Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War Chapter 42: The Betrayer’s Howl The Battlefield Breathes Smoke coiled like dying serpents across the valley. Wolves limped among the dead, dragging bodies into crude pyres. The stench of burned fur and god-blood clung to every breath. Azael sat slumped against shattered stone, his body trembling, black fire smoldering faintly from cracks in his flesh. His claws were dark now, silver long since burned away in the Blood Price. Lyra crouched beside him, her hands stained with his blood, her blade broken at her side. “You can’t keep burning yourself like this,” she whispered. Azael’s eyes opened slowly. They were no longer wolf, no longer human—just twin voids with silver stars glowing at their center. “I can,” he rasped. “Until there’s nothing left.” The Sutra whispered like a lullaby in his skull. And that moment draws closer. The Council’s Gambit The Dragon writhed in the distance, half-dead but unyielding. The Stag crawled across broken

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War Chapter 44: Chains of the Forgotten The Quiet Before Ash drifted like snow. The battlefield—once alive with fire and silence—now lay in ruin. Wolves limped through blood and bone, dragging the wounded, whispering prayers to those who would never rise again. Azael lay cradled in Lyra’s arms, his chest a furnace of pain, his breath shallow. His claws were dim, fire nearly gone. But his eyes still burned, defiance refusing to die. The Devourer was gone. The Council remained. The Mask of Silence watched from afar, its cracked face tilted, hands clasped behind its back. The Dragon coiled, licking blood from its scales. The Stag leaned on its broken antler like a staff. The Jackal crouched low, laughter bubbling in its throat. They had seen the Alpha stand. They had seen him howl with a thousand voices. They would not allow it again. The Council’s Gift The Mask of Silence raised its hand. The ground trembled. Shadows stretched into lines, lin

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War Chapter 46: The Mask Shatters The Dragon’s Ashes The battlefield still smoldered where the Dragon had fallen. Its body, once armored in molten scales, was nothing but ruin. Wolves tore its carcass apart, howling victory, their eyes burning with Alpha’s fire. But Azael did not howl. He stood over the corpse, claws dripping fire and blood, his chest heaving. His eyes glowed with that new light—not Sutra’s blaze, not borrowed power, but his own. The Doctor’s Howl. Yet he knew this was no end. The Jackal rose from the rubble, arm broken, mask cracked. The Stag limped, its antler shattered. And at the center of it all, untouched, unbent, unbroken, the Mask of Silence stood. The chains that had failed it still whispered faintly around its body, coiling like serpents awaiting command. Its cracked mask gleamed in the moonlight. And though it had no mouth, Azael could feel it smile. The Council’s Dread The Jackal spat blood, laughter bubbling with

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War Chapter 48: When Forgotten Gods Stir The Aftermath of Shattered Silence The battlefield still roared. Wolves howled into the night sky, their voices wild and ragged, triumphant yet broken. The shattered shards of silence still fell like glowing ash, each dissolving into sound—whispers, laughter, war cries, lullabies—echoes of lives once consumed. Lyra stood with her moonblade raised, the fire along its edge dancing like dawn. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, but her eyes never left Azael. He stood in the heart of the ruin, blood dripping from his claws, his throat scorched raw. His howl still seemed to echo in the air, even though his mouth was closed. The wolves whispered among themselves. “The Alpha broke it.” “He destroyed the Mask.” “No one breaks silence. Not even gods…” But Azael knew. This was no victory. The Sutra’s Warning The Sutra writhed inside his chest, its chains cracked, its voice urgent. Fang… listen to me. You should

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War Chapter 50: When the Nine Descend The Battlefield of Ash The world was broken. The fissure had sealed, but its scars ran across the land like veins of fire. Wolves lay in heaps—some breathing, some forever silent. The stench of burnt fur, shattered bone, and broken silence hung heavy in the air. Azael lay at the center, body mangled, silver fire flickering faint at his chest. Every breath sounded like a blade dragging across stone. Lyra crouched beside him, face pale, moonblade shattered, hands trembling as she tried to hold his wounds closed. “Stay with me, Alpha,” she whispered, voice cracked. “You can’t fall now… not after everything…” The wolves circled weakly around them, bloodied and broken. Their eyes carried awe and terror in equal measure. They had watched their Alpha stand against a god. And they had watched him fall. But above the ruin, the sky stirred again. The Omen of Descent Clouds split into spirals of black flame. Lightn