The werewolf king—ruler of his kind, feared and revered—had been gravely injured in a brutal battle against his enemies. Barely clinging to life, he fled to the mountains, seeking solitude to regain his strength through meditation.
Bathed in moonlight, he sat in silence—until something strange occurred. The glow of the moon intensified, wrapping around him like a divine cloak. Unseen forces lifted him, and in a breathless instant, transported him to another land.
The king didn't realize he had crossed worlds. The mountain beneath him looked nearly identical to the one he'd escaped to—but the air, the sounds, and the energy were different. When his strength returned, he descended the mountain. What greeted him below stunned him: towering metal machines roared down paved roads, their lights flashing like fireflies and their growls echoing like thunder. The world was unfamiliar.
Confused, the king cloaked himself in a human form. The moon, still watching, bathed him in silver once more. As the light faded, he stood transformed—flawless, divine, a figure capable of blending in with humans yet standing out like a celestial being.
Stepping cautiously into the road, his sharp senses picked up a familiar scent.
Blood.
His instincts stirred.
He followed the scent through shadowed streets to a small house. Through the window, he saw something that made his expression harden. A child—no older than eleven—was being beaten and thrown out by her own parents. Her tiny frame crashed to the ground.
Despite his pain, the king moved.
With the last of his strength, he stormed into the house, fought off the adults, and carried the bleeding child away. Back in the mountains, he laid her down and collapsed beside her.
---
The child stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open to the night sky, then turned to the stranger beside her. She inched closer, scared but strangely comforted. A single drop of blood from her hand fell—onto his lips.
His eyes snapped open.
He jolted upright with a low, powerful cry that echoed through the mountains. The moon above responded—glowing brighter, casting down its blessing.
The girl flinched, startled.
The king took a deep breath, now infused with new strength. He turned and saw her.
She gazed up at him, unsure whether to run or stay. Slowly, he approached. She stepped back.
He paused and spoke softly. "Thank you."
She hesitated. His voice didn't sound threatening.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He looked away. "I live in these mountains. I came down in search of food... and found you. I couldn't leave you behind."
The girl looked down and whispered, "Thank you… I won't forget your help."
He smiled faintly.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Fang."
He froze. That name stirred a forgotten part of him. His chest tightened.
"What… did you say?"
"Fang!" she repeated louder.
His heart trembled. A tear escaped before he could stop it.
"And you?" she asked. "What's your name?"
"Syaoran."
She tilted her head. "Syaoran? That means wolf, doesn't it?"
He couldn't hide his reaction.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and gently took her small, bruised hand.
"This… is from your parents?" he asked.
She nodded.
With ancient kindness in his gaze, he placed a glowing hand over her wounds. They healed instantly.
Fang gasped. "You… you're not normal."
Syaoran smiled gently.
"Neither are you."