Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 165

Chapter 165: The Future of the Werewolves-1

The entire werewolf race had already begun preparations for the upcoming competition. Following their King’s decree, they recognised it as a golden opportunity for the younger generation. Regardless of size or status, every clan aimed to seize this chance to elevate the strength of their future generation. After all, though werewolves lived long lives, it was the youth who brought prosperity, strength, and prestige to their clans.

It wasn’t that the elders stopped contributing as they aged... it was more complicated than that. Living among mortals came with its constraints. Werewolves couldn’t maintain the same identity for too long in human society. Sooner or later, they had to change their appearance or relocate entirely, starting over from scratch.

Relocating an entire clan was no small task. It was a process filled with risk and logistical nightmares. That’s why werewolves had adopted the tradition of passing on the legacy to the younger generation. Even clans that ran businesses had to ensure that their human employees believed a legitimate transition of ownership was taking place. Continuity, even if only in appearance, was essential.

In the Raynor Clan, the responsibility of organizing the competition fell upon Xavier Raynor, following a formal clan meeting. Once the schedule was finalized and announced, over fifty young werewolves registered to compete.

Xavier felt the headache arrive almost instantly.

Managing that many participants would be a monumental task. The biggest hurdle was to set a Venue. The Raynor Clan didn’t own a private arena or stadium suitable for such a large-scale competition. And this wasn’t a game... when two werewolves fought, they would inevitably use their wolf abilities. Hosting the event in a public place would lead to a potential supernatural disaster.

Two days passed. Xavier brainstormed, calculated, and stressed, but came up with many things, but nothing substantial. Finally, frustrated and out of options, he decided to call Fiona.

After hearing him out, Fiona exhaled slowly.

"Your real problem," she began, her voice calm, "is just the final match. The preliminary rounds... you can arrange those at our ancestral land. But the final... that’s going to be tricky."

"We’ll need to invite the other clan heads to witness it. I’ve already received an invitation from the Fenroth Clan, and I’m sure others will follow. We can’t ignore them. We need to prepare a proper venue... even if it’s just for one day."

She paused for a moment, then added, "Don’t worry. We’ll hold the final at the Raynor Estate. I’ll bring in an array master to secure the area. They’ll set up a protective array around the arena to contain everything. You just need to build a temporary arena... something practical, but elegant. Ask Ethan to design it without ruining the estate’s natural beauty. The last thing we want is for other clans to show up and start criticizing us."

Xavier let out a visible sigh of relief. "Understood. I’ll contact Ethan right away."

Before ending the call, he added, "Thank you."

On the other end, Fiona smiled. "This boy... he can run the entire police force of Manchester but can’t organize a simple werewolf tournament." The thought made her chuckle softly.

With a quiet sigh and a long stretch, Fiona swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot across the polished wooden floor toward the tall window. She parted the curtains as if unveiling a dream.

A sudden cascade of golden sunlight poured into the room, spilling over pale linens, painting the walls in soft hues of rose and amber. It was one of those rare, soul-stirring awakenings where the world feels alive with promise. Fiona blinked against the brightness, her eyes adjusting slowly.

Beyond the window, Hallstatt’s peaks still wore their snowy crowns. The Dachstein Mountains glittered under the morning sun like cut crystal. And yet, change stirred beneath the snow.

She slid open the window, and a sharp, invigorating wind swept across her face. Not biting cold but clean and gentle, laced with the earthy scent of thawing soil, pine, and distant warmth of light. The gust lifted her hair slightly and sent a delightful shiver down her spine. She inhaled deeply, as if drawing strength from the breath of the earth.

Outside, the village lay in serene grace. Sloped rooftops bore their final shawls of snow as the last remnants of a long Alpine winter. Droplets fell steadily from leaves and branches, pattering onto cobblestone paths and ivy-clad ledges. Beneath the melting crust, small patches of green peeked through. Fiona watched as snow slipped from the arms of fir trees, revealing jade-like needles catching the sun.

Just beyond the garden, a narrow stairway climbed a hill, flanked by terraced flower beds that clung stubbornly to the stone. There, in quiet defiance of winter, the first bursts of colour had arrived. Pale crocuses, violet irises, shy primulas, and golden alpine asters swayed delicately in the cold breeze.

His spear danced in his hands with the elegance of a poem. Also, with brutal, relentless precision. Every thrust drove the tip forward like lightning split into steel, the force of it tearing through the frozen air with a sharp boom. With each strike, a pulse of wind erupted from the tip, a condensed roar of power that surged ahead and slammed into the mountainside beyond. There, the snow exploded upward in pillars of white, scattered into the sky like offerings to the storm.

Ice shards sliced across his body, drawing thin trails of redness that froze instantly against his skin. The wind snarled against him like a living thing, wild and merciless. But he did not waver a bit. Muscles rippled across his torso with each movement... shoulders twisting, spine bending, arms snapping forward again and again, faster with each repetition. The rhythm of his spear was like a war drum pounding against the silence of the gods.

The valley was his only witness. The sky above was bruised purple, the sun a faint blur behind shifting clouds. Peaks ringed the basin like sleeping giants, their icy heads lost in mist, ancient and unmoved. And in the middle of it all, amidst wind and snow and silence, he kept moving... panting, sweating, and striking.

He was refining something far more dangerous than technique... a will unbroken by frost, a body hardened by solitude, and a spirit untouched by comfort.

"Rohan, the clan has sent word. The competition will be held next week. If you want to enter, we must leave now." A voice broke through the howling wind, worn with age but firm as stone.

The young man didn’t pause, but his eyes flickered slightly as he completed his strike.

From the mouth of a narrow cave carved into the cliffside, an old man emerged... barefoot, draped only in a simple white dhoti that clung to his frame in the biting wind. Though his face bore the deep furrows of time, his body still held the weight and strength of years forged in discipline. His chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his weathered muscles remained hard as the mountains themselves. A long white beard clung to his chin, rippling in the wind like frost-streaked silk, and his hair, thick and silver, flowed past his shoulders, lashing about like banners in a storm.

The young man halted his movements and turned toward the cave. Without a word, he set the spear down beside him, its tip sinking into the snow. Then he bowed deeply, the gesture full of respect and calm purpose.

"As you wish, Gurudev," said the young man.

He was Rohan Harivamsa, a rising star of the Harivamsa Clan.