Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 166

Chapter 166: The Future of the Werewolves-2

Deep in the cradle of the Kii Mountains, morning light filtered through layers of cedar boughs... soft and golden, like memory given form. The ground was damp with dew, rich with the scent of moss and pine. Birds called high in the canopy, their cries echoing faintly beneath the thunderous voice of Nachi Falls, which plummeted down a cliff face in the distance... its mist rolling like spirits across the valley floor.

A girl stood alone on a stone outcrop, still as carved jade, facing the falls. She was young, barely more than seventeen, yet her presence commanded the space as if she had trained for lifetimes. Jet-black hair, long and silken, was tied into a loose braid that danced behind her with every gust of wind. Her dark and luminous eyes held a depth that belied her youth: half shadow, half fire. A pale flush graced her cheeks, kissed by the cold mountain air.

The katana in her hands danced like an extension of her spirit. She wore a dark indigo keikogi, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a hakama that whispered with every step. Beneath the fabric, muscle and grace coiled together like a wild creature tamed by discipline.

Her bare feet shifted on the stone like falling petals. Her sword flashed, a diagonal cut through the air... followed by a seamless pivot, the blade arcing behind her like a silver crescent moon. She spun with perfect control, her body sinking into a low stance before rising into an upward slash that sliced through the mist as though it feared her.

A second breath, a second flurry.

She leapt in a blur of motion, her katana lifted overhead, then slammed downward into an invisible opponent. The blade shimmered with mountain dew as it carved the air with a shrill hum. She landed light as snow, knees bent, one hand extended behind her for balance. Her breaths were deep and rhythmic... a prayer learned in blood and repetition.

Above her, the sunlight caught the droplets clinging to her blade, scattering tiny rainbows through the clearing. She stood tall, chest rising and falling, hair clinging to her neck, face serene.

From the shadows beyond the trees, an elderly figure stepped forth.

He was tall. His white keikogi fluttered in the wind, his hair bound high and silver with age. His face bore the solemn calm of a thousand winter dawns, yet there was warmth in his voice.

"You’ve mastered the rhythm," the old master said slowly, his sandals brushing through the fallen pine needles. "Now... you must learn to play the silence between each strike."

The girl bowed deeply, sweat glistening on her brow. For a moment, even the howling of Nachi Falls seemed to quiet. In that sacred space between mentor and student, praise was rare... but when spoken, it carried the weight of entire lifetimes.

She was Izumi Tsuki Kuroda, Young Miss of the Kuroda Clan of Japan.

***

Deep within the emerald heart of the Amazon, where sunlight filtered down in trembling beams through a canopy older than time, the forest whispered its secrets. Vines hung like serpents from towering trees, their roots snaking across moss-covered ground. Birds called to one another in bursts of colour and sound, while orchids bloomed unseen in the shadows. The air was thick with life... damp, breathing, ancient.

Beneath this living cathedral, a girl moved like a shadow.

Her bare feet glided silently over roots and fallen leaves, never snapping a twig or disturbing the rhythm of the forest. She wore almost nothing... just a wrap of woven fabric hugging her hips, and bands of feathers and bones adorning her arms and ankles. Her bronze skin shimmered with sweat and moonlight, sleek as a panther’s coat. Her body, lithe and honed like a weapon, moved with effortless poise, hips swaying with each silent step. Every curve was sculpted in balance... sensual yet strong, soft yet feral, like the jungle itself.

Her face was a song of contrasts: sharp cheekbones kissed by the sun, full lips slightly parted, and eyes the colour of wet earth after rain... dark, reflective, and full of vigour. She is Maíra Arara Neblina, the wildflower of the Amazon Werewolf Clan. To the animals, she was kin. To the forest, she was the daughter.

She halted as her golden eyes flashed toward a movement in the underbrush. Not twenty paces away, a cheetah lifted its head. Its ears twitched. A breath passed between them.

Then it bolted.

And Maíra followed.

The jungle erupted into motion. The cheetah darted like lightning through the undergrowth, kicking up leaves and shattering the stillness. But Maíra... barefoot, laughing softly under her breath... gave chase, her body slicing through the trees with liquid instinct. She ducked under vines, leapt over roots, and twisted mid-air with the precision of a predator born to the hunt. Her breath remained steady. Her muscles thrummed. Her heart beat in time with the earth.

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