The Watson family mansion—once a symbol of wealth, elegance, and high society—had been transformed into something twisted and grotesque. A theater of cruelty.
Inside the massive central lobby, nearly a hundred men dressed in black tactical gear stood in tight formation, creating a wide circle. They looked more like a military unit than a gang, but the hunger in their eyes betrayed their true nature.
At the center of it all sat a single elegant chair—completely out of place among the violence and chaos.
And lounging in that chair was a thin man who looked to be in his early thirties, dressed like he was about to attend a business meeting:
A pristine white dress shirt that somehow remained spotless despite the apocalypse.
Perfectly tailored black slacks with crisp creases.
Shiny leather shoes that reflected the dim light.
Gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an almost scholarly appearance.
His clothes were impossibly clean—the kind of detail that should've been impossible in this ruined world.
This was Drake.
His gentle, refined appearance was a complete lie. The cruelty behind those gold-rimmed glasses was palpable to anyone who looked closely enough.
In one hand, he held a long leather whip, fingers wrapped around it casually like it was an extension of his arm.
At his feet knelt eight members of the Watson family—four men, four women—all bruised, trembling, and forced into positions of submission. Two of the men were severely injured, barely conscious, their breathing shallow and labored.
Despite the obvious suffering he was inflicting, Drake wore an expression of pure delight. Unsettling satisfaction.
He'd waited years for this moment.
Before the apocalypse, Drake had been a powerful figure in Chicago's criminal underworld—feared by many, respected by criminals. But even then, the elite Watson family had treated him like an insignificant thug. Trash beneath their notice.
He'd swallowed that humiliation. Buried the rage deep.
Until the fog came.
Until he awakened his supernatural abilities.
Until he became one of Chicago's three major post-apocalypse overlords, commanding territory and loyalty through sheer brutal power.
Now he was finally here to repay the Watsons—for every condescending look, every dismissive word, every slight they'd dealt him over the years.
Today, the Watson heirs knelt before him like dogs.
"Such a shame," Drake murmured, his voice soft and contemplative. "The direct bloodline members aren't here today."
He nudged one of the subdued Watsons with the toe of his expensive shoe—almost gently, like a child poking a dead insect.
These eight were relatives, yes—members of the Watson extended family tree. But they weren't the core family. Not the ones who'd actually insulted him.
"Hmm. I'm getting bored of this."
He tossed the whip aside carelessly.
One of his men immediately stepped forward, handing him a machete. The blade gleamed wickedly in the dim light filtering through the mansion's windows.
Drake raised his arm slowly, savoring the moment—
CLANG!
His blade stopped mid-swing.
Just... stopped.
Because a hand had caught it. A single hand, fingers wrapped around the sharp edge like it was nothing.
As if Drake's attack meant absolutely nothing at all.
Drake blinked in confusion, his brain struggling to process what his eyes were seeing.
He slowly looked up from the caught blade—
And saw three figures standing exactly where no one had been just seconds before.
One man stood in front, hand casually holding the machete.
A young man with a calm expression, features completely neutral, eyes cold enough to drop the room temperature by ten degrees.
Drake narrowed his eyes, his earlier satisfaction vanishing.
"Who the hell are you?"
Elric didn't answer. He wasn't even looking at Drake.
His gaze swept methodically across the hall—every corner, every cowering Watson relative, every single person present.
Searching.
Then—relief flashed briefly in those cold eyes.
"She's not here..." Elric murmured, so quietly only those nearby could hear. "Good. Emily isn't here."
Only after confirming that did he bother to glance at Drake, acknowledging his existence for the first time.
Behind Elric stood Elsa, silent and steady, though her eyes darted nervously around the room full of armed gangsters.
The bearded man who'd guided them here stood frozen in terror. He knew exactly how bad this situation was. Drake's cruelty was legendary even among Chicago's criminal underworld.
Drake's men tensed immediately, weapons rising—guns, bats, knives, whatever they had.
But Drake lifted one hand, stopping them with a casual gesture.
"You must be either incredibly fearless to walk in here..." His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Or incredibly stupid."
Elric's response was simple.
He tightened his grip slightly—
And the machete crumbled in his hand like soft aluminum foil, pieces falling to the floor with metallic tinkles.
The entire room went silent. You could've heard a pin drop.
Elsa immediately positioned herself behind Elric, lightly gripping the back of his shirt for security. Even though she'd watched Elric slaughter mutant beasts and crush other ability users, she could feel the pressure emanating from the man lounging in that chair. Drake was different. Dangerous in a way that made her survival instincts scream.
The bearded guide—trembled violently, sweat pouring down his face. He knew Drake's reputation all too well. Drake didn't just kill people. He enjoyed it. Made an art form out of suffering.
Drake's eyes suddenly shifted, focusing on the bearded man with recognition.
One of Drake's lieutenants—a scarred man with a missing ear—suddenly shouted:
He glanced at Elric with barely concealed contempt.
"You picked the absolute worst place to wander into, friend. Since you're one of Wang Nini's dogs..." Drake's smile widened. "I can kill you right here, right now, and that bitch won't dare complain."
If Elric had been some unknown force—some mysterious new power—Drake might have hesitated, played it cautiously. But if he was just a subordinate of one of the other faction leaders?
Drake wasn't afraid at all. Wang Nini and Drake had an understanding—they stayed out of each other's territories. But if her people invaded his turf? Fair game.
"Die."
Drake threw what remained of the machete aside and took several deliberate steps backward, giving himself space.
And then it happened.
A faint red glow spread across Drake's body like wildfire under his skin.
His muscles swelled grotesquely, clothes straining and tearing. Dark hair burst across his arms, back, and chest. His frame shot upward, bones cracking and reforming.
A feral, inhuman howl tore from his throat—
"HRAAAAAAAH!"
In just seconds, Drake transformed completely into a towering red-furred werewolf, standing well over two meters tall. His eyes burned with murderous hunger, pupils dilated and wild. Claws extended from his fingers like curved daggers, each one easily capable of ripping through flesh and bone.
His men immediately backed away, fear evident on their faces despite their loyalty.
"Everyone retreat! When the boss goes full werewolf, he doesn't distinguish between friend and enemy!"
They'd seen this before. Watched Drake tear through crowds indiscriminately when the bloodlust took over.
This was Drake's supernatural ability—a bloodthirsty werewolf transformation that had allowed him to kill dozens of rivals, mutant beasts, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Once transformed, he was nearly unstoppable... and nearly insane with rage.
"I'll tear you in half!" Drake snarled, his voice distorted and guttural. "Feed your remains to these pathetic Watsons! Watch them eat your corpse!"
"RAAAAAAH!"
He lunged forward with impossible speed, claws extended—
But then—
Just as Drake's claws were mere inches from Elric's face—
Elric's aura exploded.
The air itself seemed to warp and shimmer around him. His skin shifted rapidly—turning green, then scaled, then something ancient and monstrous.
His body expanded at an impossible rate:
Two meters tall.
Five meters.
Eight meters.
Elsa stumbled backward with a gasp, nearly falling.
In mere moments, Elric had transformed into something that shouldn't exist—a colossal dinosaur that towered over the entire hall. At least ten meters tall and fifteen meters long, his massive form filled the central space of the mansion completely. The ceiling groaned under the pressure of his presence.
A living titan pulled straight from prehistory. A creature that had once ruled the earth.
The werewolf Drake—who just seconds ago had looked terrifying and powerful, a nightmare made flesh—
Now looked adorably small by comparison. Like a puppy barking at an elephant.
Drake's burning red eyes went wide with primal terror.
His claws, still extended mid-attack, froze in the air.
His entire body trembled involuntarily, every instinct screaming at him to run, to submit, to flee.
Even his followers stared in absolute horror, weapons dropping from nerveless fingers. Some of them actually fell to their knees without meaning to.
The difference between Drake and Elric was no longer a question of "strong versus weak" or even "powerful versus more powerful."
This was the fundamental, evolutionary divide between predator and prey.
Between hunter and food.
And every cell in Drake's body suddenly understood exactly which category he belonged to.
His werewolf form—the source of his power, his pride, his entire claim to being an overlord—felt pathetically inadequate in the shadow of what stood before him.
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