How to Raise a Dumb Wolf - Chapter 1

The rush of wind. Ragged breathing. The rustle of feet over fallen leaves.

Damp earth. Blood. The sickening stench of rotting flesh and gore.

Les ran through the forest. His powerful limbs could carry him a while longer, and he was not far enough away yet. The lingering scent of blood—enemy and comrade alike—still scoured his sensitive nose from the battlefield behind him, driving him onward. Farther. He had to lead the pursuit farther away before the others would be safe.

Though in truth, he could not be sure the blood he smelled was not simply the blood matted into his own fur.

He could no longer tell whether footsteps still followed him, either. The noise might have been the darkfolk army marching close at his heels, or merely his own paws crashing through layer after layer of dead leaves. It might even have been the ringing in his ears. He knew he had exhausted his strength long ago. He knew perfectly well that a darkfolk enchanted arrow, steeped in dark magic, had pierced his right shoulder.

But for his comrades, for His Majesty, and for the glory of the empire, he could not stop.

Les’s flight had begun several hours earlier, when the war between the beastfolk and the darkfolk—a month-long stalemate over this stretch of territory—had finally reached its conclusion.

They had won, but not decisively enough. The darkfolk had managed to bring in reinforcements after all, and the force that arrived was too vast to confront. A choice had to be made.

In that moment, Les had known that, as a soldier, the decision was his to make.

He understood himself clearly. He might have been one of the army’s most important commanders, but he held that position only because of his identity, his bloodline, and his formidable individual strength. His purpose on the battlefield was to spur the other soldiers onward, to keep them from fearing the violence and bloodshed ahead.

The beastfolk were fierce by nature and quick to answer provocation. Once roused, they did not retreat. Les had always performed his role well. He charged at the front, assumed his beast form, and tore through darkfolk bodies swathed in layer upon layer of magic with fang and claw. By example, he invited the beastfolk warriors to share with him in the glory of blood. Together, they had won one savage, appalling victory after another, until the darkfolk trembled at the mere mention of them.

This time, however, the enemy had plainly come prepared.

And when the strategy was retreat, there was no need for a hero to lead the charge.

The beastfolk were no longer as blindly stubborn as they had once been. They understood now that retreat in war was an honorable tactic, not a disgrace. Yet this time… they might not get away at all.

There had to be… some way.

That was why Les now ran alone through the dark forest.

He was descended from the ancient direwolves: enormous, conspicuous, and always at the head of every charge. Many darkfolk soldiers had seen him and knew he was one of the army’s leaders. They would spot him at a glance and then… follow.

Compared with Salman, the lion general and gifted commander, or Shalina, the learned serpent aide, Les was the one whose sacrifice would harm the army least. He was the most suitable choice.

More importantly, unlike the others, he had no family. His parents had died in battle. He had no brothers or sisters, no household of his own, and naturally no children. That meant the fewest people would grieve for him.

When Shalina proposed the plan, Les saw Salman’s face stiffen for an instant. A serpent’s body could not manage such a task, while an ordinary soldier would never draw enough darkfolk attention. To divide the enemy’s forces, either Les or Salman had to lure at least some of them away—and, ideally, delay them for a time.

Afterward, beastfolk warriors would come to recover whichever body was left and carry it home.

If it was still whole.

Salman was a rare military talent. He also had three lion cubs at home, all born only last year.

So, as straight-backed as ever, Les rose calmly to his feet.

“I’ll go.”

Choosing him was not cruel. It was the sensible decision.

When Salman saw him off, he looked as though he wanted to speak but could not find the words. Les gave him one last nod, his heart full of gratitude. He was thankful to this elder who had cared for him since his parents’ deaths. Without Salman’s help, even after inheriting the wolf clan’s lands and his parents’ titles, Les could never have secured his place in the army so smoothly.

A wolf who earned no glory could hardly be called a wolf at all.

Les truly was grateful for everything Salman had done for him. It was only a pity that he would probably never have the chance to repay him.

…

One day later, in a small town called Philray.

“…There. That should do it.”

Aisha let her taut concentration ease and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The faint golden light cupped between her hands faded with it. When she looked up, the young man before her was still staring without so much as blinking. Thinking he must be nervous, she smiled at him in the hope of putting him at ease.

At the sight of her smile, the young man coughed awkwardly, trying to hide the strange look on his face. His gaze wandered as he searched for something—anything—to say.

“Um… how many days do you think this wound will take to heal?”

Aisha examined it and considered the question seriously. “If all goes well, perhaps another three days. I’m sorry… my ability isn’t especially strong, so I can’t promise it will heal completely. If it starts getting worse, you should still go to the town hospital and see a proper doctor—”

“No, no, no! That isn’t what I meant!”

Realizing she thought he had questioned her skill, the young man protested in alarm. His violent movement only split open the wound that had just stopped bleeding.

“I mean—Aisha—you know—”

Looking at her face, he almost hated himself for being so tongue-tied.

“You’re—you’re amazing. No one else in town can do what you do. Is this magic…? Or isn’t it?”

He genuinely did not know.

People with an aptitude for magic were not common these days, but neither were they vanishingly rare. Even born in a remote town like this, he had seen mages before. But none of them had been like Aisha. Her light was golden and unbroken, while the magic naturally drawn by those other mages had been silver, scattered motes like flecks of starlight. Of course, a small town offered no future to a mage. Most left for a large city to study magic while still young, or as soon as they had completed their basic schooling. The young man had therefore never seen a truly trained mage cast a spell.

He only knew that Aisha was special.

Aisha shook her head.

She had been asked the same question countless times while growing up. When she was eleven or twelve, she had gone to the town’s magical testing center. Old Mr. Claes, who conducted the test, acknowledged that her ability was extraordinary—but it was not magic.

Without formal magical training, raw magic ought to be disordered, without pattern or structure. A young mage might unconsciously arrange magical elements into some peculiar formation by accident and set off a magical reaction, but it could never behave as Aisha’s light did, changing at her conscious command. Still less could it heal.

In any case, Aisha had not received a certificate of magical aptitude. She had therefore never applied to one of the outside schools that provided basic education for aspiring mages and had remained in this little town. She was about to graduate from the upper division of the town’s ordinary school.

What she would do after that… she had not yet decided.

Since the young man had torn his wound open again with his own struggling, Aisha had no choice but to use her ability once more. When the golden light had restored the torn flesh enough for it to begin knitting together, she fetched a bandage and wrapped the injury with practiced turns. She was so intent on her work that she failed to notice the wounded young man stealing glances at her.

At sixteen, she was in the first bloom of youth, lovely even without powder or paint.

Most people admired golden hair and blue-green eyes, considering them the marks of a true beauty. Aisha’s hair was a pale flaxen shade that only just passed for gold, though it shone beautifully. Her eyes were a deep hazel-green, the green nearly invisible unless one looked closely, but they were clear and bright. Strictly speaking, then, Aisha did not possess the fashionable combination of golden hair and blue-green eyes, and yet…

“Your mother must be very beautiful,” the young man blurted out.

“Huh?”

Aisha paused and looked up at him. The mere meeting of their eyes made his heart leap.

She seemed genuinely puzzled by his remark. A soft laugh escaped him, but he hastily suppressed it when he remembered she was right in front of him.

“Well, obviously, because Uncle Byrd looks the way he does. How could he possibly—”

“Possibly what?”

“—Nothing.”

Byrd was her father, after all. Coming to his senses, the young man swallowed the words *possibly have such a pretty daughter* before they escaped. He did not want to anger Aisha or leave her with a bad impression of him, even if it was the truth.

Uncle Byrd was the town’s hunter. He had served in the army once and was exceptionally skilled, but he was stern and taciturn, with a long scar across a face weathered well beyond its years. In truth, the young man knew little about Aisha’s family. Byrd had been born in town, but he had left home at twelve. Fifteen years had passed with almost no one knowing where he had gone or what he had done, until he returned thirteen years ago carrying a daughter in his arms. No one had ever seen his wife.

Even after bringing Aisha home, Byrd had not remained there for long stretches. A hunter by trade, he seemed to roam widely in pursuit of game and spent more than half of every year away. Aisha had essentially been raised by her grandmother, whose legs were bad. But her grandmother had died the year before, and now Aisha was alone at home most of the time.

Thinking of it that way, the young man could not help feeling sorry for her. He dropped the subject of her family and decided to find something else to talk about. For some reason, his mind landed on the news that had arrived that morning about the darkfolk and the beastfolk.

Before he quite knew it, he asked, “By the way, Aisha, have you heard of the Beast Emperor?”

“The Beast Emperor?”

Aisha looked up instinctively.

Seeing that he had caught her interest, the young man brightened. Here at last was a chance to display his learning. He propped an arm on the table, leaned a little closer to her, and launched into an enthusiastic account of everything he knew.

He did not notice that Aisha’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Of course she had heard the title. For certain reasons, she knew even more about its bearer than the man in front of her did.

The Beast Emperor was, as the name suggested, emperor of the beastfolk. Three principal races inhabited the world: humans, beastfolk, and darkfolk. Each occupied a portion of the Ring Continent, their lands sharing borders. Relations among them were consequently bitter, each exerting pressure on the others to preserve a balance, and the world forever alternated between war and brief interludes of peace.

To oppose their rivals, the four human kingdoms had formed the Helman Federation. The beastfolk clans and kingdoms had united into the highly centralized Empire of Beast. The darkfolk had long been joined under a single kingdom known as Duke. For centuries, the three powers had wrestled for advantage until they gradually arrived at the balance that held today.

There was one other formidable power in the world, however, and it remained neutral: Wold, an island in the Divine Sea at the heart of the Ring Continent. Also called the Heart of the World, it was home to many peoples, including several minority races besides the three principal ones. By universal agreement, it was the most advanced and prosperous place in the world. Yet Wold took no part in the continent’s disputes.

On the mainland, the current order dated back twenty-five years, when the beastfolk and humans had signed a peace treaty. They did not wage war, but neither did they open their borders. Both races now concentrated their forces against the darkfolk.

The present Beast Emperor was said to be extraordinarily capable. Under his rule, the beastfolk empire had grown steadily stronger and appeared to hold a certain advantage over the darkfolk. Perhaps it might even break the equilibrium maintained for hundreds—thousands—of years. That seemed favorable to humanity now that relations with the beastfolk had eased. But then… the Beast Emperor who had once waged war on the humans and the one who had later signed the peace treaty with them were the very same man.

The Beast Emperor’s family had always been shrouded in mystery. Their true identity had never been made public, and no one knew what race they belonged to. By beastfolk standards, however, any Beast Emperor was certain to be overwhelmingly powerful.

The current emperor was said to possess the largest true form in his family’s history—so immense that even the imperial throne passed down through generations could not contain him and had to be rebuilt. Nor was his size his only distinction. The new Beast Emperor possessed exceptional wisdom, fearsome political gifts, and astonishing personal charisma… If he ever chose to ally with the darkfolk against humanity, he would be a terrible foe indeed.

Aisha could not help trying to imagine what the Beast Emperor might look like.

A lion? A giant bear?

Somehow, whatever creature she pictured, it never felt quite right.

…

At that very moment, on the far shore of the Divine Sea, in Baika, capital of the Empire of Beast, the leaders of the great beastfolk clans and the kings of the beast kingdoms lay prostrate within a palace more magnificent than the human imagination could conceive. With awe and trepidation, they watched the figure advancing at a measured pace from the far end of the red carpet.

His name was Carter III, the greatest sovereign in beastfolk history.

With every step he took, even the beastfolk elite privileged to enter this hall were forced by the crushing weight of his presence to bow their proud heads lower still.

His Majesty possessed the largest frame ever recorded in the history of the imperial family. His parents and grandparents had all boasted physiques enormous enough to inspire pride, yet even so, the beastfolk could scarcely believe their emperor had grown so vast and majestic. The luxuriant, silken white fur that covered him without a single strand of another color plainly proclaimed the purity of his noble blood. His arrogant, elegant stride embodied imperial dignity to perfection.

He was a flawless emperor, a mighty sovereign who could never be duplicated. What an honor it was to have been born into an age ruled by this noblest of beasts.

At last, the revered emperor settled upon his personal seat—a throne made specially to accommodate his magnificent physique, encrusted with gold and precious stones. Carter III turned his noble head. His stern, mismatched eyes swept over the hundred beasts prostrate at his feet.

After a long silence, he closed one golden eye and one blue. His back arched slightly.

The assembled beasts hurriedly flattened their ears and pressed themselves as close to the floor as they could, displaying the utmost submission. They waited for the earth-shaking roar carried down through the ancient imperial bloodline—

At last, the great Beast Emperor’s eyes flew open. His throat rolled, and he roared—

“Mrrrraaaaoooow!”