Morgan stared at the broken building. He stood in front of the crumbs of the building.

  “And you're sure this is where the trail ends?” Morgan asked.

  “Yep,” Ragnar said. He was on a knee in front of the destroyed building, sniffing the air and ground. Morgan looked down at him with a frown.

  Ragnar looked away and snarled. “Yes, the trail ends here. The scent kept getting weaker and weaker as time passed. If we had gotten here earlier, maybe we’d still have a trail—but that’s not a certainty.”

  Morgan turned away from Ragnar. “Then this hunt is a failure.”

  He walked away from the crumbling building of sticks and stones and to the other red hunters. Most were on their horses. He looked up to a young ashen-haired woman. His daughter: Winter.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Winter blinked several times. “What are you apologizing for?”

  “For this hunt,” Morgan answered. “When the guild offered this job, I knew there was a slim chance that we’d find the werewolf that did this. Lone wolves are hard to track. And the killings of the fake hunters were too long ago. I thought with a seeker and a mutt of our own we’d have a chance. Seeing this was your first hunt, I thought this would be safer. It just turned out to be a huge waste of time.”

  Winter smiled. “It’s alright, Father. This wasn’t a waste of time. I’ve learned a lot this past month.”

  “Yeah? Like what!?” Ragnar yelled.

  Winter turned to the werewolf with an annoyed, stale look on her face. Morgan looked more enraged than his daughter.

  He snapped his finger. Lightning coursed through Ragnar’s entire body, making it stiff and heavier. Morgan walked slowly to the electrocuted werewolf.

  Ragnar looked up at Morgan. His eyes glowing yellow, then back to brown. The same for his claws and fangs. Ragnar frowned and gritted his teeth, trying his best to bear the pain.

  “You do not interrupt me when I’m talking with my daughter, mutt,” Morgan said. “I brought you along this hunt to help me find a werewolf. You failed. You do not have any right to criticize my daughter or anyone else.”

  Ragnar’s groans of pain persisted, getting weaker by the second. His eyelids started to flutter. He was losing consciousness. Morgan snapped his fingers once more. The lightning inflicting pain on Ragnar dissipated.

  He panted heavily.

  “The next time we go on a hunt, I hope you’ll be well-behaved, won’t you?” Morgan asked.

  Ragnar didn’t reply. Morgan was about to snap his fingers once more.

  “Yes,” Ragnar replied.

  “Yes what?” Morgan asked.

  “I’ll behave,” Ragnar said. “I’ll behave.” This time, his voice was lower.

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  Morgan dropped his hand down. “Good. Now get up! We’re returning to the hunters guild.”

  Morgan walked away from Ragnar and back to the red hunters.

  Winter smiled after witnessing her father’s actions. “Finally he puts him in his place.”

  Ragnar, with his enhanced hearing, heard Winter’s comment and snarled. Getting up and dusting his clothes, Ragnar felt the back of his neck.

  There—a single rune was placed. It glowed a blue light and slowly disappeared. Ragnar's eyes landed on Morgan. More accurately, his finger.

  On his middle finger, there was a silver ring laced with runes.

  “If it wasn’t for that stupid ring,” Ragnar grunted.

  Morgan mounted his horse and looked at Ragnar. “Mutt! Did you not hear me!? Do not make me repeat myself!”

  Ragnar clenched his fists but slowly unclenched them. There’s nothing I can do. Yet!, he thought.

  Ragnar mounted his horse, and the red hunters rode off.

  Meanwhile…

  “That’s it! More! More!” Beowulf said. His grin was as wide as it could be. He attacked Fenris, dealing countless punches and kicks that all became a blur. Fenris dodged less than he took.

  And the blows he took from Beowulf felt like being hit with a sledgehammer. And he would know since that was something that had actually happened to him.

  Beowulf stopped cold. He stomped forward—right foot, right arm—then launched a punch. Fenris darted aside. But Beowulf twisted mid-swing. His fist hooked back and cracked Fenris in the jaw. Fenris flew, crashing into the grass.

  Fenris’ jaw cracked. It was broken. As he lay on the grassy field, his jaw started to mend back together, and the swellings given to him from Beowulf started to shrink.

  “Tell me, Fenris, do you feel it now?” Beowulf asked, his grin still remained with no signs of it going away. “Do you finally understand what makes battle so enjoyable?”

  Fenris, fully healed, pushed himself up to his feet and looked straight at Beowulf. “You’re insane!”

  “Ah. It seems there is more work to be done!” Beowulf said gleefully. “No matter.”

  Beowulf launched himself at him. In an instant, he appeared right before him.

  “We can do this all day,” Beowulf said, thrusting his left fist at Fenris’ face.

  “Not this time,” Fenris muttered.

  Blood burst into the air. He flew back—again.

  He tumbled, but this time, he didn’t crash into the grass.

  He landed on all fours.

  Eyes glowing yellow.

  Fangs bared.

  A low growl rumbling beneath his frown as he glared at Beowulf.

  Beowulf felt his cheek. Blood dripped from it. A wound of four curved lines was seen on his face and wasn’t healing. Fenris, out of instinct, had reverted back to his wild animalistic style of fighting.

  He figured this would make him fail Beowulf’s test. But he didn’t care. Not at the moment. He had to protect himself—and if the lesson was over, that would be good for him as well. He needed to take a break.

  Beowulf brought his bloodied hand close to his face, inspected it. Fenris looked at him with curiosity. Beowulf licked his own blood and began to chuckle greatly.

  “WONDERFUL! WONDERFUL! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

  Fenris had a look of dread.

  Beowulf charged at Fenris once more. Fenris ran away from him. At least he tried to anyway. Beowulf, despite not shifting like Fenris had, was still able to keep up with him.

  Their little chase was almost humorous to watch. At least the human guards thought so. Anytime Fenris would try to evade Beowulf, Beowulf would always be in front of Fenris.

  “What is this!?” Fenris screamed, rageful. “Isn’t this over!? Didn’t I fail the moment I started to fight like a werewolf!?”

  “No!” Beowulf said. “And this isn’t about failing or winning, Fenris. As I said before, this is about getting you to enjoy fighting.”

  Fenris scoffed.

  “Buck told me about you,” Beowulf said.

  Fenris raised an eyebrow.

  “Not much, but enough to know who you are.” Beowulf walked slowly to Fenris.

  “You may see fighting only as a necessity to survival. A way of killing those who would harm you. But with that type of mentality, you never improve. A warrior must come to love battle. He must embrace violence as a part of life, not a chore. And that is what I aim to make you, Fenris. A warrior.”

  “Right now, you are no warrior. A killer? Yes. But only a killer—nothing else.”

  Beowulf stood a few feet from Fenris, and Fenris crawled back as a response.

  “It doesn’t matter how you choose to fight. Werewolf, human, or maybe a bit of both worlds. Come at me, Fenris! But come at me with the full force of your power. Do not hold back!”

  Beowulf extended his arms out, inviting Fenris to take a hit.

  “Fine, have it your way,” Fenris said.

  Fenris leaped at Beowulf, claws drawn and pulled back, ready to tear through him.