Chapter 478: White Wolf Rider

Damien said nothing more.

He turned, Fenrir taking slow steps softly behind him, and left the chamber with Haldric guiding him back through the dimly lit corridors.

When they reached the stairs leading to the guest rooms, Haldric stopped him. “Sorry you got dragged into that.”

Damien shrugged. “I expected worse.”

Haldric smirked faintly. “I’m sure you did.”

They exchanged a nod, and Haldric walked off into the darkness.

Damien entered his room again, closing the door softly behind him. Luton slid down from his shoulder and flopped onto the bed. Fenrir curled up near the window.

Damien took one last look at the folded map on the table.

Tomorrow, he would leave.

Tomorrow, everything would resume.

He lay down, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes again.

This time, no interruptions came.

Sleep finally took him.

~~~~~

Damien woke feeling as though he’d barely slept at all. His room was still dim; the faintest sliver of morning light pressed through the curtains, telling him it was well past dawn. He groaned quietly and rubbed his eyes.

He’d intended to sleep early the previous night. Instead, the council meeting had dragged on, and every question they fired at him demanded focus—demon classifications, behavior patterns, and the variants. He had answered all of their questions to the best of his ability.

And then came their offers to him. Command of a strike team, temporary leadership of their scouts, recruitment into their ranks. He had declined all three with polite firmness. He had no intention of staying no matter what they offered. Not even the rulership position which was even more unlikely.

By the time he returned to his room, fatigue had crashed over him like a wave.

Now, judging by the light, it was closer to midmorning.

Fenrir was curled on the far side of the room, dozing lightly with one eye half-open and the other complete lying shut close. Luton was a blob perched on the footboard of the bed, rising and falling gently with each sleepy bubble. It didn’t need sleep but it mimicked them regardless.

Both summons were still draining his magic essence—just enough to remind him they were present, but not enough to matter.

Damien had grown accustomed to the constant pull. To him, it was no different from breathing.

He stretched, rolled his neck, then slowly sat up.

He’d leave this evening. He’d travel faster by night, and he wanted to spend the remaining hours gathering his resolve.

Skylar would carry him far, and he needed to be mentally ready for the journey to the distant island.

But before that, he had to eat.

He stood, washed his face quickly, and strapped on his boots. When he opened the door, the hallway was already active, soldiers carrying crates or hurrying to their drills. A few of them stiffened when they saw him. And the creatures that sent everywhere with him. One of the soldiers even bowed.

Damien blinked. “Uh… morning?”

“Sir Damien!” the soldier said, straightening. “It’s an honor!”

’…Honor?’ Damien frowned but nodded politely and walked past them.

Their eyes followed him with a peculiar reverence, and only after turning the corner did they whisper excitedly behind him.

It continued all the way to the courtyard. Every soldier he passed either stared, saluted, or awkwardly pretended they weren’t glancing in his direction. Luton floated behind him in a lazy wobble; Fenrir padded alongside, tail swaying.

“What’s gotten into everyone?” Damien muttered.

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Seliah, the young soldier from yesterday, approached him carrying what looked like a folded map.

“Sir Damien!” she said, slightly breathless. “You’re awake. Good morning.”

“You too,” he replied. “And… why does everyone look like they’ve just seen a mythical creature?”

Seliah flushed. “Ah. That. Well… your reputation has exploded.”

“…My what?”

She lifted the folded parchment as though showing him evidence.

“Word’s spreading everywhere in the kingdom. The soldiers from the northern watchtower, the guards near the walls, even the merchants… everyone’s talking about you.”

“About what?”

Seliah hesitated—then smiled. “Your… titles.”

“Titles?” he echoed, deadpan.

She held up a finger.

“’White Wolf Rider.’”

Damien stared blankly.

“Because of Fenrir,” she explained quickly. “The soldiers who saw you riding him described you as a white-clad warrior on a divine wolf.”

Another finger.

“’Devourer’s Tamer.’”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “That one sounds… wrong.”

Seliah coughed. “Some saw Luton eating demon remains. They think you tamed a creature that eats corruption itself.”

He sighed. “Luton is not a devourer—well… not exactly.”

“And the last title,” she continued, raising a third finger, “is ’Knight of the North Wind.’ Because you charged into the demon horde like a storm from the north. That one is pretty popular among the civilians.”

Damien dragged a hand down his face. “I’ve been here two days.”

“I know…” Seliah laughed nervously. “But you also saved a dozen soldiers from certain death and fought twelve trained warriors without receiving a scratch.”

Fair.

“Anyway,” she said, brightening, “if you haven’t eaten yet, I was actually on my way to look for you. There’s a restaurant in the upper market that I wanted to show you yesterday, but we ran out of time. Would you like to try it?”

Damien considered.

He was leaving tonight. A good meal wouldn’t hurt.

“Lead the way.”

Seliah smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir!”

Fenrir stretched, shook out his fur, and followed. Luton bounced happily on Damien’s shoulder.

The city was buzzing more than usual. Damien could feel eyes on him from windows, shops, street corners. Merchants whispered. Children pointed. A few overly excited townsfolk even waved.

“Why are they waving?” Damien muttered.

“Your titles are already in the local taverns,” Seliah said apologetically. “Especially the ’White Wolf Rider.’ They like that one.”

Damien internally cringed.

Fenrir, however, lifted his head proudly.

“So you approve,” Damien said dryly.

The wolf huffed smugly.

As they continued through the streets, a group of mercenaries lounging near a weapon stall stared openly. One leaned forward, studying Fenrir with bright, greedy eyes.

“That the wolf they say tore through a demon squad?”

“Looks like it…”

“Oi,” the boldest of them called. “Tamer! How much for the wolf?”

Seliah froze.

Damien slowly turned his head.

The mercenary smirked confidently. “He’s a beauty. I’ll pay whatever you—”

A low, animalistic growl vibrated the air.

Fenrir stepped forward, eyes glowing like burning gold, fangs peeking from beneath his lips. The rumble came again, deeper this time, shaking even the nearby market stalls.

The mercenary’s voice cracked. “H-hey, hey—”

Fenrir moved so quickly the man didn’t even flinch before the wolf’s snout was inches from his face. Hot breath washed against the man’s cheek.

Seliah nearly jumped out of her skin.

The mercenary paled, completely terrified, but still tried to speak. “C-calm—!”

Damien placed a hand on Fenrir’s neck.

“That’s enough.”

Fenrir obeyed, backing away with a final warning growl.

The mercenary swallowed hard. “N-not for sale… got it.”

Damien gave him a single unimpressed glance, then turned away.

Seliah exhaled shakily. “That was terrifying…”

“He was being polite,” Damien said.

Seliah stared at him like he’d said the sky was green.

They reached the restaurant in minutes. The Skyward Table, perched on a small hill and overlooking part of the city. To Seliah’s delight, it wasn’t crowded yet.

Damien ordered a hearty meal of grilled beast meat, seasoned rice, roasted vegetables, and Fenrir received an entire platter of meat as well. Luton absorbed a bowl of broth, wobbling blissfully. Damien didn’t even know if the slime could taste things but he allowed it eat regardless.

Seliah ordered lightly and spent more time glancing around nervously at the civilians who kept whispering and pointing.

“They’re not subtle,” Damien said.

“They’re excited,” Seliah replied. “We haven’t had a visiting mercenary with your strength in a long time.”

“Mercenary,” he repeated. “That label is still strange to me.”

“You wear it well,” she said sincerely.

Damien blinked.

Compliments always felt odd.

He finished his meal quietly, paid quickly despite Seliah’s protests, and stood.

“Let’s head back.”

She nodded eagerly.

The walk back to the barracks was smooth until they reached a quieter alley splitting into the main road. As they turned the corner, a group of mercenaries, different from the earlier ones, noticed Damien and stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” one said with a friendly smile that wasn’t friendly at all. “You’re the White Wolf Rider, right?”

Damien already felt the headache forming. “No.”

The man laughed. “We’re forming a coalition of elite mercenaries. We’ve got contracts lined up from all over the northern kingdoms. You should join us. With you, we’d dominate the region.”

Damien walked past him.

The man reached out and grabbed Damien’s shoulder.

Seliah stiffened. Fenrir bared his teeth.

“Hey,” the mercenary said, voice low now. “I’m talking to you.”

Damien stopped.

A second later, the man’s body hit the ground so fast Seliah didn’t even see Damien move.

There was no dramatic punch, no drawn-out conflict. Damien simply twisted, grabbed the mercenary by the collar, and slammed him into the ground fast enough to knock him unconscious in a single strike.

Bang!

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