Ancestral Lineage-Chapter 171: Little Wolf Spirit.

A streak of grey moved through the labyrinth-like alleyways of Semaine Street, the faint cries of crickets and frogs a backdrop to the fierce, angry shouts of the hooded men chasing him.

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The streak in question was a small boy, around seven years old, with short but messy grey hair, wolf ears twitching with every sound, and a slightly burnt wolf tail trailing behind him. Scars riddled his small hands and exposed chest through his tattered clothes. His dark blue eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight as he moved with precision through the maze-like streets, his breath coming in ragged huffs.

Regnare, as he was called by those who knew him, was an orphan. He lived with a small bandit group made up of vampires and dark elves, serving as little more than a cleaner—a maid, to be precise. He scrubbed their wooden box of a house when they were away, hoping to earn scraps of food upon their return. He always got the food, but not without the usual beatings and whippings—a high price for a piece of meat that wouldn’t satisfy even a stray dog.

Not that he could complain. To them, he was a dog, and dogs couldn’t talk—something made worse by the fact that he was physically incapable of speaking.

Regnare had been sent out earlier on an errand. He had completed it successfully, as always, only to find himself being chased by these hooded men. He’d tried every maneuver he knew, darting through narrow alleys and leaping over crates, but they remained glued to his heels. Stranger still, the streets were eerily empty. No late-night vendors, no wandering drunks—just silence, except for the footsteps pounding behind him.

As he dashed through the alleys, his hands began to glow with an icy blue light, faint fur creeping across his cheeks. Whatever he was doing, it helped him push further, faster. He was close to home now, hope flickering weakly in his heart. But that fragile hope shattered in an instant.

Ahead, his home exploded in a burst of fire, smoke, and splintered wood.

Regnare skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with shock and dread. His knees buckled, sending him collapsing to the cold ground, his legs finally giving out from exhaustion. Mocking laughter echoed through the alley, sharp and chilling, burrowing into his chest like shards of ice.

His home was gone. Nothing remained but burning debris. His small mind struggled to comprehend it. His masters had been strong—vampires and dark elves who had fought countless battles. How could this happen?

"Re...gnare… r-run… escape… don’t l-let them catch you..."

The faint, broken voice reached his sharp ears, making him shudder with a mix of hope and despair. He knew that voice. It belonged to the leader of the bandit group—a vampire who, despite his cruelty, had shown Regnare small glimpses of kindness. He had been a handsome man once, but now his body was a scorched, blackened mass, barely recognizable, yet somehow still clinging to life.

"Please... hurr… cough..."

Those were the last words Regnare heard before something hard slammed into the back of his head, dragging him into the cold void of unconsciousness.

"Now that was refreshing," a distorted voice sneered, belonging to one of the hooded men. He held a black bat tipped with glowing blood, its surface pulsing faintly. "And we got ourselves a member of the spirit race."

"Very soon, Anbord will be ours," another replied, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

"Yeah, yeah. Just make sure he’s unconscious. Members of the spirit race can be as dangerous as the ancient dragon race."

"What could possibly happen? He’s just a kid—a cub."

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"Just be—fuck! Dodge!"

The man’s warning was cut off as a sharp icicle shot through the darkness, whistling past with deadly speed. Both men dove out of the way, eyes widening in sudden alarm.

It hit a house behind them with an ear-splitting crash, the explosion of energy reducing the structure to splinters before instantly encasing the debris in a jagged tomb of ice. The once-sturdy building now stood as a grotesque sculpture, glinting menacingly under the pale glow of the moon, frozen in time.

"You fucking idiot! See what you’ve caused!" one of the hooded men roared, his voice sharp with fury and fear. His anger, however, was swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed—a silence broken only by a strange, bone-chilling shill that slithered through the air like the cold breath of death itself. It wasn’t just the cold that made them shudder; it was the sensation of something ancient and merciless stirring within it.

The source of this dread emerged from the shadows—a floating figure suspended effortlessly above the icy ground. Regnare. His piercing blue eyes glowed like twin shards of frozen flame, cold and unforgiving, casting an ominous light that painted the snow-dusted ruins in hues of sapphire. His grey hair had grown wild, cascading down to his feet, each strand shimmering faintly with an otherworldly, frosty luminance. Fur bristled along his face and hands, sharp and untamed, as though he had been claimed by the very beast that lurked within him. His tail, rigid and sleek, looked less like an appendage and more like a weapon honed to perfection—its edges glinting with an icy sheen.

Then came the transformation. His fingers elongated, morphing into vicious, curved claws that glinted like forged blades under moonlight. A cold aura erupted from his form, expanding in a sudden burst, causing frost to creep hungrily across the ground, devouring stone and soil alike. The temperature plummeted with such intensity that even the breath of the hooded men crystallized mid-air, falling like fragile shards of glass.

"Crap!" one of them hissed, his voice quivering not from the cold, but from the raw, primal fear now clawing at his chest.

Regnare crouched low, his posture predatory—a wolf poised to strike. The ground beneath him groaned and cracked as ice spider-webbed outward, sharp fractures slicing through the earth with eerie precision. The tension in the air was suffocating, every second stretched thin, the promise of violence hanging like the blade of a guillotine. The men tensed, bracing for the inevitable clash.

But it never came.

Or perhaps it came too fast.

Pah! Slash!

The sound was sharp, like a gunshot mixed with the tearing of fabric. Regnare vanished from sight, leaving only a swirl of frost and displaced snow in his wake. A blur—faster than their eyes could follow—he was upon them. His claws carved through the throats of the two men at the forefront with surgical precision, the icy talons slicing through flesh, bone, and artery as if they were made of paper. There was no time to scream, no time to react. Just a fleeting moment of confusion before oblivion claimed them.

The remaining men turned sharply, their eyes darting frantically. That’s when they heard it—the wet, sickening sounds of bodies collapsing to the frozen ground. The gurgling, choking noises of their comrades struggling to breathe, their mouths agape as clouds of frosty mist escaped with their final, dying gasps. Blood painted the snow in stark contrast, a deep crimson seeping into the icy ground, steam rising from the warmth of their lives fading away.

Their heads, still adorned with their hoods, rolled a moment later—toppling with soft thuds that echoed louder than any scream could.

"Goddammit!!!" another of the hooded men bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of terror and rage. His hands trembled as he drew his weapon, but it was clear in his eyes—he knew it was already too late.

Regnare reappeared behind him, breath misting like the exhale of death itself.

...

Regnare’s body screamed for him to stop, but he didn’t. His muscles strained and burned like hot coals, every fiber of his small frame trembling under the weight of exhaustion. Pain lanced through him with every movement, his breath ragged and sharp, but Regnare was disobedient—to his limits, to his own fragility. He pushed and pushed further, his resolve as unyielding as the ice within him.

The city blurred around him, buildings standing like hollow sentinels—empty, silent, and cold, their windows staring blankly like the vacant eyes of the dead. They flashed past him like fleeting memories, distant echoes of a world he no longer felt connected to. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His mind was a maelstrom of determination, drowning out the desperate pleas of his failing body. He climbed crumbling stalls with trembling hands, vaulted over fractured walls, leapt from rooftop to rooftop, defying the growing weakness gnawing at his core.

Then, without warning, everything gave out.

His strength vanished in an instant, stolen as abruptly as a flame snuffed out by the wind. His legs buckled, his vision spun, and his body collapsed mid-stride. He tumbled off the edge of a three-story building, plummeting headfirst into the unforgiving embrace of gravity. The cold night air rushed past him, indifferent to his helpless descent. His small frame—once fortified by spirit magic—was now fragile, brittle as a sheet of paper caught in a storm, his consciousness slipping away without even the clarity to register his fall.

The ground raced toward him, the hard, paved street waiting below like an executioner’s blade. But just as the final moment approached, when his body was mere feet from shattering against the earth, a soft, serene orange light blossomed around him. It wrapped him gently, halting his descent as if time itself had been cradled in tender hands.

"You poor soul," a voice whispered, soft and warm, laced with motherly tenderness and infinite sorrow. "Such a beautiful spirit, but full of taints and cracks."

Regnare’s limp body floated into her arms with the weightlessness of a fallen leaf. She held him with a care that contradicted her otherworldly appearance. Her entire form was cloaked in black, the fabric flowing like liquid shadow, merging with the night itself. The only glimpses of her true form were her hands—clawed and scaly, dark as obsidian with faint, ember-like veins running beneath the surface. Curved orange horns crowned her head, gleaming faintly in the dim light, their glow matching the brilliance of her draconic eyes—deep, molten orange orbs filled with ancient wisdom and quiet sadness.

"Will you accompany me? To him?" she whispered, her voice like a lullaby woven with echoes of distant stars. She brushed a clawed finger gently across Regnare’s cheek, her touch surprisingly soft. "I’m sure he can help you."

She cradled him closer, his frail body dwarfed in her arms, yet she held him as if he were the most precious thing in all existence. Her wings—great, shadowy things with streaks of ember light flickering between the membranes—unfurled slowly behind her, casting an otherworldly glow over the desolate street.

"Let’s go in search of my soulmate," she murmured softly, her voice carrying both hope and longing. She looked down at Regnare with a small, wistful smile, her glowing eyes filled with something unspoken—something ancient and personal.

"My little wolf spirit."