Chapitre 19: Fighting the Firs Monster
After a few days as the silver light of the full moon cast eerie shadows around his campsite, Amukelo settled into his makeshift bed for the night. The quiet whispers of the forest at night, usually a soothing balm, tonight carried a tinge of melancholy as his thoughts drifted back to his mother. These moments of quiet reflection on her memories were becoming a common occurrence in his solitary nights. Just as the weight of his thoughts began to lull him into sleep, a piercing howl shattered the stillness, jolting him back to alertness. His heart raced as he scanned the darkness, the primal sound echoing ominously through the trees.
For several tense minutes, he remained vigilant, his every sense strained for any hint of movement or further disturbance. Eventually, the forest returned to its nocturnal chorus, and Amukelo, reassured but still uneasy, allowed himself to relax again. However, just as sleep began to claim him once more, the crackling of underbrush and the rapid, heavy footsteps of something large approaching snapped him back to full alertness.
In a reflexive motion, Amukelo rolled away just as a monstrous claw tore through the blanket where he had been lying. Scrambling to his feet, he barely had time to register the creature before him in the moonlit clearing. It was like something out of the darker kinds of folklore—a towering, bipedal wolf, its fur matted and eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Its back legs were muscular and ended in grotesquely large paws that seemed capable of crushing stone, while its arms, ending in vicious claws, were raised towards him in a clear threat.
Caught without his sword, Amukelo cursed under his breath. "Tsk... How am I supposed to fight this monster without a sword?" he muttered as he eyed his blade, inconveniently positioned right beneath the looming shadow of the werewolf.
With no time to reach for his preferred weapon, Amukelo had to rely on his instincts and the small dagger he always carried. As the werewolf lunged at him with astonishing speed, its claw grazed his cheek, leaving a trail of blood that dripped down his face. The creature's movements were swift and relentless, giving Amukelo barely any time to react.
Stepping back to gain some distance, Amukelo pulled out his dagger just as another swipe of the werewolf's claw came hurtling towards him. His movements were frantic and unpolished, driven by pure survival instinct. Remarkably, his desperate block not only stopped the claw but redirected it, causing the beast to awkwardly adjust its trajectory. Instead of a deadly blow to the head, the claw scratched across Amukelo's waist, where his leather armor absorbed some of the impact, leaving another shallow wound.
Breathing heavily, his back against the cold night air, Amukelo knew he had to give his all to survive this encounter. With the werewolf recovering from its thwarted attack and preparing to strike again, Amukelo tightened his grip on his dagger, readying himself for what might be a decisive confrontation. The moonlight cast his shadow long and distorted behind him as he faced the beast, his resolve hardening.
As the werewolf prepared for another ferocious attack, Amukelo's training under Syltar kicked in, his instincts sharpened by the immediate threat of death. He mirrored a move he had seen Syltar executing on him—aiming not just to block but to disarm. However, instead of a handgrip that Syltar used during his training, Amukelo's weapon was his blade, and with a swift, precise movement, he slashed at the beast's wrist. The blade cut deep, blood spattering the leaf-covered ground, but the injury did little to deter the creature's violent frenzy.
Almost immediately, the werewolf's other claw came swinging in a wide arc towards Amukelo. Caught off balance from his initial strike, Amukelo could not fully evade the attack; he twisted his body just enough to avoid a lethal blow. The claw raked across his left shoulder, tearing through flesh and fabric alike. The pain was sharp and immediate, but it was his non-dominant arm, leaving his fighting arm free—a small mercy in a dire situation.
With the beast momentarily recoiling from its strike, Amukelo seized the opportunity. He jabbed his dagger into the creature, aiming for a vital area. The blade sank in, but it was too small to inflict a critical wound. Nonetheless, it bought him precious seconds to reach for his sword. As the dagger embedded itself in the werewolf's flesh, Amukelo dashed towards where his sword lay just out of reach.
The beast, enraged and hurt, was quick to recover and lunged at him as he dove for his weapon. Rolling on the forest floor, Amukelo managed to wrap his fingers around the sword's hilt. Just as the werewolf's claw descended upon him again, he rolled onto his back, lifting the sheathed sword between himself and the attacker. The claw struck the scabbard, but the sword remained unharmed, a testament to its craftsmanship and durability.
barely able to unsheathe it properly, Amukelo swung his sword with all his might, striking the beast across its stomach. Although not accurate, the blow was strong enough for the steel end of the sheath to cut through the creature's flesh, delivering a deep, painful wound. The werewolf howled in agony, and then, with a last baleful glance at Amukelo, it turned and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
Breathing heavily, Amukelo forced himself upright, his trembling hands pressing into the cold, damp ground for support. His left shoulder throbbed with a searing pain, warm blood trickling down his arm and staining the fabric of his tunic. He winced as he moved, his breaths shallow and rapid, a stark reminder of how close he had been to death.
Amukelo's eyes darted around the clearing, scanning the darkened forest for any sign of movement. Every rustling leaf, every creak of a branch sent a chill down his spine. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and reached for his sword. His fingers brushed against the hilt, and he hesitated, half-expecting to feel another set of claws ripping into him.
The blade slid back into its sheath with a soft hiss. The sheath itself bore only a faint scratch—a minor detail that might have seemed reassuring under different circumstances. But now, it felt like a cruel taunt, as if mocking how unprepared he had been. He stared at it for a moment before forcing himself to look away.
His belongings lay scattered around the clearing. His blanket was torn, the edges ragged and useless against the cold. His heart sank as he realized his dagger was still lodged in the werewolf's flesh, that meant the creature, though wounded, was far from finished.
"I can't stay here," he muttered under his breath. His eyes flicked to the shadows between the trees, half-expecting to see the werewolf stalking him from the darkness.
Amukelo packed what little he had left, his hands shaking. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him.
With no intention of risking sleep, Amukelo forced himself to move. His legs felt unsteady, and his breathing was labored, but staying put wasn't an option. He moved deeper into the forest.
The howls of distant wolves echoed faintly, and Amukelo froze mid-step, straining to determine whether they were natural cries or something more sinister.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours before he dared to move again. He stepped carefully over exposed roots and loose stones, his boots making the faintest crunch against the frost-covered ground.
"I need to keep going," he whispered to himself. "If I stop now… it'll find me."
But the truth was, he didn't know where he was going. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction.
As the hours dragged on, Amukelo's fear and exhaustion began to blur together. His mind raced with thoughts of the werewolf, of what might have happened had its claws struck a little deeper, or its teeth found their mark.
He kept moving, driven not by courage, but by the desperate will to survive.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone