Chapter 485: The Black Howling.

Nikolai dropped to his knees, countless bloody wounds hissing with a foul stench covering his body. Yet his black eyes locked onto the vampire without blinking. The beat of his three hearts slowed as he gathered energy to restore his organs.

Sand tore at the wounds and clung to his claws as he leaned forward.

His arms trembled, pierced through with half a dozen necrotic blades that pinned him to the ground like a specimen. Necrotic fluids chewed his flesh each second, bubbling across his shoulders, ribs and thighs. Black blood oozed, thick and sluggish, burning away only to reform again under the strain of his regeneration.

Killian tilted his head, mist swirling around his refined, youthful face. His mocking smirk never faltered. “Do you see now? This is the difference between us. You may have stepped through the gate, but you are still a child stumbling in the dark. You cannot hope to wield the powers of your lineage or understand your blood.”

His voice almost sounded like a teacher; it carried a calm cruelty, each word like the dagger impaling his muscles, but Nikolai absorbed them all.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

His three hearts beat in unison, vibrating in his chest with a slow, growing, resonating rhythm through the sand. Every throb poured black flame into his ruined body, trying to knit him together. But his arms refused to move, held down by Killian’s Blood Arts. He couldn’t raise his claws, nor counter with the usual brute strength.

And yet the fire in his eyes only grew, the curve of his lips twisted into a savage grin.

“Then if I cannot use my arms, I’ll fight with my fangs.”

Killian’s eyes narrowed. “With your fangs, from over there? Haha.”

A low growl rumbled from Nikolai’s chest. His throat convulsed as if trying to contain something wild, alien. The black aura that usually clung to his limbs now streamed upward, condensing around his neck, forcing itself into his vocal cords. His lungs expanded painfully, ribs cracking further with the pressure.

He felt the cold aura pulsing through him like trapped water and pushed it to his throat.

The crowd’s voices became distant.

Nikolai’s mouth filled with black smoke and flame, which crawled across his lips and jaw, burning his teeth into jagged fangs,

His throat was glowing faintly from within like a forge about to burst.

“What is this…?” The announcer’s voice trembled.

Nikolai opened his mouth.

The Dome shook.

At first, a low vibration followed, shaking the entire arena… but then a sound, something that wasn’t a word, nor a roar or scream, it was a deep and resonant howl.

Unlike a wolf’s or a man’s howl, it was different, something more ancient that the world had forgotten. The sound burst out in a wave of pressure, rippling through the sand in concentric rings that shattered Killian’s nearest blades like glass.

BOOOOM!

“Awooooo!”

The Necrotic Dome itself quivered, its green surface distorting under the shockwave.

“Impossible,” Killian hissed, his mist faltering for the first time. His aura surged to reinforce the Dome, but the sound drove through it, shaking his bones, rattling his skull until green blood poured from his ears.

Nikolai’s howl climbed in pitch, black aura spiralling out of his throat like tendrils of smoke, whipping through the Dome. The audience covered their ears, some collapsing in agony as the vibrations pierced through reinforced glass and into the stands.

“AHHH!”

“My head—!”

“The sound—it’s inside me!”

The announcer didn’t look to be in pain; rather, her face became twisted in a crazed delight as she clutched herself. Even with the blood trickling down her ears, she smiled from ear to ear. The entire arena descended into chaos, the Dome’s corruption forgotten as thousands screamed under the crushing resonance.

But inside the sphere, only two beings remained.

Killian staggered with his armour cracking along his chest. His Blood Arts that held Nikolai down shattered one after the other, like simple sugar glass. Necrotic energy dissipated into a harmless mist.

Nikolai drew another breath, his body convulsing from the strain, black blood spraying from his throat.

It seemed like he might stop, but he was just taking a deep breath.

“Evil God Arts…” His voice vibrated through the howl itself, words swallowed by the storm. “…Howl of the Black Wolf!”

The second wave exploded outward.

The Dome warped violently, green light splintering like shattered glass as the sound wave struck it from within. Dozens of fissures spread across the surface, each crack glowing black with Nikolai’s aura.

Killian howled in rage, spreading his arms wide, forcing more of his corrupted blood into the barrier. “NO! I am a Great Elder of the Nosferatu! You will not outshine me!”

His blood mist poured thicker, his body splitting and reforming as he fuelled the Dome with his very essence. His elegant face warped, veins bulging grotesquely. He formed blades rapidly, but each of them popped from the sound wave.

Nikolai roared louder in defiance.

The black aura within the howl twisted into shapes—huge claws tearing apart the walls of the Dome. Each note became a blade of sound, each vibration a hammer smashing against the vampire’s will.

The Dome cracked wider.

Booooom!

Killian vomited blood as the dome collapsed, with part of the corrupted sphere breaking away, dissolving into ash as fresh air rushed into the arena.

His second howl didn’t hurt the people watching.

He tensed his abdomen and focused the attack on the dome and Killian alone.

Killian reeled, his crimson armour splintering under the pressure. His wings of blood folded inward defensively, but even they buckled, shredded by the resonance.

“Child… stop this!” His voice broke for the first time, drowned by the relentless sound. “You’ll destroy yourself!”

Nikolai coughed blood, his throat tearing apart under the strain. His vocal cords shredded, his chest heaving, but the black aura kept forcing more power through. His body was burning itself alive just to sustain the howl.

However, he didn’t care; his grin remained. It was the only path to victory, and if he stopped, Nikolai understood he wouldn’t be able to manage this again. His grin widened with glowing black eyes filled with madness and resolve.

“I’ll destroy you first!”

The third howl erupted.

The Necrotic Dome shattered with an explosion of black and green light, tearing the sky open above the arena. The shockwave flattened half the stands, sending spectators tumbling in every direction as the ground split beneath the force, cracks radiating outward like spiderwebs.

When the dust cleared, the Dome was gone.

Nikolai stood in the centre of the pit panting, blood pouring from his mouth, throat raw like he swallowed sandpaper. His arms dangled limp at his sides, but his aura fluttered around his body vibrantly, with intense flames.

Across from him, Killian knelt in the sand, back to his elderly, unkempt self, armour shattered and blood wings reduced to tatters. His once-perfect face was twisted with fury, disbelief and blood pouring from every orifice.

Killian spat more green blood, forcing his trembling body upright. His eyes flickered between hatred and disbelief as he staggered forward. “I am… a Great Elder… Nosferatu cannot—”

Nikolai blurred.

One moment, he stood in the centre of the pit, swaying from exhaustion. Next, he was in front of Killian, his claws wrapped around his throat.

Sccchhhkkk!

The vampire’s words died in a wet gargle. His torso split open from shoulder to hip, black flames searing through the wound. Killian’s scream vanished as his body burst into ash, scattered by the crackling aura that radiated from Nikolai’s claws.

Silence.

After the destruction and chaos, most of the crowd recovered. The crowd, tens of thousands strong, did not cheer. They didn’t move and simply stared at the lone figure in the centre of the arena, black fur soaked in blood, throat raw and torn, chest heaving with each ragged breath.

The announcer’s mic hissed, her voice cracking.

“V-victory… victory goes to the Black Wolf—Nikolai Volkov!”

The silence remained for a moment.

Only then did the arena erupt, not with unified joy, but with chaos. Some screamed his name, chanting as if worshipping a god. Others fled the stands in terror, shoving and clawing at each other to escape the pit of monsters.

Nikolai didn’t acknowledge either.

He stood silent, his throat shredded, unable to roar, unable to speak. Black blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as he turned his back on the ashes of Killian Fray. His heavy footfalls echoed through the ruined arena, each step imprinting deep into the cracked sand.

Cameras followed him, every lens capturing the figure of the Black Wolf walking away in silence, a trail of shadowy flames flickering in his wake.

“But why did he call it… an Evil God Art… did we just witness the birth path?” the announcer whispered into the mic, her voice trembling, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Whispers spread like wildfire. “Evil God… Evil God…”

Nikolai reached the gate, his broad frame brushing the scorched steel. He didn’t gloat, celebrate or raise his hand. Not because he was humble, but his arms wouldn’t move; the muscles were still fighting off the necrotic blades.

With a final glance over his shoulder, he stepped out of the tunnel and headed towards the exit in silence.

And not a single soul could forget the sound of his howling.

“The Black Howling.”

A name he earned for himself tonight, different from Ivan’s son, or the child of Volkov.

Nikolai’s title.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep