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The battle between the Demon Lord and the Hero was worthy of being called a battle to the death.
The Demon Lord’s spear thrust at the Hero with a speed too fast to follow with the eye. Surging magic rode the spear, raging like a torrent.
The Hero’s sword did not yield an inch. His blade-work stormed about like a violent gale, blocking the spear’s tip.
In an instant, several thrusts from the Demon Lord were unleashed, and the Hero blocked them all. The violent clash of magic shattered the pillars behind them to pieces.

I watched the battle in astonishment, until I suddenly noticed something: the Hero had been maneuvering skillfully, trying to drag the royal guards into the fight.
The Demon Lord, meanwhile, kept his attacks from hitting the guards while also keeping the Hero from involving them.

I hastily ordered the Black Scale Guards to retreat.

“Guards, fall back! Don’t be deceived by appearances! Both weapons have their ranges extended by magic!”

At my command, the guards instantly leapt away. As expected of the elites the Demon Lord’s army was so proud of.
But they weren’t mages. They could only perceive what their eyes could see.

I, on the other hand, could sense something like divinity, or spiritual power, emanating from both of them, flowing as streams of magic.
At a glance, it looked like they were exchanging fierce offense and defense.
But in truth, both were waging a war of attrition, seeking to erase the other’s very existence.

When the Demon Lord’s spear tip merely grazed the Hero, the Hero’s magic drained away in great chunks.
And when the Hero’s sword inflicted even a small cut, torrents of magic spilled out from the Demon Lord’s body.
As opposing existences, even the lightest strike inflicted a grievous wound.

If possible, I wanted to help. But stepping into that range would mean being torn to pieces. Besides, the Demon Lord would never allow my aid.
I thought of casting support magic, but it likely wouldn’t work on him. My spells were far too weak to enhance the Demon Lord’s abilities.
So I stayed on guard with the royal guards, watching the fight’s outcome. If need be, I would throw myself in recklessly to protect him with healing magic.

The match seemed perfectly even. The spear thrust, the sword deflected, the counter swung, the spear turned it aside. The exchanges came one after another.
But then, as the Demon Lord thrust and tried to pull back his spear, his expression shifted slightly. For a moment, his spear-handling dulled.
I immediately knew why.

It was what the Demon Lord once called the “Cross of the Reincarnated.”
Both he and I had reincarnated from humans into monsters, but humans and monsters differed in build and senses.
I had no martial arts experience in my previous life, so I only knew the fighting techniques of werewolves. I felt no inconvenience from that.

But the spear techniques the Demon Lord used now were clearly ones he had learned in his former life. Unlike any other dragonkin.
But they were human techniques. Humans and dragonkin had different arm lengths, different joints, subtle structural differences.
Forcing a human technique onto a dragonkin body could cause injuries.
In truth, the Demon Lord’s strongest art was swordsmanship, but in prolonged battles he often injured his shoulders or wrists.
After much trial, he said, he had settled on the spear.

His spear-work was still sharp as ever. To me, it barely looked dulled at all.
But in a battle between transcendent beings, even that was fatal.

“Die!”

The Hero’s strike came at him.
The Demon Lord tried to evade, but he was a moment too late.
The Hero’s sword slashed him from shoulder to hip in a diagonal cut.
I clearly saw the Demon Lord’s magic vanish in an instant.

No way.
The Demon Lord couldn’t lose.
But the blood spraying was unmistakably real.

“Well done…”

The Demon Lord said, then collapsed to his knees. He could no longer fight.
The Hero, too, bore a grievous wound— a spear was lodged in his side.
The Demon Lord had landed a desperate counter. But it had not been deep enough to bring the Hero down.
The bloodied Hero raised his sword and leapt at the Demon Lord.
I tried to hurl myself between them, but I was too late.

The Demon Lord’s massive body collapsed onto the polished black floor. He did not move again.
The Hero tossed aside his broken sword, wiping the blood from his shirt without the slightest hint of emotion.
Then, losing interest in the Demon Lord, he turned toward us.

“Don’t think you’ll escape. You’re next.”

This Hero clearly had no intention of sparing us underlings. It seemed he meant to slaughter every demon he met.
The guards raised their spears at once, but I stopped them with a hand. Useless.

“Stand down. I’ll face him.”

The Hero looked at me with loathing eyes.

“You look human, but you’re a demon, aren’t you? What are you?”

Instead of answering, I transformed.
Then I howled with all my might— a “Soul Shaker” greeting.
The chandelier shattered, the flames in the sconces were blown out, and the room sank into darkness.

Only the moonlight lit the audience hall. I spat my words at the Hero.

“You won’t leave here alive.”

Arrogant words, but I had no regret. Whatever became of the Demon Lord’s army, this one man I would never let return alive.
The Hero scoffed, tossing aside the broken sword.

“Seems you think you can win because I’m wounded.”

He pressed a hand to his side, and the wound vanished without a trace.
Even the battle-hardened guards wavered at that.
Then the Hero drew a knife from his belt and held it in a reverse grip.

“What’s wrong? Come at me.”

He was looking down on me completely.

Yes, he had healed himself. But it was only superficial. When he took the Demon Lord’s desperate blow, and again when he healed himself, he had consumed vast magic.
Now he was no longer the transcendent who fought the Demon Lord. That endless well of magic had weakened. He couldn’t heal like that again.
Against a wounded Hero, my chance of victory would be slight.
But it would require resolve.

I unleashed every spell I had prepared, boosting my physical ability to its utmost. The Soul Shaker had drawn in magic from the surroundings, making the effect greater than ever.
And then I invoked the ultimate enhancement magic.

“Burn, my body, and turn sleeping madness into power!”

One of the forbidden spells: Fanatic Burn.
For a short time, it gave me power beyond my body’s limits. Bones breaking, muscles tearing, none of it mattered— power would surge regardless.
The backlash could kill me afterwards. But if I didn’t win here, I’d die anyway.

The moment the Hero realized I had used a spell, he lunged at me with full force. The knife’s tip flashed toward me.
My enhanced vision barely tracked his unnatural speed. I dodged almost by instinct.
I slipped past the knife and drove a kick into his solar plexus. Solid impact, but little effect.
Still, his breastplate was shattered and blown away.

“You!”

The Hero swung the knife wildly, and I barely dodged. I lacked the Demon Lord’s magic and stamina. One hit would be the end of me.
I punched his face in return. A clean blow— but it didn’t faze him.
What kind of monster was this? That punch could kill a warhorse or a bear instantly.

Close combat was too dangerous; the narrow view gave him the advantage. I withdrew a bit and thought.
Calm down. I’m a werewolf.
A werewolf is no proud warrior. A werewolf is a cruel hunter.
This was not an honorable duel. It was a frenzied wolf’s brawl, a vile hunt cornering a wounded Hero.
So I hid behind a pillar of the audience hall.

“What’s wrong, lost your nerve!?”

The Hero hacked at the pillar I hid behind with his knife— again and again. A massive column was carved apart like a candle, crumbling.
As expected.
All attack, no retreat. A boar-headed fool.

I kicked several of the shattered remains into the air.
At the same time, I dropped to all fours and ran across the floor like a true wolf.
Black floor, black walls, black pillars, black ceiling, black rubble, black werewolf.
For an instant, less than a fraction of a second, he lost sight of me.
Confused, he failed to pick me out from the flying debris.

That was all I needed.
I hurled myself at him, sinking my fangs into his leg.
Without hesitation, I crushed his shin.

“Ghh!?”

The sound of bone breaking filled the hall, along with the hot stench of human blood.
A werewolf’s true weapon was not claws or fists— but fangs.

Everything else was only preparation, to bite and kill without counterattack.
I didn’t know human fighting styles, but I had been drilled in werewolf combat.
Other attacks didn’t work, but a fang strike could wound even the Hero.
That meant I still had a chance of victory.