The Shadow Wolf's Second Life: They Bullied The Wrong Omega

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my oversized hoodie, carving a path straight through the high-grade weight racks.

The distant hum of heavy treadmills and clanking iron muffled the lingering noise from the lobby, but the phantom itch of his scent still lingered at the edge of my senses.

He called me a noisemaker and didn’t even realize he talked more than I did. Psycho.

The noble training sector was equipped with high-density resistance machines, heavy leather striking bags, and isolated sparring rings. It was lightyears ahead of the rusty, broken gear in the commoner levels, but right now, I didn’t need fancy machinery. I needed to test the limits of this fragile, useless frame.

I stopped in front of a heavy, leather-bound punching bag hanging in the corner of the conditioning zone.

I rolled my shoulders, taking a deep, slow breath. I sank into a low, grounded stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight centered. In my past life, a single strike from this position would have shattered ribs, broken bones, or collapsed a target’s throat.

Let’s see what this body can actually deliver before it hits its limit.

I threw a swift, textbook straight right punch directly into the core of the heavy bag.

PAK!

The bag swung back barely three inches.

A sharp shockwave traveled straight up my wrist, radiating down my forearm with a sickening ache. I pulled my fist back immediately, my jaw clenching so hard my molars throbbed.

Pathetic.

My knuckles were already reddening, the weak, unconditioned skin of a wolfless Omega splitting slightly from a single direct impact. No dense muscle density, no protective aura, no underlying wolf strength to absorb the recoil.

If I tried to execute a full-contact assassination with these hands right now, I’d break my own wrists before I killed the target.

”Tsk.” I sucked air through my teeth, staring down at my shaking right hand.

Money was no longer the primary hurdle—I had Edgar’s ten-thousand-credit card sitting safely in my pocket. What I lacked was time, structural recovery, and high-grade cell-regeneration serums to force this body to rebuild its muscle fibers at triple the normal speed.

”Counting to a thousand takes roughly sixteen minutes if you don’t rush the cadence,” a lazy, familiar voice drawled from right beside the weight rack.

My head snapped up.

Benjamin was leaning against the steel frame of an squat rack three feet away, his arms folded loosely over his chest, his unhinged purple eyes watching my bleeding knuckles with quiet, sleepy curiosity.

”You really did count?” I asked, my voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register.

”I got to two hundred and forty before I got bored,” Benjamin replied, yawning as he took a step toward me. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to my right hand. ”Your form is sharp, but your bones are soft. You’re going to break yourself if you keep hitting heavy leather without wrapping your wrists.”

”I don’t need advice from a parasite who doesn’t even train,” I hissed, taking a step back to keep my distance.

Benjamin stopped, his purple eyes flickering. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, roll of tight, black athletic grip tape, and tossed it toward me.

”Uncle gave you the noble pass, which means you have access to the medical recovery pods on the fourth floor,” he said, turning his back on me and heading toward a leather bench in the corner. ”Fix your hands, noisemaker. You’re making too much noise sucking air through your teeth.”

He dropped onto the bench, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the wall, completely shutting me out.

I caught the tape mid-air, staring at the black roll, then at the sleeping Alpha across the room.

Unbelievable.

So now I was taking lessons from an inexperienced slacker. Great.

I sighed softly, looking down at the black roll in my grip. None of this would be happening if I just had Silas—or whatever wolf was hidden somewhere within this suppressed vessle. Being completely stripped of a wolf was easily the worst part of this entire situation.

Maybe this is a test from the Moon Goddess, I thought, my eyes narrowing as I stared at my raw, bleeding knuckles. A trial.

She didn’t give me this new life for free. She didn’t hand me a second chance on a silver platter with all the power I needed already intact. She needed me to fight for it, to earn it, to make it mine, and to regain everything I had lost with my own two hands.

Maybe... I gripped the roll of tape tightly, pursing my lips into a hard, determined line. Maybe this is her way of defining ’freedom’ to me. Freedom wasn’t just given; it was taken.

I let out one last long breath—time to get serious.

I unzipped the oversized hoodie and pulled it off, tossing it over a nearby bench. Stripping down to the cropped training top underneath left a lot of skin exposed, but what else would anyone expect in a training center? Less clothes meant better mobility, better heat regulation, and far better articulation for fast strikes.

I began wrapping the black athletic tape tightly around my right wrist, anchoring the joints before binding my palm and knuckles in firm, practiced crisscrosses.

From across the room, on the leather bench, a slight shift in movement caught my eye.

Benjamin hadn’t opened his eyes, but his nose twitched slightly. Without the thick fabric of the hoodie muffling my body heat and scent, the quiet air between us shifted. He let out a low, irritated grunt, turning his head further toward the wall, as if trying to block out the sudden, unshielded presence in the room.

”If you’re going to bleed on the tape, don’t leave it on the floor,” he grumbled, his voice thick with sleep. ”The trainers get whiny about blood in the noble sector since nobles don’t really need to train till they bleed.”

”Shut up, Benjamin,” I said coldly, tucking the end of the tape securely beneath my palm.

I flexed my fingers, testing the tightness. The support around my wrist was solid now. My skin was still weak, and this body was still pathetic, but the bones wouldn’t give out as easily on impact.

I stepped back up to the heavy leather bag, sank into my stance, and raised my hands.

No more testing. No more hesitation.

I took a deep breath, centered my core, and drove a swift, vicious combination straight into the dense leather—left jab, right cross, left hook—the dull thuds echoing through the corner of the silent gym as I set to work.