SILVER FANG SUTRA THE DOCTOR OF WAR

Chapter 8: The Faces of the Council

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 8: The Faces of the Council

The battle had begun, but this was not war.

This was execution.

The courtyard shuddered under the weight of colliding blades, screams, and howls. Wolves tore into Shadows with raw fury, yet for every enemy cut down, two more slipped from the fog, their forms twisting, their masks whispering curses.

Azael’s silver sword gleamed in the storm, its edge singing with blood. Every strike was decisive, every movement precise, yet his body screamed in rebellion. The Sutra throbbed in his chest like a wound that would not close.

And then—they revealed themselves.

The Unmasking

The first to step forward was the Serpent General. Its mask cracked with a hiss, splitting down the center. Beneath it was not flesh but a face made of black scales, a mouth unhinged too wide, rows of fangs dripping shadow like venom. Its voice was not one, but a chorus.

“Mercy is rot. You carry it like a disease. Tonight, Alpha, you will see it devour you.”

On the far side, the Crow General tore away its mask. What emerged was a skull of obsidian feathers, eye sockets burning with embers. Its wings unfurled, not of feathers but of blades, each one slicing the air with a scream.

And behind them, three more masks fell away.

A face with no eyes, only mouths whispering.

A face that dripped endlessly, flesh melting and reforming.

A face carved from stone, cracked by veins of fire.

Five generals.

Five faces of death.

Wolves Against Monsters

The younger wolves faltered, their courage waning before the horror. Some froze. Some whimpered. Some turned their gaze away, unable to bear the sight.

But Serik roared above them, blood pouring from his chest but defiance burning in his voice.

“Eyes front! They bleed! If it bleeds, it dies!”

The pack howled as one. Axes swung, claws slashed, teeth tore into shadow. Korin fought shoulder to shoulder with Azael, his fear burned into a single ember of rage. Every strike he made was for redemption, every cry a plea for forgiveness.

But the generals were not men. They were storms.

The serpent struck with lightning speed, fangs piercing armor and bone.

The crow screamed, blades of wing shredding wolves into ribbons.

The fire-stone giant crushed three with one blow.

Snow became red mud. Wolves fell, their howls cut short.

The Alpha’s Stand

Azael waded through the storm like a man carved from fury. His silver blade clashed with the serpent’s fangs, sparks igniting the night. He pivoted, deflecting the crow’s blade-feathers, his cloak torn to threads.

The Sutra pulsed harder. Every beat was a voice, whispering:

Unleash me. Call my name. Burn them all.

Azael clenched his jaw. He had sworn never to lose himself again—not to the Sutra, not to its hunger. He had seen what it did, the way it devoured flesh, soul, memory. If he surrendered, he would cease to be Alpha. He would be only shadow.

But his wolves were dying.

And his mercy had bought him this.

Korin’s Redemption

The serpent lunged for Azael, its jaws wide, fangs dripping. Korin moved without thought. He threw himself between them, his sword raised, catching the fangs in a spray of sparks.

The impact shattered his blade. His body slammed into the snow, blood spraying from his mouth.

Azael’s roar split the night.

“No!”

Korin coughed, smiling through crimson lips. “Alpha… this time… I didn’t run…”

The boy’s eyes burned with something stronger than fear—faith. For the first time, he was not trembling. For the first time, he was wolf.

The Blood Oath Ignites

The wolves saw Korin fall, and something snapped inside them. Their howls rose into a single storm, their fury binding them tighter than fear ever could.

The Blood Oath—ancient and sacred—shimmered in the snow, drawn not by ritual but by sacrifice. Wolves bled, and their bond became steel.

Azael’s eyes burned silver. The Sutra screamed louder, not as curse but as answer. The oath and the curse had collided, and in that collision—power was born.

The Awakening

Azael rose slowly, his sword dripping shadow and light both. His eyes glowed not just silver but something deeper—an endless abyss rimmed with fire. His voice was not only his; it carried the growl of every wolf who still stood.

“You call us weak. You call us shadows.”

His blade lifted, and the snow around it caught fire.

“We are blood. We are oath. And tonight—we hunt you.”

The ground cracked beneath him. The storm bent. Wolves howled as the Alpha strode forward, no longer man, no longer cursed—something greater, something forged of oath and shadow both.

The generals hesitated. For the first time—they felt fear.

End Scene

The courtyard burned with silver fire as wolves and Shadows clashed in the storm. Azael’s roar rose above it all, shaking the night, shaking the Council itself.

The war had begun.

The Council had drawn blood.

But the Alpha had awakened.

And the Sutra… was no longer silent.

[Chapter 8 Ends]