Chapter 226: The Pack Bastards
"Level 98," Voss rumbled, his voice cracking like a whip over the steady rhythm of marching boots. He didn’t even look back as he flicked a piece of dried gore off his knuckles. "Two more fights like that Hilltop mess and I’ll be hitting the triple digits. I can practically feel the new skill."
"Oh, please," Lucan drawled, flickering from a shadow near the guardrail to a spot right beside Damien’s swaying snake-tail. "You’ve been ’feeling the evolution’ for three days, Voss. At this rate, the apocalypse will end before you actually sprout that second set of fangs you keep promising us. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at a comfortable 96, and I don’t smell like a wet dog."
Ivan snorted, "Level is just a number until you’re facing a group of coordinated hostiles. But if we’re measuring, I’m at 97. And I did it without hiding in the shadows like a coward."
Felicity’s laughter sparkled like a melody in the air, her playful spirit dancing amidst our conversations. "You guys resemble teenagers comparing basketball scores," she teased, her gaze bright with mischief. "Should any of you achieve Level 100, do I receive a cake? Or shall the universe succumb to the overwhelming force of your brooding prowess?"
She looked up at Damien, poking his firm chest. "What about you, Mr Aerodynamic? Are you hitting a century soon, or are you too busy carrying me to level up?"
Damien’s eyes met hers with possessive intensity, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he embraced her closeness. "At 98, each step taken with you is a stride towards power," he responded huskily, his touch conveying both strength and tenderness.
"Gross," Luna chirped from where she was trotting near Victor’s heels. "Dad’s being mushy again. Frost, make a face." Frost obligingly stuck out his tongue, though he was busy trying to mimic Dimitri’s silent, predatory stride.
Further back in the group, a different kind of tension was brewing, one fueled by a crisis of identity. Ash, Kai, Sam, and Legend, the core guys who had once identified with the ’Followers of the Light’—were walking in a tight, agitated circle.
"We can’t keep calling ourselves that," Ash muttered, his dark gaze scanning the treeline. "Those creepy cult guys we ran into have ruined the word ’Light’ for everyone. Now it just sounds like we’re part of a group that steals women, it’s weird."
"Exactly," Kai added, adjusting the strap of his gear. "I’m not being associated with guys who try to ’cleanse’ people. We need a new name. Something... fierce. Something that says ’we will kill you,’ but also ’we actually have a life.’"
Legend rubbed his chin, his expression dead serious. "How about... The Silver Guardians? It’s classic. It’s shiny."
"Too much like a brand of tinfoil," Sam countered with a groan. "What about The Blood Pack? No, wait, that’s too edgy. The Moon-Slayers?"
"We haven’t slain the moon yet, Sam. Let’s keep our goals realistic," Ash replied.
Felicity, overhearing the frantic brainstorming, twisted around in Damien’s arms, her blonde ponytail swinging. "How about ’The Fluffy Death Squad’?" she suggested, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Or ’The Men Who Carry My Snacks’? It’s descriptive, it’s honest, and it really strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies.
The men of the former Light order went deathly quiet.
"Fel, we are trying to establish a name for the history books," Legend said, though his lips were twitching.
"A history of what? Being obsessed lights, or with me?" Felicity laughed, the sound bright and musical. "Listen, if you want to distance yourselves from the creepy cult guys, you need something that sounds less like a religion and more like a problem. How about... The Vanguard? Or better yet, The Pack Bastards?"
Victor let out a bark of laughter, his golden wings giving a sharp, amused flap. "I like that last one. It has a certain... accuracy."
"No!" Kai shouted, though he was grinning. "We are not being called ’The Bastards’! What about The Dawn Breakers?"
"Taken by a breakfast cereal brand in the Old World, probably," Felicity shot back. "Come on, boys! You’re Level 95 plus! Use those big, evolved brains. If you can’t think of a name, I’m naming you ’The Peach bums’, and you’ll just have to live with the shame."
"The Peach Cuties," Ivan rumbled, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at his mouth. "I can see the banners now, very intimidating."
The banter continued for miles, a necessary shield against the grim reality of the road. But as the sun began to hang low and heavy, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges, the levity died a sudden, agonising death.
"Movement," he mouthed.
From the rooftops of the stalled trucks, a dozen figures rose. Scavengers, mismatched gear, levels hovering in the late 80s and early 90s, just enough to be dangerous. Not enough to know better.
"Well," a Hyena beastman at the centre said into his megaphone, drawing the word out like he was enjoying it. "Look at that. A whole little parade." His eyes found Felicity and stayed there. "And what is that in the middle? A pregnant blonde? Gentlemen. Do you have any idea what an unclaimed female is worth on the coast right now? Carrying, no less?"
Nobody moved.
The Hyena took that as an invitation. "We’re reasonable men. Hand her over, and maybe we’ll even let you watch us go."
The silence that followed was not the silence of hesitation. Victor’s wings came open full span, the shadow of them swallowing the nearest truck whole, and the pressure of his aura hit the scavengers like a wall of sound with no sound in it. Beside him, Ivan’s knuckles had gone white. Voss had already stopped being entirely Voss.
"Are you finished?" Victor said. It was not a question.
The Hyena laughed and raised his hand.
The trailer latches cracked open not in front of them but ehind. Thirty high-level beastmen flooded out of the rear, powers ready already running, driving straight the centre of the pack.
"Victor!" Richard’s voice cracked across the chaos. "Behind us"
The pincer closed.
Beastmen on the heights. Feral warriors at their backs and Felicity standing exactly where both sides were aiming.