Oliver tore through the mire of the forest, his bare soles colliding with the clammy ground in a squelching rhythm. Teeth gritted, he endured the assault of rocks, twigs, and the gnarled remnants of the woodland piercing his tender flesh. In this very moment, he sought to lure the beast toward him, a gamble pulsating with adrenaline.

The weight of his boots would only hinder his progress, their clunky presence serving as an unwanted anchor. Rain, a shroud of anonymity, cloaked his scent, but the auditory trail he left would be a siren call to the creature.

His Imposter Power, a formidable tool in lesser confrontations, was useless against a monstrosity of such magnitude. Even shattering a moderate object upon the fiend's slavering visage had drained him of vitality, leaving behind a residue of exhaustion that coursed through his veins. Though his sword had shattered, its blade retained its keen edge. His strength had waned, yet if this plan succeeded, he could finally find solace and respite.

In his father's tutelage, honing his skills through countless wargames, Oliver had learned the crucial significance of understanding one's adversaries. In the realm of video games and board games where father and son clashed, he observed him keenly.

His father, the embodiment of strategy, favored a ferocious offensive approach. Deploying tanks, infantry, and air supremacy with unwavering force, he would strike Oliver with unparalleled power. As a young child, ignorant of the ways of war, Oliver would emulate his father's tactics.

Their virtual armies clashed in a cacophony of pixelated fury, each side vying for military dominance. Planes assailed planes, tanks decimated tanks, while infantry massacred their counterparts. Such warfare, devoid of finesse, was crude and unenlightened.

Blinded to the subtle artistry of ambushes, Oliver fell victim to his father's relentless onslaughts. Attack after attack, his father routed him with a calculated precision, epitomizing the essence of strategy—adapting, feinting, blocking, and obliterating.

Victory eluded him until he discerned the intricate patterns woven within his father's playstyle. Picking up on the units his father favored, the tank battalions, the naval fleets. Anticipating which command post he would defend and how he would utilize his elite troops in either siege warfare or safeguarding his main stronghold.

The Werewolf, a grotesque aberration in this world, its abominable flesh stitched together in an unholy tapestry, its transformation an unspeakable horror. Yet, Oliver had managed to draw blood, for if it bled... it could be slain.

His strikes, while lacking the desired depth, inflicted harm upon the creature, plunging it into agonizing torment. But the beast had grown wise to his technique, sensing Oliver's trepidation. Failure was not an option anymore; it was do or die. Escape was no longer a refuge to be sought.

Dozia's voice reverberated within his mind once more, whispering a single word, "Honor." Yes, this act, this audacious attempt to fell a superior foe, carried a weight of righteousness. There was something profoundly noble in this act.

Feverish delusions intermingled with the nervous anticipation of his plan, unearthing something primal, dormant within him. A visceral sensation, buried deep in the recesses of his humanity, unfathomable and raw.

A nervous chuckle, strangled and taut, escaped his lips, rippling through the clearing as he felt the tension coil within his every movement.

The beast, cunning as it was, could still be deceived. It bled, and that meant it could be killed. This was his trial, his moment of reckoning. He had people relying on him, and he would be damned if he abandoned them when they needed him the most.

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And then, he sensed it. The shift in the wind, the prickling of his senses, alerting him that something watched, something hunted. He had been found. The ragged breaths of the monster echoed through the air, its paws sinking into the treacherous, slick mud.

A scream erupted from his mouth—a blend of fear and exhilaration. His piercing blue eyes scanned the fringes of the forest, knowing that the beast pursued him relentlessly.

"Faster!" he urged himself, the surge of adrenaline overpowering all other thoughts and sensations that ravaged his body. The fear of death, the nagging doubts, the searing pain of his wounds—all faded into insignificance as a single, urgent imperative consumed him: run.

He burst through the forest's edge, his footing faltering. "Fuck!" he bellowed, tumbling down the gentle slope. Amidst the tumult, his gaze caught a fleeting glimpse of the creature's beady eyes. It lunged, but his body, slick with rain and mud, allowed him to narrowly evade the strike.

Still, he felt the cutting wind, the razor's edge that could have claimed his throat or severed his head. Springing onto all fours, he regained his footing, his eyes fixated on the peculiar stone monument that stirred a sense of eerie familiarity.

With a surge of determination, he pressed forward, hurling himself into one of the cracked openings. Darkness swallowed him whole, accompanied by the rhythmic patter of rain. He could hear the creature, its clawed fingers screeching and sparking as it forced its way through the tight aperture.

Oliver stood tall, his gaze locked on the approaching monstrosity, slowly making his way to the other side of the monument as the creature growled and writhed, half-emerged from the opening.

"I've got you," he murmured under his breath.

Oliver hurled himself through the opening, his palm radiating an orange glow. His eyes shifted to a lighter shade as he extended his right hand, an invisible tether, a third limb. It felt... repulsive and alien, as if he wielded another person's hand instead of his own. Amidst the chaos and emotional turmoil spawned by the slaver, he hadn't truly grasped its strangeness. But now, in this crucial moment that demanded clear thought...

He shook his head, dismissing the contemplation. There was no time for introspection. The moment called for vanquishing the creature, for triumphing in the trial. Blood trickled down his nose, and he fought against it, refusing to succumb to weakness.

He knew he lacked the strength to bring the entire structure down, but if he focused his power on a single column, a solitary beam in this already precarious foundation... The werewolf, edging closer, breached the building within his peripheral vision.

Oliver's gaze swept through the wreckage, a bead of fear slicing through him. The snapping and crumbling of the column echoed in his ears, but would it be enough to bring down the werewolf?

Fear coursed through his veins, invasive thoughts writhing within him, as he fought against them in a battle of not only physical strength, but sheer willpower. What if the werewolf didn't perish? What if the column shattered but failed to topple the entire structure? What if this was where he met his demise?

But Oliver knew he couldn't afford such doubts. His father's teachings warned against surrendering to fear's clutches, and now was the time for action. The creature lunged, thrusting its body through the opening, wedged halfway as it aimed its deadly claws at Oliver.

Talons whipped perilously close to his body, yet he couldn't move. Not now. Then, he heard it.

The column snapped, a symphony of sound erupting as the entire building tilted askew... and then, silence. Oliver quickly stepped back, avoiding the grasp of exhaustion, just in case he was swallowed by the debris. He stood amidst the swirl of dust and rain, his eyes fixed on the devastation before him.

Was it over?

The question was answered in an instant as he stared at the rubble. His gaze locked on the mangled hand of the werewolf, snapped and bent in grotesque angles, buried beneath the weight of the fallen structure.

Oliver had emerged victorious.

Yet, he felt nothing. Not even in the wake of triumph. Perhaps, the sensation was dulled by exhaustion and the pain that accompanied such a hard-won victory. He maneuvered through the wreckage, aware that the trial was far from finished.

A pulsing throb resonated within his mind. His eyes shifted to the brand on his left hand, the tracing of light etching across his skin as he raised it. And then, he saw it—a monument.

As if touched by the grace of a divine entity, it stood tall and resolute amidst the remnants of the old structure. Relatively unscathed, it exuded an aura of ancient power, adorned with mystical inscriptions and archaic glyphs. Oliver's eyes shimmered beneath it, ensnared by its presence. The only parallel he could draw was the enigmatic orb that had transported him to this new world.

Raising his hand, he hesitated for a moment, then pressed his palm against the stone. His gaze snapped to the heavens, and in that moment, clarity washed over him.