A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 154: Pest and Echo

•Firera’s Dimension•

[Firera’s POV]

I can sense the ambient mana of this dimension—a soft, golden hum that sustains my essence. I can also sense mana in the mortal world. But in my current state, a wisp bound to a mortal vessel, I cannot see the intricate tapestry of auras. I am blind to the colors of emotion and intent that swirl around Ovelia. Therefore, I do not know what malevolent force, what psychic trigger, is projecting those horrific images directly into her mind’s eye.

I turned from the scrying window, my form trembling with impotent rage, and stalked toward Sylvana. She was sitting on a small stool by the edge of the illusory river she had created, a fishing rod held with idle patience in her hands, her back to me.

"Sylvana," I said, my voice a low thrum of power barely held in check.

She glanced over her shoulder, her heterochromatic eyes calm.

"Ovelia is seeing the past. The attack on the Blazing Tribe village by the Flesh Hunters." I stop before her, the heat of my anger making the air around me waver. "Did you do this? Is this your handiwork? Another one of your brutal ’lessons’?"

"No." Her answer is immediate, calm. She turns her attention back to her fishing line, the placid surface of the water reflecting the false sky. "I can project my consciousness into the minds of my descendants, and traverse dimensions connected to my bloodline, such as yours. But this form you speak to..." She gestures vaguely at herself. "It holds no mana. You know this. I cannot see Ovelia’s aura. I cannot see the images haunting her. All I possess is the legacy of my power, waiting for the right moment to be passed to her." Her rod twitches. She looks at the river, then reels in her line with a smooth motion. A shimmering orange fish, conjured from pure thought, dangles from the hook. She carefully removes it and releases it back into the water, where it vanishes. "The only thing I have transferred is a suggestion of independence. Not a nightmare."

I tore my gaze from her and stared at the artificially perfect water, at the swimming fish that were mere thoughts given shape.

"Do you think this is a side effect?" Sylvana asks, her voice breaking the strained quiet. "Of sealing your essence within her, and of sealing her own innate power? A psychic backlash?"

I turn my head slowly to look at her again. Her expression is serious, all pretense of leisure gone. It holds no real curiosity. It is a look that says she has already considered this and dismissed it. I don’t need to voice the answer. We both know that is not the cause. And the chilling truth is, we both stand here—ancient and powerful in our own rights—utterly ignorant of the real one.

A fresh wave of Ovelia’s distress—a distant, muffled scream of the soul—washes through our bond. I clench my fists, pouring every ounce of my will across the suddenly thin connection. Ovelia, please, just hang in there.

•Restaurant Inn Private Room•

[Gale’s POV]

We were all talking to her—Ace’s low, urgent murmurs, Ray’s calm, reasoning tone, my own sharp demands—but it was like shouting into a wind. The sounds didn’t reach her. Ovelia’s eyes were open, but they saw nothing in this room. They were fixed on a horror only she could witness. Her expression was utterly vacant, a beautiful porcelain doll cracked from within, as silent tears carved relentless paths on her cheeks. Ace had pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, but she was limp, unresponsive.

Her emotions, however, were a deafening roar through our bond. A torrent of anguish, helpless rage, and soul-shattering grief so intense it felt like I was drowning in it. It was suffocating.

What happened to this idiot?! Her feelings were making me sick—a worried, furious, helpless sickness that churned in my gut.

"Ovelia. Don’t cry. We’re here. I’m here." Ace’s voice was ragged with a worry so deep it cracked his usual controlled facade. Does this mutt actually not love her? The thought was vicious, but watching him hold her, feeling the sheer, desperate protectiveness radiating from him, I had my answer. His love was a frantic, raging thing.

"Gale," Ray said, his voice a forced anchor of calm. He had crossed his arms, his knuckles white where he gripped his own biceps. "Do you know what’s happening to her? ’Slaughtered.’ ’Burned.’ Those words triggered this. Is it connected to her past?" The question was logical, but the fear beneath it was palpable.

"I wish I knew," I spat out, my own frustration a bitter taste. I was clutching my fists so hard my short nails threatened to break the skin. I stared at Ovelia’s back, at the way her blonde hair spilled over Ace’s shoulder. Is it that old hag goddess? Did Firera do this to her?

The realization was a fresh bolt of anger. I’m her familiar. I’m bound to her life, to her emotions, and I have no idea what is torturing her. I am useless. The self-loathing was a familiar, acidic companion. DAMN IT!

A desperate idea sparked. I focused inward, pushing past my own turmoil, and activated my fairy sight once again.

Instantly, the warm, mundane light of the room was overlaid with a swirling landscape of energy.

And then I saw it.

A small, faint, oily smudge of darkness clung to the crown of her head, near her temple. It was an aura I had just seen moments ago—Ann’s unique, void-like dark aura. But that was impossible. Auras do not transfer like stains. As I watched, the smudge of darkness shifted, coalescing. It formed into a small, spherical shape. Then, impossibly, it developed two pinpricks of malevolent light for eyes and a thin, curved slit of a mouth. It smiled at me.

My blood ran cold. Is this really just an aura?

"Gale?" Ace’s voice was tight. He had seen the color drain from my face. "What’s wrong? You suddenly look pale! Is something else wrong with Ovelia?" His worry was now edged with a new, sharper fear.

"Shut up for a second," I snapped, not taking my eyes off the creature. His worried gaze hardened into a glare, but he fell silent.

I pushed my sight further, enhancing it to perceive not just aura, but the flow and composition of mana within living forms. The creature wasn’t just coated in Ann’s dark aura. Its core was a pulsating knot of pure dark mana, while the dark aura acted as a shell, a camouflage. This wasn’t a residue. It was a parasite. A living, sentient fragment born of corruption. A metaphysical parasite.

Dark mana corrupts. It feeds on and amplifies negative emotions, especially hatred and despair. This thing was the cause. It was feeding on Ovelia’s traumatic memories, amplifying them, locking her in the loop of horror.

I may not be a light fairy, I thought, a cold focus settling over me, but this is just a pest. And I can crush it.

I reached my hand out, moving slowly toward Ovelia’s head.

"Gale?" Ray’s voice held a clear note of warning and confusion.

Ace’s grip on Ovelia tightened infinitesimally, his body coiling, ready to intervene if I threatened her. But his eyes held a desperate, curious hope. He would allow this if it might save her.

My fingers closed not on her hair, but on the intangible, cold-burning sphere of the parasite.

The moment I made contact, images—her images—flooded into my mind with violent force.

A village engulfed in flames. Figures in dark, practical gear, their faces obscured by masks. My fairy sight superimposed itself, showing me the flows of dark mana and aura empowering them. They were masked attackers wielding weapons with flowing dark mana. The Flesh Hunters? The vile identification clicked into place. They were cutting down villagers who stood silently, offering no resistance. I heard no screams from the victims. All I heard was the mocking laughter of the hunters. Rich, satisfied, joyous laughter, ringing over the crackle of flames.

Slaughtered... Burned... So this was what she was seeing. This was the memory devouring her from the inside. A fresh, white-hot hatred, purer than any I’d felt in decades, surged through me. Curse them. Curse them all to oblivion.

I focused my will, channeling a precise, razor-edged current of wind magic directly into the parasitic creature in my grasp. I didn’t just crush it; I dissected it, using the wind to slice through every filament of dark mana, to shred its vile consciousness.

I felt it laugh—a silent, psychic peal of cruel delight. It was the sound of a predator toying with its prey, relishing the fear it had sown.

Then it shattered, dissipating into harmless, fading motes of black dust.

The psychic feedback ceased. The torrent of images cut off.

As it vanished, a voice, familiar and echoing as if from the bottom of a deep well, brushed against my mind:

"Be ready... for the future..."

It was her. The green-haired fairy from the white void dream. So our meeting was no simple dream. And her words... were they a warning of what was to come, or an instruction I was already following?