The morning light filtered through the dense canopy of the Primal Hunting Grounds, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor. Myron stood inside the Alpha’s Hut, the faint hum of the administrative interface surrounding him. He tapped the glowing runes, the translucent menus flickering to life, revealing the heartbeat of his growing territory.
The room felt alive, the weight of power and potential almost tangible. Myron smirked as he navigated the interface, his sharp eyes scanning the details laid bare before him.
“Let’s see what we’re working with today,” he muttered to himself.
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The interface displayed a summary of his domain. The Moonlit Den, Bloodstone Forge, and Hunting Grounds pulsed faintly on the display, their current statuses outlined in precise, glowing text.
“Upgrades available,” Myron murmured, scrolling through the options. His finger hovered over the Moonlit Den, the details flashing before him: increased recruitment speed, improved morale bonuses. The cost—10 Bloodstone, 5 leather, 100 food—was steep, but the benefits were undeniable.
He leaned back, his smirk widening. “Good. This place needs to grow as fast as I do.”
Kaela Moonhowl entered quietly, her silver hair catching the soft glow of the interface. She stood a respectful distance away, her staff resting lightly in her hand.
“The pack is restless,” she said softly. “The new recruits are eager, but Fenris remains... distant.”
“He’ll pull his weight,” Myron replied, dismissive. “Or I’ll make him.”
Kaela’s eyes lingered on him. “And the rest of us? What’s your plan?”
Myron tapped the interface, pulling up a list of Quests that shimmered like ethereal scrolls. He gestured to them with a faint grin. “The plan is simple. We work. Everyone has a job. That’s how this place grows.”
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Myron strode out of the Alpha’s Hut, the morning air cool against his skin. The pack was gathered near the Moonlit Den, their eyes snapping to him as he emerged. The recruits from the day before stood alongside the fresh faces of the latest arrivals, a mix of warriors, workers, and leaders. Myron looked them over, his smirk sharp.
“We have five days before the barrier falls,” he began, his voice carrying across the clearing. “Five days to take what we need, build what we must, and make sure no one—player, NPC, or beast—can stand against us.”
The pack growled softly in agreement, the tension in the air palpable. Myron began issuing commands with the precision of a general.
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“Ragnar,” Myron called, gesturing to the towering werewolf who stood by the edge of the group. “You’re leading the hunt. Take the Feral Claw and Prowler Fang with you. Wolves are skirting the border—kill them, skin them, and bring the leather back.”
Ragnar nodded, his golden eyes gleaming. “Consider it done.”
Myron turned to the smaller lycan holding a pouch slung over his shoulder. “Wild Gatherer, you’re with the Herbalist. Start combing the eastern forest for food and herbs. Moon Hunter,” he added, pointing to the deadly hybrid standing near the rear, “cover them. If anything so much as growls at them, kill it.”
The Wild Gatherer nodded eagerly, while the Herbalist offered a small smile. The Moon Hunter said nothing, only inclining his head in silent acknowledgment.
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“Thoran,” Myron said, his gaze locking on the wiry scout lounging near the tree line, “I want the area mapped. Take the Tracker and Pathfinder with you. Your job is simple: find me Bloodstone veins, defensible landmarks, and anything worth claiming. If there are NPCs nearby, I want to know their numbers and weaknesses.”
Thoran grinned, already hefting his gear. “You got it, Alpha.”
Myron’s eyes shifted to Kaela and the Shadow Stalker. “You two are heading northeast. There’s a ruin there the system flagged. I want to know what’s inside and if it’s worth keeping. Shadow Stalker,” he added, his tone firm, “keep her safe.”
The shadowy figure nodded once, his glowing eyes the only visible part of his face. “She won’t need much saving.”
Kaela glanced at Myron. “And what if there’s something dangerous?”
“Then handle it,” Myron replied flatly, before adding with a smirk, “or run. Either way, bring back something useful.”
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“Territory Warden,” Myron called, his sharp tone silencing the murmurs of the gathered pack. The scarred lycan stepped forward, his imposing frame tense with readiness. “Patrol the borders. You and the Beast Tamer are on guard duty. I don’t want anything getting in—or out—without my knowing.”
The Warden nodded, his expression grim. The Beast Tamer, her braided hair adorned with feathers and small bones, smiled faintly as her massive wolf companion growled softly at her side.
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System Notification
As the pack dispersed, each to their assigned tasks, a soft chime echoed through the air. Myron glanced up as a glowing message appeared above the Moonlit Den:
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Recruitment Update:
Additional recruits now require resources:
Tier 1–3 Units: 10–40 Meat or Bloodstones.
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Myron chuckled, shaking his head. “Figures,” he muttered. “The system’s always hungry.”
Kaela lingered nearby, her gaze steady. “You’re using everyone,” she said quietly.
“That’s the point,” Myron replied, turning toward her. “Every wolf, every resource, every scrap of meat—they’re all tools. If they don’t work, they’re wasted.”
“And Fenris?” Kaela asked, her tone cautious. “Is he just a tool too?”
Myron’s smirk widened. “No,” he said, his voice low. “He’s a test.”
Kaela tilted her head slightly, as though studying him. “For him, or for you?”
Myron didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the forest as the sounds of his pack at work filled the air. “Let’s find out.”
The morning howl of the pack echoed through the territory as Myron strode back into the clearing. The second day had begun, and with it, the march toward power.
Top of Form
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The sun hung low in the sky, its fading light casting long shadows through the Primal Hunting Grounds. Myron stood near the Alpha’s Hut, his sharp gaze fixed on Thoran Swiftclaw and the Pathfinder, who had just returned from their scouting mission. Dust and leaves clung to their fur, evidence of their hours spent weaving through the dense forest.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“We found it,” Thoran announced, his voice steady but tinged with unease. “The Bloodstone vein is there, near the northern border. It’s a good deposit.”
“And?” Myron pressed, his smirk faint but his tone pointed.
The Pathfinder stepped forward, holding a crude map marked with clawed lines. “Tracks. Not wolves—something heavier. It looks like a small NPC group, maybe scavengers or miners. We didn’t see them directly, but they’ve been through there recently.”
Myron’s smirk deepened, his gaze flicking toward the edge of the clearing where Fenris lingered, half in shadow, as though the scene before him was of no consequence.
“Perfect,” Myron said, his voice carrying enough weight to draw the attention of the pack. “Something worth taking—and something to remind them this is our land.”
He turned toward Fenris, his expression sharpening. “Fenris.”
The feral werewolf didn’t move at first, his glowing eyes shifting toward Myron, glowing faintly in the dimming light. There was a flicker of something in those eyes—curiosity? Amusement? Fenris remained still, letting the weight of Myron’s words settle before he bothered to respond. “What?” he said finally, his voice low, as though he were already tired of the conversation.
“The northern border. A Bloodstone vein. Tracks suggest someone else has been sniffing around.” Myron gestured toward the map, though he didn’t bother offering it to Fenris. The unspoken message was clear: Myron expected obedience, not negotiation. “You’re going to clear it out.”
Fenris tilted his head, his lips pulling back into a faint snarl. He could sense the tension radiating from the other pack members—nervous, wary. They didn’t understand what he was doing, why he pushed Myron the way he did. “You’re sending me to play cleanup again? For some rocks?” His tone carried just enough defiance to stir the air, his claws flexing idly.
“No,” Myron replied, stepping forward until the tension between them rippled through the air. “I’m sending you to prove you’re more than just dead weight. Go alone. Clear out the area. And bring me proof the vein is ours.”
Fenris’s growl deepened, low and dangerous, as his eyes locked onto Myron’s unwavering stare. Part of him wanted to push further, to test the Alpha’s limits—see where Myron’s confidence turned to bluster. Yet, there was a flicker of something grudging in Fenris’s thoughts, an acknowledgment he wasn’t ready to voice: Myron was growing into the role. Slowly, stubbornly, but undeniably. Still, he wouldn’t make it easy. A strong Alpha needed strong opposition, and Fenris wasn’t about to roll over.
“Unless, of course, you’re worried you can’t handle it,” Myron added, his smirk sharp and deliberate.
Fenris huffed, the challenge igniting a faint spark of amusement in his chest. Myron didn’t flinch—not from the tension in the clearing or the collective nervousness of the pack. He’s learning, Fenris thought, a faint grin curling at the edge of his lips. But life isn’t a game. If he thinks I’ll follow without question, he’s mistaken. Still, there was something satisfying in watching this untested Alpha refuse to back down. Myron was earning his respect piece by piece, but Fenris would make sure he never got comfortable.
“Careful, pup,” Fenris said finally, his voice gravelly, his claws flexing as he leaned forward slightly. “You keep talking like that, and one day, someone’s going to remind you what happens to overconfident Alphas.”
“I’m counting on it,” Myron shot back, his tone cold and precise. “Now go. The longer you wait, the more likely those rocks are gone—and then, so are you.”
For a long moment, Fenris didn’t move, his glowing eyes locked on Myron’s. The pack held its collective breath, the tension in the clearing so thick it seemed to weigh down the very air. Then, with a low, guttural laugh, Fenris straightened. “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll deal with your little intruders. But when I come back, you’d better have something better for me.”
As he turned toward the forest, Fenris’s grin lingered. Myron was getting there. Not quite yet the Alpha Fenris would willingly follow, but enough to keep him curious—and enough to make him think this pack might be worth sticking around for. Still, it didn’t hurt to keep the young Alpha on his toes. A leader who wasn’t vigilant was a leader destined to fall.
Myron watched as Fenris disappeared into the shadows, his massive frame melting into the forest. The clearing fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the nearby fire. A branch snapped under Fenris’s heavy step, the sound sharp and deliberate, like a warning left hanging in the air. The pack shifted uneasily, the noise echoing in their minds as they silently wondered if he would return—and what might follow if he didn’t.
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Ragnar Bloodfang, who had been standing near the fire, finally spoke. “You’re testing him harder every time,” he said, his tone cautious. His golden eyes flicked toward the forest where Fenris had vanished, lingering as though trying to predict the feral werewolf’s next move. “What if he decides he’s done playing along?”
“Then he’s no use to me,” Myron replied, his smirk faint but firm. His gaze swept over the pack, noting the subtle shifts in their expressions. There was still tension, but something had changed. Fenris had gone out on Myron’s command, and that simple act—despite its begrudging nature—had begun to chip away at the doubts clinging to the group. “But he’ll come back. He’s too stubborn not to.”
Ragnar’s brows furrowed, and he crossed his arms, his weight shifting as though testing the ground beneath him. “You’re sure about that?” His voice was quieter this time, less confrontational. The faintest hint of reluctant respect crept into his tone, though it was buried beneath layers of concern.
Kaela Moonhowl stepped forward, her silver hair catching the fading sunlight. She spoke softly, her words probing without accusation. “And if the intruders are more than he can handle?”
As she asked, Kaela’s gaze lingered on Myron, her expression unreadable. Inwardly, she wrestled with conflicting thoughts. Myron’s confidence had begun to edge toward something more solid, more purposeful—but was it enough? She wasn’t blind to the risks he was taking or the way his gambit relied on Fenris returning intact. Myron was growing into his role, but Kaela wondered if he was building strength—or just rolling the dice one too many times.
“Then we’ll know how strong he really is,” Myron said, his tone measured but cold. “And we’ll deal with whatever’s left.” His smirk grew sharper, though the weight of his own gamble pressed against him. For all his confidence, he knew Fenris was no ordinary asset. He wasn’t just testing Fenris—he was proving to the pack that he could command a wolf no one else could control.
The pack exchanged glances, their unease still palpable but no longer openly voiced. A younger recruit muttered under his breath, “He did go… maybe the Alpha knows what he’s doing.” The words weren’t meant to carry, but the sharp ears of those nearby picked them up, drawing faint nods from a few of the recruits. Their doubts hadn’t vanished, but the seeds of belief were beginning to take root.
Ragnar broke the silence again, his voice low but more contemplative. “Fenris is strong. Stronger than most of us. If he decides to turn, he won’t go quietly.”
“Strength without discipline is just chaos,” Myron replied, his smirk widening slightly. “He’ll either learn to control it—or I’ll control him.” The firelight reflected in his golden eyes, casting a faint predatory glint. Myron’s words carried more than arrogance this time—they carried conviction. He wasn’t just posturing; he was building something. The pack could sense it, even if they weren’t ready to admit it.
Kaela tilted her head slightly, her tone softer now. “And if you’re wrong?” she asked, though the edge in her voice had lessened. “What if Fenris comes back, but not to obey?”
Myron’s smirk faded into something colder, more determined. “Then he’ll be dealt with like any threat. This pack doesn’t have room for insubordination, no matter how strong the wolf.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the finality of his words echoed through the clearing.
The pack’s unease lingered, but there was no denying the shift in their energy. They weren’t fully convinced yet—Fenris was still an unpredictable factor—but Myron’s command over the feral wolf had started to make them reconsider their doubts. Even Ragnar, whose cautious nature often kept him at odds with Myron’s risk-taking, gave a slight nod, as though acknowledging the possibility that Myron’s gamble might just pay off.
“This isn’t just about Fenris,” Myron said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. “It’s about this pack. Every move we make is a step toward proving who we are. Fenris isn’t testing just me—he’s testing all of us. Whether we’re strong enough to lead, fight, and survive.”
The younger wolves straightened at his words, their gazes flicking between each other and their Alpha. The fire crackled in the stillness, and though the wariness hadn’t vanished entirely, the tension felt different now. It wasn’t fear—it was anticipation.
Ragnar gave a faint grunt, his sharp eyes meeting Myron’s. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he said simply, but his tone lacked the earlier skepticism.
As the firelight flickered and the first stars appeared in the sky, Myron turned back toward the Alpha’s Hut, his mind already moving ahead. Fenris was a challenge, but one he intended to master. The Bloodstone vein would be theirs, and when Fenris returned, the pack would take another step closer to becoming something more.
The day wasn’t over yet, and neither was Myron’s battle for dominance.