Novel & Cerita Berserk Puck

Lead Research Coordinator. His picture came up. He didn’t look like a Blackwood at all. Didn’t even look like the usual stuck-up wolf type. Mid-twenties, sandy hair messy like he’d just run his hands through it, big easy smile that actually touched his eyes. He looked… normal. Beta rank, from some regular pack out East. Worked his way up through school, not by bloodlines.

"What kind of trouble?" Jess shrugged, tying her apron around her waist. "Who knows? Probably got caught with another puck bunny. That's all he does, right? Skate, score, and screw." She made a disgusted face. "I don't get the hype. He's just a guy with good cheekbones and a stick." My face heated. I turned away, pretending to organize the pastry case. "You don't even know him." "Don't need to." Jess grabbed a pitcher of milk and started steaming it for a latte. "I've seen his type before. All charm and no substance. He probably doesn't even remember the names of the girls he hooks up with."

I walked in and saw him. Riven was on the ice, alone, stick in hand, angrily shooting pucks. Most of them missed. He looked exhausted, furious, and completely broken. “Fuck!” he yelled, kicking the puck away in frustration. I stepped onto the ice, my voice soft. “Was that ‘fuck’ or ‘puck’?” Riven spun around, eyes widening when he saw me. “No pun intended,” I winked. “How do you know I would be here? What are you even doing here?”

Wait, why does he look like a real berserker? Jeje flies through the sky by boosted by the fire igniting on his back like a real Gundam. He flies tearing the wing with his piercing hand and flies back tearing it again. He keeps doing that that Ahol wings are full of holes. Buriko beats the Tasmanian Devil with his ax in rampaging mode. Why does he really resemble Heracles?!

The rink stretched out below us, a gleaming white battlefield where twenty guys in green-and-white jerseys were already carving circles into the ice like they owned gravity. I slumped onto the lowest bleacher, pulling my hood up. My phone buzzed—my best friend back home, sending the fifth crying emoji of the morning. I fired back: This is cruel and unusual. Send help. Or pizza. Preferably both. On the ice, the team moved like a pack of wolves. Fast. Loud. Terrifyingly coordinated. Sticks cracked against pucks. Someone shouted, “Left wing, Callahan!” and every head turned toward Number 17.

He started it. “You good?” One of my guys asked and I nodded. The game continued and luckily, I had a chance to skate close to the guy and I slammed into him very hard. I was sure that I did my damage even with that one hit. “Fucking bastard!” He shouted and I smirked back, giving him the middle finger from over my shoulder. Pussy face. By the time the game rounded off, we won by three to two goals. Very close but we still won. It was a Homeland game and I was thankful that they didn't beat us. Because that would have been so embarrassing for the first game of the season which also happened on our turf.

Blood dripped from the sickle. The half-breeds attacked the werewolves with angry cries. Baruz, dodging the blow, goes under the arm and sticks the stake clearly into the base of the skull. Berkhes spuds the swooping ghouls in a swing, knocking down two miserable creatures. Short powerful blows, invariably accompanied by a crunch of bones.

“Yeah, what do we really know about this guy? I mean, he offered himself as a fighter, but he said something that I can’t quite understand.” “What’s that?” “He said that he’d fight only if all our people were off the battlefield. Alrick, is he a berserker? Do we have one of those monsters in our pack? Running a tavern?” Alrick sighed and only nodded. “He promised me he’s in control of himself. That it only comes out on the battlefield, and he doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left living on the field. I’m thinking of sending him to NARC if they want him in reserve. You know, a last-ditch effort.”

I responded, jumping at him. I don't know when the shift happens, but there's nothing but paws, fur and claws when I land atop him, rolling and clawing at his face. "Berserker" Jeremy hisses at me, before bursting into maniacal laughter. "I'd know that look in your eye anywhere." He claws at my underbelly where I've already shattered my ribs, aiming to do more damage to my now exposed organs. He throws me to the side, hissing at me, hair matted, clothes torn, then the man laughs when his hand suddenly brushes his side finding blood.

Before I could make my way through the door, my jaw tightens with determination, and I turn back to look at them. “Hey, Marlon!” I yell. He is taken aback, and turns around to answer. I gather enough strength in my arm and aim the puck in my hand at his face. I don't think I have ever put more strength into a throw. Being the idiot that he is, Marlon doesn't shift, instead he takes the puck right to his left eye and falls to the ground. I could have sworn that I heard something crack…