Philip lunged forward, his claws arcing back like the talons of a predator poised to strike. His piercing, feral gaze locked onto his intended targets—two vulnerable sheep, ripe for the slaughter. Or perhaps, more accurately, one sheep and one aging ram. The older officer might have been able to put up a fight in his prime, but now, weighed down by years, he was little more than easy prey.
Philip's lips curled into a vicious grin, the anticipation of the kill electrifying his every move. The ram wouldn't even have the chance to defend the ewe at his side. But just as Philip closed the distance, ready to sink his claws deep into flesh, a powerful blow smashed into the side of his face.
The force of the haymaker made Philip's head jerk to the side, a flash of pain sparking through his jaw. He staggered slightly, his lips pulling back into a snarl. The strike hurt, but it wasn't enough. Turning sharply, he locked eyes with his assailant—Malvin, one of his desired targets. This one wasn't prey. No, this one was something else entirely. A hound. A shepherd dog standing firm to protect its flock.
Philip's snarl turned into a predatory grin as he raised his left hand, claws poised to rake down the so-called protector and remind him that a dog was no match for a wolf. But before he could strike, a sharp, searing pain shot through the back of his knee. Snarling in surprise, he spun around to find Silas, his other desired target retreating, his leg still mid-air from the precision kick he'd delivered.
Philip's predatory eyes narrowed as he processed the attack. The kick should have brought most fighters to their knees, maybe even ended the confrontation outright. But all it managed to earn was a grunt of acknowledgment. Philip steadied himself, towering over Silas with an expression of disdain. This one wasn't prey either, but neither was he a proper threat. He was no hound, no protector. Just a fox—quick and clever, but ultimately lacking the strength to pose any real danger.
As Philip lashed out with his claws, Silas and Malvin scrambled back, putting a small buffer of space between themselves and the monster before them. Silas let out a shaky breath. "He barely even flinched," he muttered, his voice a mixture of frustration and fear.
"But he did flinch!" Malvin barked, his tone fierce and unyielding. "If we can hurt him, we can bring him down!" Without hesitation, he charged forward, swinging another haymaker that connected squarely with Philip's face. The impact echoed faintly in the open space, but Philip barely reacted, his hulking form pressing forward as though the hit were little more than an inconvenience.
Philip's claws lashed out toward Malvin, forcing him to retreat with a quick backstep. His heart pounded as he imagined what would happen if those claws found their mark. The bloodied bodies of the other officers flashed in his mind—an unmistakable reminder of Philip's brutality, the message he had carved into their mangled forms.
"Hitting him feels like firing a steam-pistol at a damn tank!" Silas shouted as he darted behind Philip, channeling his frustration into a desperate attack. With all the strength he could muster, he delivered a powerful back-kick to the base of Philip's spine. The force of the blow sent the feral man stumbling forward, momentarily off balance.
Malvin seized the opening, pouring everything he had into a vicious uppercut. His fist collided with Philip's jaw, snapping his head back violently. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in Malvin's chest. But then Philip's head straightened again, his predatory grin returning as though nothing had happened.
Beads of sweat rolled down Malvin's face, mixing with the tension and exertion that wracked his body. *Even that… Just how the hell are we supposed to bring him down?* he thought, his breaths coming quicker now, each one tinged with the raw edge of desperation.
Philip held back a guttural cackle, suppressing the sound that threatened to burst from his throat. A wolf such as him had no need to mock its prey aloud; the sheer desperation etched across their faces was more than enough to savor. Still, the sight of their feeble attempts to fight back nearly brought him to a twisted kind of satisfaction. Almost. But not quite.
Taking a slow, deliberate step forward, Philip allowed the tension to build before suddenly breaking into a sprint. The speed was unnatural, a blur of feral aggression that caught Malvin completely off guard. Philip's claws swiped in a vicious arc, aiming to tear through flesh and bone alike. Malvin twisted his body at the last moment, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow, but Philip's claws still raked across his stomach. The strike tore through the protective fabric of Malvin's Guard uniform like paper, leaving three jagged gashes that oozed blood. Malvin gritted his teeth against the sharp, burning pain that radiated through his torso.
Philip's grin widened into something truly grotesque, his fangs glinting in the dim light as if relishing the scent of fresh blood. Before he could press the attack, Silas darted in with a spinning kick that landed squarely on the side of Philip's face. The blow forced the wolfman to recoil slightly, his head jerking to the side, but it did little else. The dirt smudged onto his cheek by Silas's boot seemed to insult him more than the strike itself.
"Are you okay?" Silas asked, sliding quickly to Malvin's side, his tone tense but steady.
"I'm fine," Malvin replied curtly, though his face betrayed him. The wounds weren't life-threatening—yet—but they were deep enough to make every breath a struggle. Blood seeped steadily from the gashes, staining his uniform and dripping onto the ground. Malvin clenched his fists, refusing to show weakness, but the strain in his voice was unmistakable.
Silas glanced at him, debating whether to call out the obvious lie, but decided against it. Now wasn't the time for sarcasm. His attention snapped back to Philip, who stood a short distance away. The wolfman raised his bloodied claws to his mouth, dragging his tongue along the crimson streaks as he maintained unbroken eye contact with the pair.
"Is he trying to be creepy? Cause it's working," Silas muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of disgust and unease.
Malvin pressed a hand against his wounds, hissing slightly as he tried to stem the bleeding. "Doesn't matter," he growled, forcing himself upright. "We just have to survive."
His eyes flicked over to the other fight, his voice dropping lower. "Because I think they're almost done."
Silas followed Malvin's gaze. Across the sawmill, Reinhard's tonfa clashed with Joshua's forearm, the impact ringing out like steel against steel. The sheer ferocity of their battle seemed almost otherworldly. Even Philip's attention shifted for a moment, his predatory grin faltering slightly as he glanced toward the two combatants.
If Philip was a wolf savaging a shepherd dog and a fox, then Reinhard and Joshua were something far greater—two apex predators locked in combat. A brave lion facing down a great tiger, their power dwarfing everything else in the room.