The second day of the competition had begun, and in a different corner of the pocket world, a different kind of storm was brewing. Barak Raizen moved through the forest like a specter of death, his golden eyes now tainted with a sinister gleam. His black hair had grown longer, unkempt, whipping around his face in the wind. His expression was a mask of cold fury, his jaw set, his teeth grinding in silent rage.
He had changed. The demon seed had taken root, and its influence had spread through his body like wildfire. His muscles were denser, his reflexes sharper, his senses more acute. He could feel the ambient prana in the air, the life force of every creature within a mile radius. And he hungered for it.
A pack of Dire Wolves emerged from the underbrush, their eyes glowing with bestial intelligence. There were eight of them, their bodies lean and powerful, their fangs dripping with saliva. They circled him, low growls rumbling from their throats.
