The clash dragged on, each passing moment grinding against Loren Vance’s body and mind like a whetstone against dulled steel. Erebus’s hulking figure loomed before him, its pitch-black fur bristling with unnatural vitality, its scarred cheek glistening under the faint glow of torches. Every time the wolf lunged, the air itself seemed to split, and Loren could feel the ground tremble under the sheer weight of its presence. His arms ached, his breathing burned, yet his body refused to collapse.
Why?
That question gnawed at him as much as Erebus’s claws. He should have been shredded already. He should have fallen beneath the devil’s pet, another failed pawn in this twisted game. Yet here he was, dodging by a thread, parrying when he should not have been able, countering in ways that even he had not expected of himself. The wolf’s feral strikes forced every ounce of his being into action, but instead of drowning, he was floating—barely, shakily, but undeniably afloat.
And then, amidst the blood pounding in his ears, a forgotten voice stirred.
"Loren, our family’s style isn’t just pride for pride’s sake. Pride is a weapon, a fire. But it is against beasts that it blazes brightest. Remember that."
It was his father’s voice—Virgil Vance. A memory from childhood, one that Loren had buried under layers of arrogance and bluster. Back then, he hadn’t cared to listen. He had only wanted to inherit the name of Moonspring’s greatest, to bask in reflected glory. Virgil’s reputation as the Beast Slayer had been legendary, but Loren had thought it beneath him, obsessed instead with surpassing humans, with proving his place among the golden generation.
Beasts? He had scoffed back then. They’re nothing pared to outsmarting men. Pride isn’t tested against monsters—it’s tested against other prodigies.
Yet now, face-to-face with Erebus, he realized the truth he had long dismissed. The Pride Hunter Style—the ancient martial art of his bloodline—was awakening inside him. Every heartbeat brought him closer to its hidden essence. Against Erebus’s monstrous form, his body moved differently, sharper, faster, like his very muscles remembered lessons his mind had scorned.
The wolf snapped its fangs, barely missing his throat, and Loren twisted into a roll, his blade slashing up to clip fur along its jawline. His strikes had grown cleaner, steadier. His senses sharpened beyond their limits. He could feel
the rhythm of the beast—its growls, the twitch of its muscles before a pounce, the surge of weight behind its claws.
Is this it? he wondered, chest heaving. Was this strength always hidden inside me? No, it isn’t new—it’s mine. I only forgot it.
For so long, Loren had boasted about his pedigree, the guild he came from, the name he carried. But those were words. Empty echoes. The Pride Hunter Style was more than a banner to wave—it was an inheritance of blood and trial, a legacy born in the hunt. Virgil Vance had not bee a legend by dueling other humans; he had carved his glory from the hides of monsters that others dared not face. His victories had not e from politics or arrogance, but from sharpening the style against true predators.
And now his son, cornered in the devil’s chamber, was rediscovering that primal truth.
Erebus lunged again, shadows streaming from its body like ribbons of night. Its claws crashed into the ground where Loren had stood, stone cracking like brittle glass. The beast snarled, its scarred cheek twitching, eyes gleaming with the malice of something born of darkness itself.
But Loren didn’t flinch. He moved.
A step, a twist of his blade, a perfectly timed shift of weight—suddenly, the monster’s strike sailed wide. The Pride Hunter Style was flowing through him in ways he had never mastered before. It wasn’t just defense. It wasn’t desperation. It was dominion.
His father’s words echoed again.
"Against beasts, we stand taller. For every claw, a counter. For every fang, a blade. That is why they call us hunters."
He understood now. The pride of his family was not the hollow arrogance he had carried through academy halls. It was this—the defiance of prey turned predator, the audacity to stand before the darkest fangs and declare dominance.
And with that realization came a surge. His body responded in kind, muscles tensing with newfound vigor, his strikes carrying a heavier weight. It was as though his very veins burned with fire. His sword flashed, not merely a weapon of steel but of heritage. Every arc of the blade carried with it Virgil’s legacy, sharpened by the crucible of this fight.
Erebus recoiled as a deep gash streaked across its side. Black ichor splattered the floor, sizzling against stone. The wolf growled, truly angered now, its eyes narrowing. It had underestimated him—everyone had underestimated him.
Loren’s chest heaved as he steadied himself, sweat dripping down his brow. His fear still lingered, a phantom whisper reminding him of how easily this could end. But now it wrestled with something stronger—resolve, pride reborn not from vanity but from recognition of what he truly was.
Father... was this your secret? he thought, vision blurring for a moment. Was this why you always told me not to forget our roots?
Another strike came, faster, heavier, Erebus pushing him harder. Loren gritted his teeth, his arms trembling as he blocked. The sheer force nearly knocked him flat, but something within him pushed back. His stance held, his knees bent, and his counter sliced into the beast’s foreleg, leaving another mark of defiance.
For the first time, Loren saw Erebus falter. Not much. But enough.
And then it happened—the Pride Hunter Style shifted, evolved beneath the pressure. It was as though the art itself had been waiting for this crucible. His movements grew smoother, instincts sharper, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. It was no longer the technique he had learned half-heartedly under his father’s stern guidance. It was being something more—something alive.
This was not Loren Vance the braggart. Not the shallow heir of Moonspring.
This was a hunter.
And for the first time in his life, Loren felt it—not the hollow echo of titles or names, but true pride. Pride in standing his ground, in fighting not because of status or reputation, but because this was where he belonged.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as Erebus circled him again, growling low. His hands no longer trembled. His blade no longer felt heavy.
The wolf leapt, its massive body a blur of shadow and death.
Loren surged forward to meet it, his heart no longer at war with itself but unified in clarity.
"e then," he whispered, almost smiling despite himself. "Let’s see whose pride burns brighter."
And for the first time, his strike didn’t feel like desperation.
It felt like destiny.
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