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Hector swung his sword.
The metallic tang of blood mingled with the stench of beasts. The wolf's mouth was split in half, but it refused to die. Instead, it rolled its eyes and tried to sink its teeth into Hector's skin.
Danger loomed, but Hector had no strength left to dodge.
"Hector!" Basil's voice cut through the chaos as he barreled forward, slamming into the wolf with enough force to send it sprawling. The impact cracked the beast's skull, spraying a foul, bloody mist across Hector's face.
"Are you okay?" Basil asked, his voice tinged with concern.
Hector managed a faint nod, too drained to speak. He pushed back his blood-matted hair and scanned the battlefield. The pack had thinned—only about ten wolves remained. They weren't attacking anymore, just watching, as if assessing the situation.
Have they realized my condition? Hector wondered.
He must look pitiful enough for even these beasts to notice. He had lost count of how many he had cut down, but one thing was clear. His body was at its limit, and no amount of willpower could overcome the crushing fatigue.
"Hector Badniker," a voice called out.
Even without looking up, Hector knew who it was. Charon was still perched...
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