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Chapter 3: The Siege of Galdur Monastery
Author: Husain
last update2025-09-01 12:43:33

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 3: The Siege of Galdur Monastery

The monastery shook like the bones of a dying beast.

The first strike against the gates thundered through its ruined halls, splinters flying like shards of bone. Azael stood before the doors, sword in hand, cloak snapping in the icy wind that howled through the broken windows. Behind him, thirty loyal wolves waited, blades drawn, their breaths white clouds in the cold air.

Outside, horns blared again. A thousand boots marched in rhythm, each step a promise of slaughter.

“They come as a flood,” whispered Serik, the scarred soldier at Azael’s side. His voice trembled, but his grip on his axe was iron.

Azael’s gaze never wavered. “Then we will be the mountain that splits the flood.”

The gates buckled again under a ram of steel.

The First Breach

With a final crack, the wooden gates exploded inward. Shards flew. The first wave of armored soldiers poured into the courtyard, their shields raised, spears bristling.

Azael’s wolves roared in defiance, charging forward with steel and fury.

The clash was immediate and merciless. Steel screamed against steel. Arrows whistled through the air, finding throats, eyes, and unarmored joints. Blood splashed across the cracked stones of the monastery courtyard.

Azael moved like a storm. His blade flashed silver in the dim firelight, carving clean arcs through flesh and armor alike. Each strike was measured, surgical, unstoppable. He severed a man’s arm at the elbow, spun, and opened another from collarbone to hip.

“Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice a hammer striking against despair.

The wolves obeyed. Though outnumbered ten to one, they fought with the ferocity of beasts cornered.

The Shadow of the Council

Amid the chaos, Azael’s eyes caught a figure standing beyond the carnage—tall, cloaked, untouched by the fray. A Council emissary. His face was hidden, but his voice carried across the battlefield like poison in the wind.

“Surrender the Sutra, War Doctor,” the emissary called. “Your cause is lost. Lay down your blade, and your death will be swift.”

Azael’s laugh was a sound without mirth. “I was a doctor once. I know the sound of infection. And your Council is a plague.”

The emissary did not flinch. His hand lifted. At his command, another wave of soldiers surged forward, their armored boots pounding like drums of war.

The Sutra Unleashed

The wolves were faltering. Bodies piled high near the shattered gates. Blood slicked the stones. For every enemy they felled, three more took his place.

Serik fell to one knee, blood pouring from a spear wound in his side. “We… can’t… hold them!”

Azael’s grip tightened on his blade. His shoulder burned with the memory of the arrow that had pierced him the night before. His lungs screamed for rest. But his eyes—his eyes blazed.

“It is time,” he muttered.

Closing his eyes, he whispered the forbidden chant of the Silver Fang Sutra. Words carved into his soul, words not spoken in centuries, spilled from his lips like shards of fire.

The air shifted.

His sword shimmered, veins of silver glowing brighter, pulsing as though alive. The very air around him seemed to ripple.

When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer just gray—they burned with a predator’s light.

He moved.

Faster than any man his age should move, faster than the eyes of the Council’s soldiers could follow. His blade cut not wide arcs but precise incisions, slipping through gaps in armor, slicing tendons, puncturing arteries. He did not fight like a warrior. He fought like a surgeon dissecting the battlefield.

Men screamed as they fell, clutching wounds too exact, too merciless. To them it was butchery. To Azael, it was mastery.

The emissary’s mask tilted ever so slightly. Even he seemed unsettled.

Wolves’ Howl

With their leader’s fury igniting them, the wolves rallied. Serik, bleeding and pale, rose with a roar, cleaving an enemy’s helm in two. Another soldier, her face streaked with tears and blood, fought like a demon at Azael’s side.

“Push them back!” Azael thundered.

And they did. Inch by inch, they drove the Council’s men toward the broken gates, their blades painting the snow in crimson arcs.

For a moment, hope flickered. For a moment, it seemed the wolves might hold.

The Monster Revealed

Then the emissary raised his hand.

From the shadows of the forest beyond the gates, something stirred. Chains rattled. The ground trembled.

And then it came.

A beast in man’s shape, taller than two men, its skin pale and stretched tight over muscle, its eyes burning with unnatural fire. Shackles clung to its wrists and ankles, etched with runes that glowed faintly.

A weapon of the Council.

Gasps tore from the wolves’ throats. Even Azael’s jaw clenched as he recognized what stood before them.

A Fleshbound. One of the Council’s abominations—men twisted by forbidden alchemy into monsters of war.

The creature roared, the sound rattling the very stones of the monastery.

And then it charged.

The Clash of Beasts

The Fleshbound slammed into the wolves, scattering them like straw. Its fists crushed men like insects, bones snapping with sickening cracks. Azael’s warriors screamed, some breaking, some standing firm only to be torn apart.

Azael stepped forward, blade ready.

“Back,” he ordered, voice like iron. “This one is mine.”

The Fleshbound turned, its burning eyes locking on him. It snarled, lips peeling back from broken teeth.

Azael raised his silver-veined sword. His muscles tensed. His breath steadied. He whispered once more the words of the Sutra.

And then, with the fury of a wolf, he charged to meet the monster.

[Chapter 3 Ends]

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