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The world sharpened, and the wolves' movements reduced to sluggish molasses. He saw through the darkness, every twitch of a muscle, every shadow cast by their fangs. This time, the attack came from behind. But David was a step ahead, his perception a full 360 degrees. A backflip, a blur of motion, and the wolf's maw snapped at empty air.

With balletic precision born of desperation, David landed on the beast's back, his hand a blur as it struck the wolf's neck. A crimson sigil, a mark of the Frostfang, his new weapons, flared where his hands met flesh. The wolf whimpered, its eyes glazing over before it slumped lifeless to the ground.

A smug digital chime announced David's victory – "[You have defeated a lesser Fenrir]." The blue notification mocked him in the face of his new predicament. Two wolves materialized from the shadows, jaws agape and eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. One lunged from below, a gaping maw aimed at his knees. The other, opportunistic and cruel, circled above, ready to strike from David's blind spot.

He had to act, and fast. A desperate choice flickered into existence. With a grunt that strained his raw throat, he swung both daggers in a deadly arc. Frostfang, his recently acquired blades, lived up to their name. One wolf, surprised by the unexpected defence, met a cold demise as David slashed its throat. A crimson sigil, courtesy of Frostfang's unique enchantment, flared on the beast's body.

But victory wasn't a luxury he could afford. The other wolf, enraged and relentless, latched onto his leg. Pain exploded like a supernova, ripping a scream from his lips. It tossed him around like a ragdoll, the sickening crunch of teeth on bone echoing through the night. He tumbled across the ground, landing with a sickening thud. Stars exploded in his vision, the world blurring into a chaotic mess.

Through the haze, he saw the notification window reappear, the same mocking blue announcing "[You have defeated a lesser Fenrir]." This time, though, a red sigil pulsed on the defeated wolf, a testament to Frostfang's deadly bite. Suddenly, a wave of warmth washed over him. Torn flesh began to knit itself back together, the ache in his leg dulling to a throbbing throb.

"Whoa," David gasped, staring at his rapidly healing wound. "These things are seriously OP!" He glanced at the daggers in his hand.

Their descriptions were hauntingly brief: "[Passive Buff: Lifedrain: A portion of the damage dealt is returned to the wielder as health, healing for 50% of the total damage inflicted.]" And below, an even more intriguing ability: "[**Active Spell: Death Reversal – conditions must be met to use spell .]" A spark of dark excitement ignited within him.

These weapons were more than just blades; they were a lifeline. But the cryptic message hung in the air, a chilling reminder that their true power came at a cost. He had a taste of their power, but the true test was yet to come. Could he master these deadly tools or would they consume him in the end? David rose to his feet, a predator reborn.

The remaining wolf circled warily, its earlier bravado replaced by a cautious respect. Yet, the battle wasn't over. More shadows stirred in the distance, their hungry eyes locked on him. This was no ordinary pack; they were relentless hunters, and David was just the next quarry they intended to claim. "More of you mongrels?" David rasped, a deranged grin stretched across his bloodied face.

Seven wolves materialized from the encroaching darkness, their eyes glowing with predatory malice. They saw him as a wounded beast, ripe for the taking. But David saw them as mere obstacles in a twisted game. An instinct, primal and predatory as if forced, surged through him. He wasn't just David anymore.

He was a hunter reborn, fueled by the thrill of the hunt and the strange magic coursing through his veins. With a feral growl, David sank into the shadows himself. The wolves, momentarily confused by the vanishing prey, hesitated. It was their last mistake. There was a blur of movement, a flash of inhuman eyes glowing like embers in the dark. The wolves yelped in surprise, fangs snapping at empty air.

Multiple screens materialized in David's vision, each one a grim declaration: "[You have defeated a lesser Fenrir]." Cold, digital pronouncements in the face of his bloody reality. He devoured their essence with each kill, feeling stronger by the second, a skill surging into his being as naturally as breathing. "[Wolf's Grace]," the message echoed in his mind, the skill he had devoured.

He felt it coursing through him, raw power and honed reflexes intermingling with his own combat expertise. He was a black belt with a deadly new edge, a killing machine with a wolf's cunning. The remaining wolves, their initial bravado shattered, whimpered and tried to scatter. But David was a phantom now, a whirlwind of teeth and claws.

He moved with a predator's fluidity, weaving through their desperate attacks with inhuman grace. The taste of blood filled his mouth, metallic and sharp. It wasn't just sustenance – it was an offering to this newfound power. One by one, the wolves fell, their whimpers turning to choked gasps as David drained them of life and honed his own predatory instincts.

When the last one lay still, the world snapped back into focus. David stood panting, his body battered but alive. He looked at his blood-soaked hands, a chilling mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through him. He wasn't David anymore. He was something else, something far more dangerous. The game had changed, and the rules were being rewritten in blood.