The Moon Luna’s Vengeful Alpha

The Traitor's Banquet

Three days passed in quiet preparation.

Kael dispersed his rebel units around the palace perimeter, hidden in residential blocks and rooftop blind spots. No grand display, just quiet, tactical positioning—our answer to Seraphina’s obvious trap.

The Alpha Palace Grand Hall was a gilded cage, built to intimidate.

Crystal chandeliers hung heavy with warm, stolen light, crafted to outshine the moon the royals had always feared. The air reeked of expensive perfume, aged wine, and the sharp nervous sweat of hundreds of ranking Alphas.

Everyone was pretending peace held.

I felt their collective energy before I stepped inside—an arrogant mass of dominant pulses, each wolf fighting to assert rank over the next.

Nobles filled the hall, tailored suits brushing shimmering gowns. Their low chatter hummed with political paranoia and quiet speculation about the tomb incident.

On the raised dais sat Elder Marcus, his new gold-threaded robes mocking genuine lunar silver. His face was tight with forced benevolence, every line sharp with suppressed rage.

Beside him, Seraphina perched in blood-red silk. Rubies clung to her throat, drinking down the chandelier light. She smiled for her circle of admirers, fingers flicking like she wove prophetic spells.

Empty tricks. She only manipulated what was already in front of her.

Near the dais, my father—the Old Alpha—sat in honorary confinement. His eyes were dull, his frame shrunk. Faint, hazy light wrapped his wrists, the magical shackles Lysander had locked onto him to force compliance.

Lysander himself hid in the upper gallery. I could feel his stale, weak energy signature lingering in the shadows. Cowardly, predictable.

My entrance did not knock. It crashed.

The massive iron-bound oak doors at the hall’s far end ripped from their hinges. A sharp lunar energy surge sent them cartwheeling across marble, crashing into the wall with a deafening boom.

Every voice died. Every glass stilled. All heads snapped toward the night-framed doorway.

Moonlight flowed off my skin, a controlled D-rank aura pushing the warm lamplight back a full ten feet. The air turned cold. Frost spiderwebbed the edges of the red carpet leading to the dais.

I marched forward.

My silver-steel armor whispered with every step, forged in Kael’s forge and tempered under moonlight. My dark metal boot tips clicked on the marble, slow and unhurried. The crescent axe rested loose in my grip, its edge drinking the light like quiet death.

The crowd parted instinctively. Alpha instincts screamed to retreat from a dominant, unchained lunar presence.

Their collective power rose against me, a territorial wave meant to crush an intruder. The old me would have faltered. The new me absorbed it, turning their aggression into fuel for my own controlled aura.

I did not speak. I flicked my wrist, sweeping the axe in a horizontal, energy-only arc.

Silver lunar energy rippled through the line of ceremonial guards. A dozen master-forged greatswords did not snap—they disintegrated into fine glittering dust, sifting over the men’s boots.

The guards staggered back. No wounds, but their pride, bound to their weapons, shattered completely. A collective gasp swept the hall.

I stopped at the base of the dais.

Marcus shot to his feet, face purpling. Seraphina’s polished smile froze, then dropped away entirely.

“Traitor!” Marcus roared, his voice cracking with panic. “Seize this abomination! She corrupts our bloodline! She traffics with forbidden lunar power!”

I ignored his shouts, reaching into the leather satchel at my hip. My fingers closed around the brittle vellum contract.

“You speak of corrupted blood, Marcus,” I said. My voice carried across the hall without amplification, cold and steady.

“And forbidden power.”

I lifted the contract high. A thin lunar tendril wrapped the parchment, igniting it with pure silver energy instead of flame. The ink lifted off the page, burning golden words hovering in the air for all to read.

The royal wolf seal and Thorne’s caduceus seal blazed bright. The text laid bare the truth: the Moon-Clan coordinates traded away for royal power, labeled raw experimental material.

The date seared into every eye—the year my mother died, the year the old king falsely ascended to S-class.

Silence crashed over the hall. Then murmurs erupted, growing into snarls and shouts.

“The eastern purge was a deal?”

“He sold the lunar clan for strength?”

The royal family’s unshakable legend crumbled into a lie built on g******e.

“Forgery!” Marcus shrieked. “Dark magic trickery!”

“Her prophecies twist the truth!” Seraphina added, trembling with rage. “She is chaos incarnate!”

I glanced up at the gallery shadows. “Your prophecies are as borrowed as your throne. The only chaos here is the truth you’ve hidden.”

The contract dissolved into harmless silver sparks.

Shadows stirred above. Twelve figures dropped from the rafters, crossbows leveled mid-air—Marcus’s personal death squad, not palace guards.

“Kill her!” Marcus screamed.

Bolts whistled toward my heart, throat, eyes.

I relied on my D-rank peak reflexes and lunar-enhanced dynamic vision. Time did not stop. I tracked every projectile’s trajectory clear as day.

I tilted my head, letting one bolt graze my ear. A small left step moved my chest out of another’s path. I flicked my wrist, redirecting the last bolt into a roasted pheasant on a nearby table.

No magic foresight—only mastered speed and perception.

I exhaled a low, resonant tone, channeling focused lunar pressure. The targeted energy wave slammed into the suspended death squad, crushing their lungs with concentrated force. They collapsed one by one, air driven from their bodies, crossbows clattering uselessly to marble.

The entire hall held its breath.

Lysander stumbled down the side staircase, robes disheveled, face streaked with terror. He skidded to a halt ten feet away, hands outstretched.

“Elara, listen! It was all Marcus! I was manipulated! The bond between us—”

I cut him off before he could finish. The golden energy threads of his parasitic power contract flared between us. With a single thought, I severed the connection entirely.

I felt nothing. No pull, no echo.

“That was no fated bond,” I said coldly. “It was a leash you used to siphon my lunar power. You are not a destined partner. You are a parasite feeding on stolen strength.”

I nodded toward my father. “You chained him with the same forced energy. Watch what real power does without oppression.”

I extended my palm. Thick silver light crossed the room, permeating the magical shackles instead of striking them. The hazy bindings smoked, fractured, and shattered like thin glass.

Cleaning lunar energy washed over my father, restoring his clarity and color. He stared at his free wrists, then at me, a single tear tracing down his weathered face.

Traditional nobles watching the scene shifted allegiance. One elderly general unhooked his official chain of office, dropping it to the floor with a dull clink. He marched toward the broken doors. Others followed, abandoning the dying royal faction.

Marcus snapped.

“BRING THE HALL DOWN!” he bellowed, triggering the emergency failsafe for the massive crystal chandelier directly above me.

Before the fixture could crash, a deep, grinding rumble shook the palace foundations. The marble floor split open at the hall’s center, a mechanical maw retracting to reveal a hidden subterranean lab.

Thorne rose on a hydraulic platform, white lab coat stained with iridescent fluid. His eyes blazed with manic triumph.

Behind him, clamped by massive energy restraints, stood his masterpiece: an asymmetrical abomination stitched from dozens of mutated wolf specimens. Extra limbs, armored flesh, a second snarling head bulged from its shoulder. Its chaotic eyes swirled with broken, feral intelligence.

“The Alpha Project’s final form!” Thorne shouted. “Engineered from the purest wolf strains! It only lacks a lunar stabilizer—you, Elara. Its perfect symbiosis key.”

The monster’s gaze locked onto me, recognizing my core.

At the same moment, a unified howl erupted beyond the palace walls. Deep, defiant, endless—Kael’s rebel army, positioned and ready.

Thorne cackled, slamming the red release button on his console.

The energy clamps hissed open. The containment glass shattered inward.

The abomination lurched into the grand hall, unhinging its jaws to unleash a maddened roar that shattered every remaining window. The battle for the crown had truly begun.

Loving Elara’s brutal takedown and the rebel buildup? Drop a collect to lock this chapter—don’t miss the monster showdown and Kael’s frontline charge in Chapter 15.