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Chapter 7: The Oath of Blood
Author: Husain
last update2025-09-02 14:48:19

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 7: The Oath of Blood

The night did not breathe.

Snow hung in the air like ash, caught between silence and storm. Azael stood at the heart of the courtyard, sword dripping silver, his cloak torn into ragged banners. Around him, the circle closed—wolves trembling in rage, Shadows whispering in hunger, and Korin kneeling in the snow, caught between two worlds.

The Sutra pulsed.

The Alpha bled.

The pack waited.

The Ultimatum

The serpent-masked general stepped forward, its voice sharp as venom sliding over steel.

“Choose, boy. The Council does not wait. Kneel, and you will live. Remain, and you will rot beneath his curse.”

Korin’s shoulders shook. He did not raise his eyes. His sword lay abandoned, half-buried in red snow. His lips moved soundlessly, caught between prayer and surrender.

The wolves behind Azael snarled and cursed, their fury boiling. But none dared strike—because it was not their decision to make. It was the Alpha’s.

Azael lifted his blade. His body screamed, but his voice was iron.

“Look at me, Korin.”

The boy’s head jerked up, eyes wide, glistening with tears and blood.

“You think betrayal buys life?” Azael’s voice cracked the silence. “The Council feeds on fear. And tonight, it feasts on yours.”

Serik’s Defiance

Serik groaned where he lay, broken ribs grinding as he pushed himself onto one knee. His blood stained the snow dark. But his voice was still thunder.

“Alpha…” he gasped. “Give the word. I’ll split the traitor in half.”

Azael turned sharply. “No!”

The wolves froze. Even the Shadows stilled. The Alpha’s command was law.

Azael’s gaze burned into Korin’s soul.

“You are my wolf,” he said, voice heavy with pain and memory. “When you took the oath beneath the silver moon, you swore blood and bone. And I swore the same. If you break it, you wound me. If you leave, you kill me.”

Korin’s lips trembled. The boy shook, caught between shame and terror.

The Pack Divided

The other wolves began to stir. Some shouted for Korin’s blood. Others, younger, wavered, doubt gnawing at their resolve. The betrayal had cracked more than bone—it had cracked loyalty.

The Shadows watched with delight. Their circle tightened, feeding on discord, their weapons thirsty.

One of them—the crow-masked general—whispered like rusted steel:

“Look, Alpha. Even your wolves hunger for each other’s throats. This is the gift of the Sutra: division, despair, decay. Let it end. Give it to us, and the rest may crawl away alive.”

Azael’s jaw clenched. The Sutra throbbed, aching to be unleashed, to carve shadows into silence. But he fought it back. His curse was not his master.

Not tonight.

The Healer’s Mercy

Azael stepped toward Korin. Each movement was agony. His blood left a trail in the snow. Still, his shadow loomed large over the kneeling boy.

Korin whispered, broken: “I… I don’t want to die, Alpha…”

Azael’s sword rose. The wolves held their breath. Some expected blood. Others prayed for it.

But instead of striking, Azael did something else.

He dropped his sword into the snow.

The clash of steel echoed like thunder.

Azael knelt before Korin, his hands steady despite the tremor in his chest. He pressed his forehead against the boy’s, the way an Alpha greets a frightened pup.

“You will not die,” he whispered. “Not while you are mine.”

The Shadows’ Wrath

The generals stirred, their whispers sharpening into fury. This was not the ending they had woven. Mercy was poison to their designs.

The serpent mask hissed:

“You spare weakness. Then weakness will be the death of you.”

The Shadows moved as one. Chains rattled, blades gleamed, the circle closing in for the kill.

But this time the wolves did not falter.

Serik roared, dragging himself upright, axe blazing in his hands. The pack surged with him, their voices breaking into a single howl that tore through the night.

Azael rose, gripping his sword once more. His blood mingled with Korin’s tears as he pulled the boy to his feet.

“You swore the oath,” he said. “Now fight for it.”

Korin’s hands shook—but he picked up his blade.

The Blood Oath Renewed

The courtyard erupted. Wolves and Shadows clashed, steel biting, flesh tearing. The pack fought not as broken men but as brothers reforged, their howls drowning the whispers of the Council.

Azael led the charge, silver blade carving arcs of moonlight through the storm. Korin fought at his side, no longer trembling but screaming with the fury of redemption.

For every wolf that fell, two Shadows bled. For every wound the pack endured, their resolve burned brighter.

The Alpha’s mercy had not shattered them.

It had remade them.

End Scene

The courtyard was a storm of blood and snow, wolves and Shadows locked in their deadliest dance.

At the center, Azael fought with eyes blazing silver, the Sutra burning in his chest, his oath binding him to every life around him.

Above the chaos, his voice thundered across the night:

“We are not shadows. We are wolves. And we do not kneel.”

The Council would remember that roar.

[Chapter 7 Ends]

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