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Chapter 6: The Wolf Who Betrayed
Author: Husain
last update2025-09-02 14:47:18

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 6: The Wolf Who Betrayed

The snowstorm thinned to a whisper.

Only seven of the Twelve Shadows remained, their cracked masks glinting in the pale moonlight. Around them lay the bodies of wolves—brothers, sons, warriors—silent in the crimson snow. The courtyard reeked of death, the wind carrying with it the sharp tang of blood and iron.

Azael knelt in the center, cloak heavy, silver sword trembling in his grip. Every breath tore through his chest like broken glass, but his eyes burned with the light of the Sutra.

He would not kneel to shadows.

A Haunting Silence

The seven generals circled closer. Their movements were synchronized, almost ritualistic. Chains rattled softly. The ground crunched under boots carved with bone.

The wolves that still lived—barely a handful—formed a ragged line behind Azael. Their weapons were chipped, their shields splintered, their courage cracked but unbroken.

Among them stood Serik, blood dripping from his brow, axe in hand. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but his stance never faltered.

“End it, Alpha,” he growled softly. “If tonight is the last hunt, let’s make it theirs.”

Azael tightened his grip on his blade. “Tonight is not the last.”

The First Fracture

One of the Shadows stepped forward, mask shaped like a serpent. Its voice was sibilant, cold, cutting through the stillness.

“You bleed. You stagger. Your wolves are dead in the snow. And still you clutch at a curse you cannot control. Tell me, Doctor… how much blood must spill before you admit the truth? The Sutra will devour you, as it devoured them.”

Azael said nothing. His silence was his defiance.

But behind him, among the line of wolves, a whisper broke.

“Maybe… maybe it speaks truth.”

Heads turned.

It was one of the younger wolves—Korin, lean and sharp-eyed, his face pale beneath streaks of blood. He had fought well this night, his blade quick, his strikes sure. But now his hands shook as he lowered his weapon.

“Azael… Alpha…” His voice cracked. “How many have we buried? How many more will die for your oath? We are not a pack anymore—we are meat for their knives.”

Serik snarled. “Hold your tongue, pup!”

But Korin did not. He stepped forward, away from the circle of wolves, his eyes fixed on Azael.

The Betrayal

“I swore to follow you,” Korin said, his words trembling but loud enough to echo. “But I did not swear to die for your madness. The Council offers mercy. If we give them the Sutra… maybe the pack survives.”

The Shadows did not move. They watched. Waiting.

Serik spat in the snow. “Coward. There is no mercy in shadows.”

But Korin’s gaze hardened. He looked at the bodies around them—their brothers, carved apart, faces frozen in death. And then he looked at Azael, kneeling, bleeding, refusing to fall.

“You call yourself Alpha,” Korin hissed, voice breaking. “But all I see is a butcher who hides behind the mask of a healer. How many more will you sacrifice to keep your curse?”

Azael’s chest tightened—not with rage, but with something deeper. A wound no blade could carve.

Korin turned—slowly, deliberately—toward the generals. He dropped his sword into the snow, raised his bloodied hands, and spoke.

“I offer you the Alpha’s weakness.”

The Shadows moved.

The Pack’s Fury

“No!” Serik roared, charging forward. His axe flashed, aiming to cleave Korin where he stood. But before the blade could fall, one of the Shadows—the wolf-masked general—intercepted, hammer crashing into Serik’s chest.

Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. Serik flew back, collapsing into the snow with a howl of agony.

The wolves screamed, their howls rising in fury, their formation shattering. Some lunged at Korin, others at the generals, but the betrayal had already torn them apart.

Azael forced himself to his feet. His vision swam red. His ribs screamed. But his voice cut through the chaos, harsh as steel.

“Stop!”

The word froze them. Wolves, generals, traitor—all paused at the Alpha’s command.

Azael’s eyes locked on Korin.

“You think surrender will save you?” His voice was low, ragged, but it carried. “The Council does not grant mercy. It consumes. And when you are hollow, when they strip you of name and soul, you will remember this night as the moment you betrayed your blood.”

Korin faltered. For a heartbeat, doubt flickered across his face.

And then the serpent-masked Shadow whispered into his ear, voice like venom:

“You are right, boy. Follow us. Live. Or stay with him… and die forgotten.”

The Healer’s Curse

Rage burned in Azael’s veins, but not just rage—grief, sorrow, guilt. He had lost too many already. Korin’s betrayal was not born of evil, but of fear. Fear Azael had failed to quell.

The Sutra pulsed in his chest. His sword thrummed in his hands. He could strike now—cut Korin down before he stepped beyond redemption.

But he hesitated.

For in the boy’s trembling face, Azael saw not a coward… but a patient. And he was still a healer.

The Shadows saw his hesitation. They closed in.

End Scene

The courtyard blazed with tension. Wolves torn between fury and despair. Korin trembling between salvation and damnation. The generals tightening their noose, their masks dripping with silent hunger.

And at the center stood Azael—Alpha, healer, warrior—his sword lifted, his chest torn, his heart breaking.

The Sutra whispered for blood. The Council whispered for surrender.

Azael whispered to himself:

“I will not lose another.”

And then the night screamed.

[Chapter 6 Ends]

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