He sprinted forward, his powerful legs eating up the distance. Wolves followed in his wake, a flowing tide of fur and fang, while behind them, the earth trembled under the hooves of Hrondir's horsemen.

As they fell upon the rear flank of the orc army, a chaotic dance of violence unfurled. Sinclair leapt into the fray, his wolfish claws tearing through armor and flesh with ruthless efficiency. The first orc barely had time to turn before Sinclair's claws ripped across its torso, leaving a spray of crimson in their wake.

Beside him, Chewy and Leia pounced, their fangs sinking deep into orcish flesh, pulling warriors to the ground with terrifying force. The wolves, emboldened by the presence of their Wolf Lord, tore through the enemy ranks, snarling maws stained red. Each bite, each swipe of their claws, reduced the number of foes and increased the chaos among the enemy lines.

Meanwhile, Hrondir's cavalry crashed into the Orcs like a tidal wave of steel and fury. Swords met flesh, hooves crushed bones, and arrows rained from the sky. Each warrior fought with the courage of ten men, fully aware that the survival of Wolf's Run rested on their shoulders.

In the midst of the battle, Sinclair caught sight of a heavily-armored orc, larger and more menacing than the rest—clearly one of the leaders of this army. With an enraged howl, Sinclair lunged, claws extended. The orc swung a massive axe, but Sinclair dodged, elusive as a shadow. He countered, his claws leaving deep gashes on the orc's face.

The orc roared in pain and anger, swinging its weapon with even more force. But Sinclair was faster, fueled by a primal energy. With a leap and a twist, he landed on the orc's back, his claws finding their way to the weak armor at the neck. With one swift motion, Sinclair ripped through, and the orc leader collapsed, lifeless.

As the leader fell, a ripple of panic spread through the orcish ranks. Seizing the moment, Sinclair let out another howl, this one infused with triumph. The wolves echoed his cry, and even the men seemed to find a second wind, pressing the attack with renewed fervor.

Then, in that moment of apparent victory, a horn sounded from within the walls of Wolf's Run. But it was not a horn of triumph; it was a horn of warning.

The gates had finally given way.

With a guttural roar that froze the nearby orcs in their tracks, Sinclair launched himself skyward, expertly combining his Leap and Focused Charge abilities to gain both height and momentum. He landed with earth-shaking force a mere fifteen feet from the battered gates of Wolf's Run.

Finally equipping his axe with a fierce determination, he unleashed a series of devastating sweeps, each swing empowered by his Hel's Wrath skill, cleaving through armor and flesh with unmatched ferocity. In a brief lull amidst the chaos, Sinclair invoked his Primal Resonance, a skill he had yet to test against such formidable numbers. He prayed his enhanced physique could withstand the onslaught, as his body was already marred with gashes and puncture wounds from the frenzied combat.

As the last echoes of his primal roar reverberated across the battlefield, a vast number of orcs, clearly affected by the skill, shifted their malevolent gaze from the vulnerable gates of Wolf's Run to Sinclair himself, ensnared by the spell and drawn to the challenge he posed.

Above the fray, Sinclair caught sight of his comrades forming a protective semi-circle. At its center stood an imposing bear and a Bearman, standing shoulder to shoulder, their combined might holding the line against the orc onslaught.

His lupine grin widened as his gaze met Rose's. In that split second, the world seemed to pause. There she stood, a beacon of fierce determination, her hands aglow as she unleashed torrents of arcane energy upon their foes. The expression she wore — a mix of ferocity and raw emotion — would be etched in his memory for years to come. Their shared moment was brief; as soon as their eyes locked, a mischievous smirk played on his lips. But as quickly as the moment came, it was gone, swallowed by the pressing reality of battle as a wave of orcs descended upon him.

These creatures, driven by blind rage and a singular goal to bring down the formidable adversary disrupting their siege, piled onto Sinclair. Little did they understand that they were converging on a ticking time bomb that was ready to detonate.

Before charging into the fray, Sinclair had the foresight to gather handfuls of rocks, storing them in pouches strapped to his waist. The sheer number of Orcs had inspired a clever tactic in his mind.

Buried beneath a mass of orcs, blades sinking into his flesh from all directions, Sinclair bided his time, gauging the right moment. He estimated a sufficient number of foes had converged upon him. He propelled himself upward with a sudden surge of unparalleled might, fueled by pain and determination, breaking free from the mountain of adversaries.

Mid-air, with a forceful motion, he burst the pouches, releasing the rocks. He propelled them outward like multiple deadly shotgun blasts using his Telekinesis skill. The stones, transformed into high-velocity projectiles, tore through the orcs, leaving a path of devastation in their wake. The strategy was risky: Sinclair had to ensure foes entirely encircled him to prevent any friendly casualties, as he had no way of directing that many rocks to avoid his allies yet. He could feel his HP ticking back up from recovering the health spent on making them focus on him.

Sinclair's descent was a whirlwind of devastation. With his feet barely touching the ground, he triggered his Sunder skill, allowing him to break the defenses of any orc he encountered. This was immediately followed by activating his Fenrir's Fury. Like a tempest incarnate, he spun relentlessly, becoming an avatar of death and destruction. Each swing of his axe cleaved through the enemy ranks, while his free hand lashed out to grasp fleeing orcs, effortlessly snapping their necks. He marveled at how much easier this was than what he was expecting. It wasn't without danger, but he was still surprised at his growth compared to what he estimated the Orcs to be at.

His movements were a masterclass of lethal efficiency. He flowed from one adversary to the next, not lingering for even a moment. His path was singularly focused on protecting his fallen gate and the comrades behind it. This was his territory, his sanctuary. As the soon-to-be Wolf Lord of Wolf's Run, he was determined to ensure that any orc lucky enough to survive this day would forever carry the haunting memories of this slaughter.

Yet, even in the midst of the chaos, a sudden stillness took over as Sinclair found himself face-to-face with an orc unlike any other. Towering over its kin, this behemoth sported large, protruding tusks, and its eyes burned with a feral, manic light. This was no ordinary orc. This was the real chieftain, a leader, and the very embodiment of the savage horde's brutal nature. The other Orc he thought was the leader must have just been a general or battle leader because that one paled in comparison to this wall of flesh.

Sinclair stood in front of the chieftain, his body vibrating with anticipation. He could feel the energy surging in his veins, ready to be unleashed upon this beast of an orc. The chieftain let out a guttural roar, brandishing his great axe with a ferocity that made even Sinclair hesitate for a second.

But only for a second. In that moment, he realized that this was what he lived for. The thrill of combat, the feeling of power, and the sheer adrenaline rush that came with facing a worthy opponent. The chieftain charged forward, his massive frame shaking the ground beneath his feet. Sinclair did not flinch. He stood his ground, waiting for the perfect moment to release his Focused Charge.

When the chieftain was only a few feet away, Sinclair let out a bloodcurdling roar and propelled himself forward. He was in front of the chieftain in an instant, his Hel's Wrath shining brighter than ever before. He unleashed the energy blade with a swift wrist movement, aiming it straight at the chieftain's neck.

The chieftain parried the blow with his axe, causing a shower of sparks to erupt between them. Sinclair was impressed by the chieftain's reflexes, but he knew he could do much more. He grunted and attacked again, his axe whistling through the air. The chieftain blocked the blow again, but Sinclair was prepared this time. He used the momentum of his attack to twist his body and deliver a powerful kick straight into the chieftain's abdomen. The impact force caused the orc leader to stumble backward, gasping for breath.

Seizing the moment, Sinclair lunged, swinging his axe in a broad arc aimed at the chieftain's side. However, the chieftain, with a display of agility surprising for his size, managed to roll to the side, narrowly evading the deadly edge. Rising quickly, the orc leader unleashed a war cry and swung his great axe in a crushing overhead blow.

Sinclair barely raised his axe in time to block the attack, feeling the weight of the chieftain's blow jolt through his arms. Their weapons locked together, both warriors strained against each other, eyes locked in a fierce stare-down, searching for any sign of weakness.

With a sudden burst of strength, Sinclair pushed the chieftain away, creating a bit of distance between them. He then reached for a pouch on his belt, pulling out a small, gleaming crystal. Whispering an incantation, the crystal began to glow intensely, bathing the immediate area in a blue hue. Sinclair threw it at the chieftain's feet, where it erupted into a blinding flash, momentarily disorienting the massive orc.

The Sapphire Flash Bombs in City Lord Garret's care package were showing their worth. At first, he thought there were just simple toys that anyone he was fighting would ignore. The chieftain reeled back from the flash, covering his eyes for a second. I am going to need to send her a thank-you note.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

While travelling back from the portal, he spent a few minutes grabbing one item at a time from the package and inspecting it. These were just some of the more numerous items.

New Item: Sapphire Flash Bombs (Uncommon)

Description: Crafted by a journeyman alchemist, these volatile devices combine finely ground sapphires with a secret mixture of explosive compounds. When detonated, Sapphire Flash Bombs release a dazzling burst of light and sound, disorienting enemies and leaving them vulnerable. Perfect for creating chaos on the battlefield or escaping tight situations, these bombs are an indispensable tool for adventurers seeking an edge in combat.

Effects:

Blinds enemies within a 15-foot radius for 3 seconds.

Disorients enemies, reducing their accuracy by 25% for 5 seconds.

Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, Sinclair triggered his Telekinesis skill, summoning a barrage of sharp rocks and debris from the ground, which he hurled at the dazed chieftain. Several of the projectiles found their mark, causing the chieftain to howl in pain.

Bloodied and angered, he let out a roar, summoning a group of elite orc guards to his aid.

The elite orc guards, instantly recognizable by their imposing black plate armor that gleamed malevolently in the dim light, and their weapons that seemed honed to a wicked sharpness, advanced relentlessly. They formed a tight ring around Sinclair, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine. Every time Sinclair managed to bring one down, it felt as though two more sprang up in its place. Their relentless barrage was less like combat and more like a lethal ballet, their every move meticulously coordinated to corner Sinclair. Each of Sinclair's defensive maneuvers and offensive strikes was anticipated and countered with unnerving precision by the Orcs.

However, from the tumultuous edges of the battlefield came an unexpected reprieve. An arrow, bathed in a surreal blue luminescence, soared from the battlements and embedded itself into the ground. From its point of impact, a radiant barrier of pure energy burst forth, slicing through the advancing wave of orc guards. This divine intervention afforded Sinclair a much-needed moment of respite, dispersing his assailants and granting him the chance to recalibrate.

An elven figure stood atop the city's stone battlements, his lithe form outlined against the chaos below. His piercing emerald eyes were alight, and his fierce determination mirrored Sinclair's own. While this mysterious savior was unfamiliar to Sinclair, gratitude took precedence over questions in the thick of battle.

With the tides now turned in his favor, Sinclair roared back into the fray with renewed vigor. His axe swings, fueled by both skill and raw power, cleaving through the black armor of the orc guards as if it were mere parchment. The rhythm of the deadly dance had shifted, and Sinclair was now leading the charge.

Observing the unfolding events from his elevated position, the chieftain's eyes seethed with rage. With a thunderous roar that seemed to shake the very earth, he lunged at Sinclair, his gargantuan axe gleaming menacingly as it arced through the air. A blinding cascade of sparks erupted as their weapons met, illuminating the battlefield in a brief, intense glow.

With each successive blow, the chieftain seemed to muster even more strength, his swings growing heavier, more ferocious. Sinclair found himself hard-pressed, each block and parry sapping more of his strength, pushing him closer to his breaking point.

However, in the heat of the battle, Sinclair's keen eyes detected a flaw in the chieftain's otherwise formidable armor—a minute chink. Seizing this glimmer of opportunity, Sinclair artfully deceived the chieftain with a masterful feint to the left. As the chieftain diverted his defense in response, Sinclair, summoning every ounce of his strength and precision, drove his axe deep into the orc's exposed side. The chieftain's agonized cry reverberated across the battlefield as he crumpled, vanquished, to the dust-laden ground.

The battlefield went quiet, the only sound being the labored breathing of those still standing. The Orcs, seeing their chieftain defeated, began their retreat.

The remnants of the orcish horde, disoriented and leaderless, staggered towards the foreboding Spider Forest, their once formidable numbers now greatly diminished. Its looming trees and ominous presence would make anyone hesitate before entering, but the orcs, driven by fear and the will to survive, saw it as their only escape route.

From the vantage points of the rolling hills, Hrondir's mounted troops, acting as shadowy wraiths, trailed the Orcs. They fired arrows, not intending to kill, but to intimidate and herd them, like sheepdogs with a flock. Occasionally, a stray orc would attempt to break away from the leading group, only to be swiftly cut down by one of Hrondir's agile riders.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the landscape. As the Orcs delved deeper into the forest, they faded from sight, swallowed by the dense canopy and underbrush. However, their panicked shouts and the rustling of foliage echoed hauntingly, signaling their frantic journey through the perilous woods.

Hrondir, atop his seasoned steed, signaled for his men to halt, knowing that the Spider Forest held dangers that would deal with the invaders. The forest's reputation was becoming well-known, and few who entered its dark embrace would return. The orcs may have escaped their immediate pursuers, but a fate perhaps worse than any battle awaited them in the forest's depths.

Watching the treeline, Hrondir muttered a silent prayer, not for the Orcs, but for the very land itself. With a heavy heart and the weight of the day's events bearing down on him, he turned his horse around, rallying his men for the journey back to Wolf's Run.

In the aftermath of the battle, Sinclair took a moment to address the valiant wolves who had fought alongside him, his voice resonating with the deep bond he had forged with them through his unique Pack Link ability.

"My friends, your bravery has not gone unnoticed today. As we agreed, the expanse of forest to the Southeast shall be yours to claim. Those among you who wish to stay are welcome within our borders," Sinclair began, his tone imbued with gratitude. "Furthermore, know that you may visit us freely."

The response came through the link, youthful and full of life: "We thank you, Lord Sinclair. The pack will be near, ready to stand with you should you call upon us again." Not given to lengthy conversation, the wolves then turned, moving as one entity. Their silhouettes soon were swallowed by the forest's embrace. However, three lingered, their presence a silent promise of potential bonds yet to be formed.

Sinclair's gaze rested on the trio, a silent communication between them. "I understand your desire to bond with those you've sensed here, but there are immediate matters to tend to. Make yourselves comfortable within our walls for now," he instructed, his voice firm yet inviting.

The wolf adorned with a distinctive silver stripe seemed to acknowledge his words with a respectful nod before the three wolves sauntered away, their tails high, as they ventured into the heart of the town to find their place within this new world.

Still donning his lupine form with such natural ease that he scarcely noticed it anymore, Sinclair turned to greet his friends. They were gathered in a semi-circle, their faces a blend of relief and fatigue, alongside a group of unique individuals. Their features were an intriguing mix of human and beast, indicating to Sinclair that they were likely the Beastkin he had heard tales of.

Amid the low hum of conversation, a voice stood out to Sinclair, the deep timbre belonging to a Bearman who hadn't taken his eyes off Sinclair since he turned. "...is that Sinclair, your brother?" he questioned Victoria, his tone laced with awe and confusion.

With an unwavering nod, Victoria affirmed the Bearman's inquiry, her pride in her brother evident even from a distance. "No one mentioned he was a Wolf Lord," the Bearman continued, his voice betraying a hint of unease at the revelation.

Approaching the gathering, Sinclair paused a few feet away, a distinct smile playing across his lupine features. Post-battle, he had hastily rinsed the blood from his fur using water he had stored in his inventory, an act driven by a practical understanding of hygiene rather than discomfort, although he admitted to himself that the sticky sensation of dried blood still unsettled him. His adaptation to the grim necessities of combat had not yet extended to a tolerance for blood's clinging presence.

Sinclair surveyed his circle of friends with a keen eye. Victoria stood close to Ed, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder in a gesture charged with unspoken understanding. Sinclair had long suspected that there was more than friendship between them, but he'd kept his thoughts to himself. Now it seemed, perhaps, they were on the verge of acknowledging it too.

His gaze swept to Alice, who radiated a newfound aura of strength despite the signs of weariness. It struck Sinclair that all but Victoria must have undergone their race evolution, a rite of passage that granted them substantial power. A twinge of envy grazed him, considering the ease with which his friends seemed to have embraced their transformations.

Rose warranted only the briefest of glances. Sinclair was acutely aware of the warmth that crept into his cheeks whenever their eyes met, and he wasn't keen on showcasing the goofy, enamored grin that he couldn't seem to control around her, especially not with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins from battle.

Spreading his arms wide and smiling. "Did ya miss me?"

His friends laughed and made the remainder of the distance disappear as they each tried to hug him. Everyone was talking over each other to ask him about what happened.

"Wanna fill me in on what happened while I was gone? It looks like you guys had a party and invited the wrong people again," he quipped, the grin on his face making light of the tension that had preceded their victory.

In a synchronized display of deference, the Beastkin, a title Sinclair presumed fit the half-human, half-animal assembly before him, knelt on one knee. Their actions bespoke a sudden shift from surprise to solemn respect. The Bearman, whose name still eluded Sinclair, stepped forward.

"Forgive us, Lord Hagerson. We were unaware you held the title of Wolf Lord," the Bearman intoned, his voice rich with veneration.

Sinclair's discomfort with the formality was immediate. "What's all this now?" he questioned, his tone light but firm. "Stand up, I don't like all that kneeling stuff. A simple hello is enough. And technically, I am not a Wolf Lord yet. I still have to finish the quest for that. I just got some of the skills a little earlier than anticipated."

"My Lord, to do so would be unseemly," the Bearman replied with a steadfastness that indicated this was not a matter open to negotiation. "You are one of Odin's Chosen, and to show you anything less than our utmost respect would be an affront to him."

The Bearman's explanation brought a measure of understanding, though the group eventually rose to their feet, albeit with a shared sense of unease at the Wolf Lord's casualness.

As Sinclair conversed, his mind was a flurry of activity. He deftly navigated through the mental interface that linked him to this new reality's mechanics, perusing his map for any changes. He sifted through the backlog of notifications, discarding obsolete stat update logs while noting his steady progression. The recent battle had borne fruit; the high-level orcs had provided enough experience for him to level up—a welcome boost. Yet he deliberated whether to allocate or conserve his new stat points for strategic use later. He was improving at actively using his second mind partition to relegate menial tasks.

His eyes scanned the digital map, pinpointing the Town Hall's icon—likely where his parents were. "Tell you what, let's head to the Town Hall to catch up with my folks," he suggested, eager to avoid the redundancy of recounting his adventures twice. "And might I ask your name?" he inquired of the Bearman.

Standing tall with a sense of innate nobility, the Bearman replied, "I am Chief Dorgran, my Lord. Your plan is agreeable. You proceed with your companions; meanwhile, we'll initiate the clean-up and mend the gates."

"Sounds perfect. See you soon then." Sinclair's attention shifted back to his friends. With a mischievous grin, he looped an arm around Ed and Victoria, pulling them close. "Let's give mom and dad their moment of astonishment, then we can swap tales about our respective adventures." He imparted a playful squeeze of his arms, causing them both to woof a breath when he squeezed a little hard.

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