Chapter 96: Prophecy, Loyalty!

The Howling Moon Clan's territory was shrouded in night.

Russell stood on the rocky platform of Crescent Valley, grey now threading through his blue mane.

Grey-maned werewolves do not live long—only about fifty years.

Six years had carried this once-young chieftain into middle age; his fur was no longer as vivid as before, but those eyes remained sharp as blades.

In the valley, werewolf warriors were resting.

They bore wounds old and new—some left by ogres before, others the marks of hunts and infighting.

Russell knew well that discontent within the clan was growing.

The young challenger Mane Fire had publicly questioned his decisions at gatherings more than once, and the old shaman, past sixty, was nearing the end of his life—his mind growing ever more blurred, his thoughts turning to mush, no longer able to steady the people's hearts as he once did.

Awooo! A low wolf-howl came from the distance.

The patrol had returned.

Russell leaped and raced down the valley slope, returning to the territory below to talk with the patrol and learn the situation.

The news they brought was not encouraging.

The Bone-Crunching Clan's ogres were still expanding, and no one knew when they would once again press toward Crescent Valley.

Russell silently exhaled a breath.

He lifted his head to gaze at the night sky, as though waiting for something.

The Dragon Lord from six years ago had promised to return, but time was wearing away the clan's patience; some clansfolk had already forgotten how mighty the Dragon was, and different voices had risen within the tribe.

Russell set off, wandering through the territory on patrol.

By the fire pit deep in the territory, several werewolf warriors who had just finished patrol were tearing at the leg meat of their prey; fat dripped onto the coals with a sizzling hiss.

"Mane Fire was provoking the chieftain at the training ground again today."

A young werewolf warrior spat out the bone fragments in his mouth and said in a low voice, "He scratched up half of the battle-record totem the chieftain carved into the rock wall, right in front of everyone."

The werewolf nicknamed Mane Fire—his parents had once opposed pledging loyalty to the dragons, and Russell had beaten them with his own hands, turning them into giant wolves.

Therefore.

Mane Fire bore Russell a grudge.

After another six years of growth, this somewhat talented werewolf youth had become the fiercest werewolf warrior of the new generation, no longer hiding his hostility toward the chieftain, wanting to challenge his position.

The old warrior gave a cold laugh, baring a broken canine.

"Six years ago Mane Fire was still shivering in terror at a vicious snake, only daring to hide behind his mother—and now he dares to point his claws at the chieftain."

"But the chieftain really has grown old." The she-wolf lowered her voice, her ears swivelling warily.

"Last time we were encircling the rock-bull, the chieftain's charge was half a beat slow; if Frost Fang hadn't stepped in with a spell in time, the prey would've gotten away."

The bonfire crackled and popped.

Russell's figure appeared on the other side; the young werewolf warrior shrank his neck, not daring to continue.

Walking past the warriors, Russell acted as though he had heard nothing and headed straight for a stone hut built against the cliff.

Around a bonfire.

Mane Fire was sharing a freshly hunted wild boar with three of his confidants.

The fresh meat was still steaming as fangs tore it into bloody strips—no roasting or cooking, eaten raw; young werewolf warriors preferred fresh meat.

Mane Fire was a tall, powerfully built werewolf.

Between his blue-grey mane strands, hints of red still lingered; when it streamed in the wind it looked like a ball of raging fire—and that was the origin of his nickname.

Tearing into the fresh meat in great bites, Mane Fire's gaze fell on Chieftain Russell, watching him walk into the old shaman's hut.

"The old coot's authority is weaker and weaker—last hunt he nearly let the prey escape."

Mane Fire licked the blood from between his claws, his fur flickering bright and dark in the firelight, and said, "His fangs and claws aren't as sharp as mine, and his body isn't as strong as mine."

A werewolf with a scar across his face muttered, "The chieftain's been running to the shaman's hut a lot lately—is he preparing some ritual to strengthen himself?"

Mane Fire slammed a claw against the rock wall, sending chips of stone rattling down:

"The shaman's already out of his mind—he can't grant him any strengthening."

"At the next full-moon rite, I'll challenge Russell in front of the whole clan." He bared his pale fangs: "When the time comes, I'll be the new chieftain of the Howling Moon Clan!"

The old shaman was about to die.

The one chosen to inherit the shaman's position, Frost Fang—Russell, no, his daughter—was currently only a young and inexperienced shaman, lacking the old shaman's prestige and posing no threat to him either.

Mane Fire had made up his mind.

He would take Russell's place, no matter what.

Russell's claw gently pushed aside the beast-hide curtain hanging at the stone hut's doorway; what rushed to meet him was a foul current of mingled scorched-herb and rot.

The old shaman's hut was dimmer than six years ago.

He was curled up on the bed in the corner of the room, his hunched frame nearly melting into the shadows.

Beside him sat a slightly smaller female werewolf, her teeth white and bright, her mane woven into thin braids, a beast-bone necklace around her neck.

Frost Fang Belle, Russell's daughter, and also the shaman's heir.

She was combing the old shaman's fur, patiently picking out fleas; seeing her father arrive, she stopped and stepped outside.

Hearing the footsteps, the old shaman's murky yellow eyes slowly rolled; his pupils were clouded with a grey film, lifeless.

"Russell, you… came."

The old shaman's voice sounded as though squeezed from a wind-leaking leather pouch, his speech slow, a phlegmy rattle in his throat.

Russell nodded and silently crouched by the fire pit.

Six years ago this stone hut had been the clan's most sacred place; the old shaman's prophecies could pinpoint the very hour the rainy season would arrive.

But now, the fire pit held only thin, withered shrub branches, and even the firelight looked sickly.

"I can't keep Mane Fire in check much longer."

Russell sighed, a trace of weariness appearing between his brows, and said, "Its talent is excellent, it grows very quickly, and I have already passed my peak."

The mane-fire's nature is ferocious, vindictive, and lacks the vision and scope to lead a clan.

As a warrior, it is excellent, but if it becomes chief, it will be a disaster for the Howling Moon Clan; yet the Howling Moon Clan reveres the strong, and if the mane-fire defeats him through the formal challenge process, he cannot stop it from ascending to the chief's position.

"N-no, it's nothing. The Dragon Lord is about to arrive."

The old shaman's cloudy eyes revealed a hint of a smile as he spoke.

Russell was slightly stunned, his eyes filling with much vitality, and asked, "Is this true? Are you certain?"

Like a final burst of life, the old shaman coughed lightly, and his voice became clear and continuous.

"My life is about to reach its end; fortunately, perhaps due to the protection of the Ancestral Spirits, I have glimpsed a bit of the future."

"What future?"

Russell asked.

The old shaman did not answer.

The future does not remain unchanged; revealing a prophecy will not only bring backlash to oneself and the listener but also affect and alter the future.

Every spellcaster or shaman who knows the prophecy art is an excellent keeper of secrets.

The old shaman raised his withered, sharp claws, gripping Russell's arm tightly, and said word by word, "You must, you must follow in the Dragon Lord's wake! No matter what happens, your loyalty must not waver! This is the most important opportunity for the Howling Moon Clan."

Russell nodded solemnly, then saw the old shaman slowly close his eyes.

He felt a sense of sorrow and sadness.

This Venerable and respected elder had still passed away—hulu, a hulu sound came from the old shaman's mouth, interrupting Russell's sorrowful mood.

It turned out he had merely fallen into a deep sleep, not died.

Old wolves fear wind and cold, so Russell covered the old shaman with the quilt.

Boom!

Suddenly, a muffled rumble of thunder approached from afar.

It was like the breathing of a giant beast, or the sound brought by the beating of massive wings.

The old shaman, who had just closed his eyes, suddenly opened them again; his gaze was no longer cloudy. After a slight pause, Russell's expression immediately became excited.

This rolling thunder-like sound meant nothing to the cubs born in the last few years.

But both Russell and the old shaman were very familiar with it.

"Help me up!"

The old shaman supported his body and said.

(End of this chapter)