After Wally relayed the order to our members, they acted immediately. One by one, they began eliminating certain individuals from each of Roger's groups—not through violence, but through manipulation. They carefully pinned the blame on others within the same group by singling someone out.
It was simple, really. They stole the exam bracelets from a few members and discreetly transferred all the points to the one they intended to isolate. Just like that, suspicion festered. Trust cracked. Paranoia bloomed.
By the time it was over, each of Roger's groups had been reduced to six or seven members. And with our people embedded among them, mistrust had taken root in every direction.
We didn't need to shed a drop of blood to fracture their unity. Why waste effort creating messy, unpredictable variables—people we might have to kill later—when betrayal could do all the work for us?
We stood near the orc outpost—once Roger's command post before he was pulled out. His forces had been ordered to regroup there by his vice-captain. But before they could even get close, the cracks began to show. Some of the scattered groups crossed paths and immediately began questioning each other, eyes darting, hands tightening around weapons. Each had noticed the same thing: missing members. Uneven numbers. And no one had answers.
It didn't take long. Accusations flew, tempers flared, and before they knew it, they had unknowingly formed a circle—surrounded by suspicion. Then, as if some invisible thread finally snapped, chaos erupted once more. Whatever trust they had left had already hit rock bottom.
Tom watched one of the distant groups argue—voices raised, fingers pointed, chaos spreading like dye in clear water. A boy ripped off his bracelet and hurled it into the dirt, shouting something we couldn't quite hear.
I leaned casually against the trunk of a tree, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips as I observed the slow, delicious collapse.
"You know," I began, voice smooth and almost amused. "Trust is such a delicate thing. Build it for years—layer by careful layer—only to watch it crumble in seconds over something as trivial as… points."
I gently tilted my head as if inspecting a painting. "It's fascinating. People speak of justice and morality like they're shields. But really, the sharpest weapon you'll ever wield isn't forged in a smithy or channeled through mana. It's doubt. Plant it deep enough, and it eats through everything."
"To be honest, I was expecting a bit of action. This is boring," Tom muttered with a frown, arms dropping to his sides in mild frustration. "Why go through all this effort? We could've just taken them out head-on."
Risa didn't even glance at him. Her voice was calm, almost detached. "Some wars aren't worth participating in. And you should save your strength—we'll need it when we storm the outpost."
Tom clicked his tongue but didn't argue. He knew she was right.
"Oh, right," I said suddenly, my eyes narrowing with realization. "Sammy hasn't left yet. He might still be inside."
"A friend of yours?" Tom asked, glancing sideways at me with a raised eyebrow.
"You could say that," I replied, my gaze fixed on the outpost.
Tom followed my eyes, then frowned. "So… are we waiting for him to come out, or—?"
"No," I interrupted, a faint smirk forming as I raised my hand and pointed toward the outpost. "I was waiting for that."
Before Tom could respond, a deafening roar split the air—raw, feral, and bone-rattling. It wasn't human. It wasn't even close.
Aaaaarrrrooo
The werewolf's battle cry erupted from the outpost, sharp and primal, immediately followed by the terrified screams of multiple cadets.
"That's our signal," I said, propelling myself forward toward the outpost.
Tom smoothly raised his sniper rifle, while Risa moved silently to the entrance, positioning herself to block any chance of escape.
I expected Tom to insist on fighting up close, but to my surprise, he declined. Instead, he told us he wanted to try something new.
I figured he wanted to test out a fresh technique—then again, Sammy would've been a serious obstacle to handle if the other cadets inside the base joined the fight.
The outpost wasn't much different from the one we'd raided earlier, which made it easier for me to navigate its layout by memory alone.
Only three cadets were stationed on the outer walls—most of them had either rushed off to quell the infighting outside or gone to confront the werewolf that had suddenly appeared within the compound.
"Acce—!" one of them began, trying to cast an incantation the moment he spotted me flying toward them. But he never finished.
A tight grip closed around his throat mid-syllable—my water strings had already coiled around his neck. He gasped, choking for air, suspended helplessly in midair.
I didn't waste a second. With a flick of my hand, I hurled him down toward the front gate, where Risa was waiting to secure his points.
The other two were mages as well, but before I could move on them, they were already encased in jagged columns of ice—frozen mid-cast.
I paused for a beat, blinking in surprise. "Ice bullets? Aren't those supposed to shatter when shot?" I muttered to myself. "How the hell did he do that?"
The question lingered for a moment, but I pushed it aside. It didn't matter right now.
Without hesitation, I moved deeper into the outpost.
The moment I stepped into the outpost, the sharp clatter of boots echoed down the corridor. Several cadets, drawn by the chaos outside, came rushing toward me with weapons at the ready—expressions tense, eyes scanning for enemies.
"Three aura users and two mages," Moriarty noted, his voice crisp as he activated his ability without hesitation. "No time for pleasantries, people."
He didn't waste a breath. In the blink of an eye, they were down—disarmed, unconscious, sprawled across the floor. We weren't supposed to kill these ones, after all.
Without pause, we pushed deeper into the compound and rushed toward the basement stairwell.
And there we found it.
At the center of the basement, the grey werewolf stood tall—easily the size of two men. Its broad frame was slightly hunched as it moved with tense, calculated steps. Coarse grey fur covered its body, darker around the limbs and shoulders, giving it a rugged, battle-worn look.
Its snout curled into a snarl, revealing long, gleaming white fangs as steam rose with each breath in the cold, damp air. Its eyes were sharp and watchful, glowing faintly with a pale amber light that flickered with the torches lining the walls.
Ten cadets had surrounded it, weapons drawn, trying to box it in. Eight of them were aura users, and the remaining two were mages. I had expected Sammy to be among them, but it seemed he had already left before we got here.
Their attacks—both spells and strikes—were far too slow. The werewolf wasn't just strong; it was experienced. It knew how to read their movements and counter them with ease.
"This is why Alfred insisted he learn some offensive techniques," I muttered with a light chuckle, though watching John struggle against ten coordinated cadets wasn't exactly what I'd call cheerful.
Should we help him? Moriarty asked, a hint of hesitation in his voice as he watched the chaos unfold.
"No," Ryuk replied, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Let's watch a little longer."
Just then, one of the cadets—clearly out of options—lunged forward and bit John's tail in desperation.
I blinked, barely holding back my laughter. Ryuk grinned.
"It's getting fun."