh, hesitation curdled into fear.
And still, Lucas didn't kill. He didn't need to.
When the last hunter lunged at him, desperation outweighing sense, Lucas caught the man by the collar and slammed him into the wall. The wood cracked; the man went limp before sliding to the floor, unconscious before his weapon even fell from his hand.
Silence followed — deep and strange. Only the moans of the fallen and the soft hum of the extinguished alarm remained. The tension in the air began to fade, the charged pulse of violence ebbing away.
But deeper inside the lodge, behind a locked steel door, the real storm hadn't ended. It was just getting started.
Malia ducked as Edward's blade sliced through the air, missing her throat by an inch. The edge kissed her arm instead, the wolfsbane coating sizzling where it met her blood. Pain lanced up her skin — sharp, venomous — but she didn't let it slow her. She couldn't afford to.
She wasn't fighting to win. Not yet.
She was fighting to buy time.
Before the confrontation, she'd already managed to weaken the restraints holding Isaac.
Isaac sat bound to a reinforced chair, wrists rubbed raw from struggling, blood seeping down his arms. His eyes were distant but alive, waiting.
Malia ducked another swing, rolled across the floor, and kicked upward. Edward's knife went spinning from his grip, metal skittering across the floorboards. He cursed and reached for his crossbow — but Malia was already there, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard until the bone popped. He roared and punched her square in the jaw, sending her staggering back.
She spat blood. Smiled.
Behind Edward, the final strands of Isaac's bindings began to give way. There was a snap — quiet but decisive.
"Hey," Isaac rasped, voice rough but laced with fury. "Remember me?"
Edward turned just in time to catch Isaac's fist. The punch landed like thunder, sending the hunter flying backward into a table. Wood splintered, tools scattered, and Edward rolled onto his side with a groan, spitting crimson onto the floor.
He grinned through the blood — Gerard's old grin, hateful and hungry.
"You think you're monsters?" he hissed. "I've hunted worse."
"Then you've been hunting the wrong things," Malia shot back, eyes burning.
What followed wasn't elegant. It wasn't cinematic. It was raw, vicious, and real.
Edward fought like a man who had studied their kind his whole life — every strike aimed to maim, every step measured and efficient. He knew where to hit, how to move, how to make every ounce of his strength count.
But Malia and Isaac weren't fighting to prove anything. They were fighting to survive.
Wolfsbane slowed their reflexes, exhaustion tugged at their muscles, but instinct drowned out everything else. Isaac blocked a blade meant for Malia's heart. Malia swept Edward's legs when he tried to pin Isaac down. They moved in sync — not perfectly, but desperately — each covering the other's weakness.
Every breath hurt. Every second stretched.
Finally, when Edward's arm came up for a killing strike, Isaac caught his wrist and held it there. Malia darted in behind, her claws flashing, slashing across his chest. Not deep — just enough. Enough to stop him.
Edward gasped. Dropped to one knee, then another. His blade clattered beside him. For a moment, defiance flickered in his eyes — then it went dark as he collapsed forward, unconscious.
Isaac stood trembling, chest heaving, blood mixing with sweat. Malia's hands were shaking too, her knuckles bruised and slick with red.
"Should've stayed with Chris," Isaac muttered.
Malia gave a short, shaky laugh. "Remind me never to train with you again."
He smiled weakly. "Deal."
They pushed the door open together.
The hallway beyond looked like a battlefield — walls cracked, glass shattered, the floor slick with dust and blood. Smoke drifted through the ruin like a ghost.
And in the middle of it stood Lucas.
Untouched. Calm. Eyes faintly red beneath the flickering light.
Around him — silence and aftermath. The hunters sprawled across the floor, groaning or still. The air stank of iron and ozone.
Malia's breath caught. "You did all this?"
Lucas turned his head slightly, the glow in his eyes dimming as his power settled. "I knocked."
Isaac just stared, half in disbelief, half in awe.
Lucas's gaze swept over the fallen hunters once more, his expression unreadable. Then, softly, he said,
"Let's go. Before the rest wake up."
They stepped out into the cold night air, the forest breathing around them. In the distance, thunder rolled across the hills — deep and rumbling — as if the storm had only paused, waiting for the next strike.
Because in Beacon Hills, storms never really ended. They just changed shape.