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But even wounded, he was the Hero nonetheless.

“GWOOOH!!”

With a roar, the Hero swung his knife down at me. His magic power was nearly gone.
I barely managed to dodge the sluggish strike, dulled by pain.
I knocked aside his hand and forced him down onto the black floor.

At this point, the fight was even.
The Hero and I were fighting with our very lives on the line.
Would my fangs tear out his throat first, or would his knife pierce my neck first?

The Hero’s strength of arm was more than a match for mine. Yet he didn’t try to pin me down.
Could it be, was he still wary of the guards around us?
He had deliberately spared the royal guards earlier, using their presence to restrain the Demon Lord’s movements.
But now those same guards had become shackles on him.

Every little component worked in my favor, and only now could I finally stand equal to the Hero. Aside from the one strike of my fangs at full force, nothing else could wound him.
Meanwhile, he could damage me with a single punch or kick. Even a moment’s carelessness would mean being knocked out and finished.

But I refused to lose. Hero or not, I’d never acknowledge a b̲a̲s̲t̲a̲r̲d̲ like him.
Feigning a bite at his throat, I instead sank my fangs into his right wrist as he tried to defend.
I bit down with all my might, crushing the joint. That hand was now useless.

But in that instant, his left fist slammed into me with brute force.
It was the strength of a giant. My vision went hazy for a moment.

When I came to, he had me pinned beneath him.
The Hero’s face twisted in rage, consumed by fury.

“B̲a̲s̲t̲a̲r̲d̲!”

Not good.
He drew back his left fist, ready to unleash a wild, crushing blow. One strike and I was finished.

I was trapped under him, unable to move, like being crushed beneath a boulder.
The guards leveled their spears, but they wouldn’t make it in time.
Was this the end?
I steeled myself for death, but as a last act of desperation, I struck back with magic.

I had no offensive spells. The only magic I could use on others was to enhance or heal the body.
So I used that.

Just before his fist came down, I managed to cast a spell.
A desperate healing spell.
The most basic one of all.

“GWAAAHHH!?”

The Hero let out a scream of agony unlike anything before. He clutched at his shin and right wrist, writhing.
For a moment, his movements stopped completely.

The spell I used was the same one my master once cast on Dog, the Beast-Ogre captain—
a spell that hastens natural healing by forcing wounds to knit rapidly.
It costs little magic, but in exchange, the wound undergoes abnormal cell division, causing unbearable pain until it heals.
It’s never used in battle, merely as a “prerequisite step” to move on to better spells.

If such magic is forced onto wounds mangled by a werewolf’s fangs, the unnatural healing only multiplies the pain to unimaginable levels.
An ordinary man would faint in an instant.

As expected of the Hero, he remained conscious, but even he shouldn’t be able to endure the soul-searing pain.
With my heart grateful to my master, I seized this opening.
I threw his body aside and pinned him to the floor. This fleeting moment was my only chance.
I would end him here.

I sank my fangs into the Hero’s throat.
My werewolf’s fangs ripped away more than half his neck.
A spray of blood drenched my vision in crimson.
There was no scream.

Choking on the reek of blood, I staggered to my feet. My every breath stank of iron.
When I wiped my face, I saw the Hero writhing in a lake of blood.

Terrifyingly, he was still trying to stand. But the massive blood loss slowed him rapidly.
The healing magic I had forced on him was utterly useless.
Drowning in his own blood, the Hero’s life ebbed away.

The Hero’s eyes, wide with fear and shock, locked on me.
His lips, sputtering blood, tried to form words. His trembling left hand pointed toward me.
What was he trying to say? I couldn’t tell.

At that moment, I remembered—I had never told him my name.

“I am Veit. Just a Vice Commander.”

Whether those words reached him or not, I’ll never know.
His hand sank into the pool of blood, the light fading from his eyes.
That was the end of Aerschis the Hero.

The surviving guards and I stood in silence. I staggered, leaning against a collapsed stone pillar.
Exhaustion forced me out of my werewolf form, my body reverting on its own. That had never happened before.
My vision grew narrower, darker—the recoil of Fanatic Burn had arrived.

Stumbling, I made my way to the fallen Demon Lord. My body felt like it was dragging a boulder.
His Majesty no longer moved. His life’s flame had already been extinguished, his magic utterly gone. No mage alive could heal him now.
I only wished I could have spoken a final word of farewell.

But I too didn’t know what fate awaited me. My body screamed in agony from the reckless boost.
In the end, I spoke to him in Japanese:

“I avenged you, my lord.”

No longer would demons have to fear the Hero.
So please, rest in peace.

Suddenly, the world went dark.
Since becoming a werewolf, I had never known true darkness. But now, I was swallowed by it.
If I die like this, will I see you again, Your Majesty?
That thought crossed my mind—
And then my consciousness was gone.