I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Twenty-One: A Lesson in Pain
Lucas's Perspective
I launched myself at Richard with the force and fury of a wild animal unleashed, every muscle coiled like a spring, every nerve alight with instinct. It was pure motion—raw, explosive, unstoppable. My claws were outstretched, sharp and gleaming, my teeth bared in a snarl I barely registered. The wind tore past my ears as I surged forward, the distance between us disappearing in an instant.
I lashed out with my left hand, aiming straight for his chest—right over the heart. I meant to rip through him, to end this in a single, decisive blow.
But I missed.
By a whisper. A breath. A fraction of an inch.
Richard leaned just enough—subtle, effortless—and my claw caught nothing but empty air. He moved like mist, like smoke curling away from fire. There was no resistance, no clash of strength. Just absence.
And I was already moving too fast, too hard, to stop.
Momentum dragged me past him, and before I could even begin to slow myself, I was hurtling toward the back wall of the cabin like a missile. But I didn't freeze. I didn't falter. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I twisted midair, planting one foot against the wooden wall and springing off it like a predator rebounding off stone. My bones felt the shock, but I didn't care. I twisted again, angling myself back toward Richard with a snarl rising in my throat.
This time, I didn't think.
I surrendered.
Let the beast inside me take over—let it flood my limbs, seize control of my senses. No hesitation. No fear. Just the purity of instinct and need. The need to strike. To win.
I came at him harder. Faster. Deadlier.
My claws sliced the air in a flurry of swipes, my fists struck out in rapid jabs, and my feet moved on their own—spinning, kicking, shifting with wild, precise energy. I was a storm. A blaze. Fire in motion.
And still… I couldn't touch him.
Not once.
Every strike I made passed through where he had been, not where he was. He didn't block me. He didn't counter. He didn't even raise his hands. He simply wasn't there. He moved like wind around a tree, like water around stone—graceful, fluid, untouchable.
I was fighting a ghost.
"Impressive," Richard said, almost lazily, as he slid aside from another slash like he was stepping over a puddle. "You've merged your instincts with your body. They're not clashing—they're aligned. You're already beyond most average hunters, Lucas."
He spoke without strain. Without breathlessness.
And then—for the first time—he moved.
He struck.
A feint toward my head—quick, sharp, meant to distract.
My arms shot up automatically, trying to block the blow—
But it was a trap.
His fist slammed into my stomach with terrifying force. No warning. No hesitation.
Pain exploded through me.
It felt like something had caved in. A battering ram of a punch that drove every last breath from my lungs. My knees buckled. My vision fuzzed. My body screamed—but there wasn't even enough air in my chest to cry out.
I tried to regroup. To pull myself together.
Then his hands came down like thunder.
A bone-rattling clap against both sides of my head.
Sound vanished.
A deafening POP burst inside my skull. My ears rang so loud it felt like knives were digging into my brain. My sense of direction spun. I couldn't hear anything—only that awful, endless ringing.
And then came the final strike.
His uppercut caught me clean beneath the jaw. My head snapped back. My feet left the ground. I was airborne for a heartbeat, helpless.
Then I hit the ground like a dropped puppet.
Everything inside me screamed. My gut was wrecked. My jaw throbbed. My ears felt like they were bleeding. I couldn't move. Could barely think. I just lay there, gasping, disoriented, staring up at a painfully blue sky.
It was over.
I'd lost.
He wasn't faster than me.
He was smarter.
More precise. More experienced. While I relied on power and speed, he relied on understanding. Calculation. Skill. And the worst part?
I never stood a chance.
Every movement I made—every twitch, every breath—he read me like a book. He anticipated where I would be before I got there. I didn't fight him.
He studied me.
He knew me.
I'd thrown myself at him with everything I had, thinking I could overwhelm him with strength and aggression.
And he'd dismantled me in less than a minute.
I wasn't even a threat.
He stepped into my field of view, arms crossed over his chest, posture relaxed, gaze clear and steady. There was no mockery in his expression. No arrogance. Just the calm authority of someone who had done this before—many times.
"Lesson one," he said, his voice cutting through the haze in my head, sharp even over the ringing in my ears. "Strength means nothing if you don't know how to use it."
I couldn't nod. Couldn't speak.
But I heard him.
And somewhere, deep beneath the pain, beneath the bruises and the humiliation, the wolf inside me stirred.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
But hungry.
Hungry for knowledge. For mastery. For power with purpose.
Because I'd lost today. Badly. Thoroughly.
But it wasn't the end of my story.
It was just the beginning.