CHAPTER 68: CHAPTER 68: STEP UP

Fenrick went to see the condition of Kael and try to cool him down.He can’t let anyone know their real identity and the truth of this curse. He instantly went out and tried to calm Kael for his unconscious anger. He "Calm down... son, are you okay? You just did a great job, my boy. Your strength just saved our life now." Slowly...slowly...Kael backed his sense into the present. Now he understands and observes things. He realizes what he does do now; he just killed a strong werewolf by himself just for the anger of the wolf’s attacking nature and didn’t recognize them. Fenrick holds Kael’s shoulder and pulls him with him to John’s side to let him take a rest. John twisted his fingers. "Yes, Kael, you should take rest now; you already lost enough strength by killing this beast. Kael also realized he was really hyper at that time to lose his mindset for fighting. And when he took down this wolf, it made him tired a lot. He quickly sits down on the floor to restore his energy and strength of body. For his age, it’s hard to fight like this kind wolf. Fenrick already knew that the wolf was killed by the Kael when it was young. Not so aged—that’s why he was so quick and powerful.He tried to tell Kael this fact, but he wasn’t in his senses then. He also becomes his real version to start conflict, but although for his sharpness and fighting experience, he will take this wolf by himself. Here’s also where genetics come in: Kael was related to the powerful clan of werewolves, who were more dangerous than the others. When Kael is sitting down and taking a rest. On the other side, Luther is talking with his father, Harold.

And scene shifted to there-

The fire crackled softly in the night, with sparks dancing into the cold air. Luther sat cross-legged on the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the flames as his mind burned with curiosity.

Opposite him, Harold relaxed against the trunk of a tree, his features half-obscured by the dancing shadows. Years had etched strength into his face, but his eyes still reflected the burden of old memories-the kind that did not weather.

Luther broke the silence first.

"Dad," he said softly, "you always tell me about wars, clans, monsters.but you never told me about him, about Grandpa Ragnar. What was he really like?

Harold smiled faintly, the kind that carried both pride and pain.

"Ah, Ragnar," he muttered, staring into the fire. "The name alone once made men stand taller... and creatures of the dark run faster."

Luther leaned forward, eager. "So the stories were true? He really fought the vampires? The werewolves? The magicians?"

Harold chuckled. "You’ve been hearing the whispers from the village, haven’t you? Those bards love to twist truth into tales. But... yes, my son. He fought them. All of them. And he lived long enough to make sure I remembered every scar, every roar, every victory that kept this land breathing."

Luther’s eyes widened. "Tell me everything."

Harold took a deep breath and began.

Briefly, the dispute over schools is between those who want schools to operate like businesses and those who think they should not.

"The first war Ragnar fought," Harold said, "was against the vampires of the Black Hollow. They weren’t like those the children’s books tell about. Those were shadows in human skin: fast, silent, cruel. They moved faster than your eyes could follow. One moment they stood before you; the next, behind your back with their claws at your throat.

Ragnar once told me that fighting a vampire was like fighting your own fear — you never knew when it would strike."

Luther’s breath caught. "So how did he fight them? If they were that fast?"

Harold’s eyes shone. "He didn’t fight their speed. He fought their hunger. He used their instincts against them. One night, deep in the forest of Ashfall, he stood alone with nothing but a torch and a blade forged from moonsteel. The vampires circled him, whispering in the dark. Ragnar didn’t move. He cut his palm-spilled his own blood. The scent drove them mad.

They lunged. And that was when he turned the flame on them. Fire — the one thing they couldn’t heal from. He burned the night red. By dawn, not a single vampire was left breathing.

Luther’s mouth fell open. "He fought them alone?"

"Yes," Harold said softly. "That was what made him Ragnar. He felt no monster was unconquerable, only misunderstood. He said bravery wasn’t about strength but standing firm when even your shadow wants to flee."

---

After a moment of silence, Harold poked the fire with a stick; it crackled in the stillness.

"But the vampires," he said, continuing, "were not the worst. The werewolves were.

Luther straightened. "Worse than vampires?"

Harold nodded. "Much worse. Vampires hunted in silence. Werewolves hunted in storms. They never came alone — they came as packs, like thunder rolling through the trees. When they attacked, the sky went mad. Ragnar said you could hear their growls long before you saw them — and when you saw them, it was already too late.

He leaned in closer, his voice very low. "They could change at will-from man to beast in the blink of an eye. And when their eyes glowed red. there was no more mercy left in them."

Luther shivered. "How did Grandpa survive that?"

Harold gave a small, proud laugh. "He didn’t fight them as a man — he fought them as their equal. You see, Ragnar was clever. He knew no man could match their strength. So he learned their rhythm — their hunting pattern. He studied them for weeks, alone in the forest, living off roots and rainwater.

And one night, under a full moon, he set his trap. He dug trenches, filled them with oil, and lined the trees with silver dust. When the pack came, he stood right in the center, sword drawn.

They laughed, can you envision that? Beasts laughing at a human. Then he spoke only one sentence before the blood began to fall."

Harold’s voice deepened.

"Come, sons of the moon," Ragnar had said, "and see how the sun ends your reign."

Luther held his breath. "What happened then?"

Harold’s eyes shone. "He burned them from the ground up. The night was full of flames and howls. The forest smelled of blood and smoke. But when it ended, only Ragnar stood. Not a wolf dared to cross his path again."

-

The fire crackled louder, if to honor the dead.

Luther’s eyes shone with appreciation. "He sounds... unstoppable. So he defeated vampires and werewolves. What about the magicians?"

Harold’s expression darkened. "Ah... the magicians. They were not beasts. They were worse — because they wore the faces of men. You couldn’t see their claws or fangs. Their power wasn’t in their hands — it was in their eyes.

They could bend your mind, make you see illusions, control beasts, even tear memories out of your skull. Ragnar used to say: ’Against a magician, your sword is useless unless you’ve already won the battle in your heart.’"

Luther frowned. "So how could anyone fight that?"

Harold smirked. "With silence. And discipline. Magicians feed off confusion — they twist fear into reality. But Ragnar was too grounded for their tricks. Once, a dark sorcerer by the name of Malvar trapped him inside an illusion — made him believe his home was burning and his family was dead. Any other man would have broken. But Ragnar... Ragnar closed his eyes, took one breath, and said—

Harold lowered his voice, imitating the tone:

"If this is illusion, then even death must be fake."

"And at that moment," Harold went on, "he broke the enchantment. He killed Malvar before the sorcerer even had time to blink."

"He fought with his mind as much as his sword," Luther whispered.

"Exactly," Harold said, "That is why your grandfather wasn’t just a warrior; he was a legend. He believed a warrior’s heart was stronger than any magic, faster than any vampire, and fiercer than any wolf’s bite.

-

The only sound was silence for a while. The fire burned lower, casting their faces in amber light.

Luther finally said, "I wish I could’ve met him."

Harold smiled, a shadow of old pride crossing his face.

"You already have, in a way."

Luther frowned. "What do you mean?" Harold laid a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. "The blood that made Ragnar stand in front of monsters flows in you, too. The strength, the courage-it’s in your bones, Luther. You may not see it yet, but one day. you’ll hear that same battle drum your grandfather heard." The woods around them seemed to listen-the wind whispering through the leaves like ghosts of times long past. Luther gazed into the fire, as his heartbeat seemed to thud like an echo of Ragnar’s war drums. "Then I’ll make sure his name is never forgotten," he said softly. Smiling, Harold said, "That’s all he ever wanted." The fire crackled one last time — and in the glow, Luther thought he saw, just for a moment, the silhouette of a man with a sword standing tall among the shadows... his grandfather, Ragnar, still watching over them. After this..