Chapter 4 - The Hunt (II)

In the dimness of the night, balancing skillfully on a thin, curved branch, a ten-year-old boy with snake-like red eyes gazed coldly at the peaceful and serene village below.

Stretching 18 kilometers, the village of Edwinstowe was not rich in population, with around five thousand people residing in the ancient settlement. Unfortunately, this tranquil village had been shaken by five cases of missing girls.

Fortunately, the nightmare of this village would end today once and for all.

Alastor closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Although he knew the exact location, he still wanted to find the Heretic Werewolf on his own.

As the air he inhaled coursed through his body like a stream of smoke, it quickly reached his brain, activating his instincts to the fullest.

Most of the scents were human; he could sense the pheromones of fear in the air, the hidden lust within them, and, lurking and hard to detect, a non-human scent floating in the atmosphere.

Opening his eyes, Alastor's red pupils dilated to the extreme. A blue stream of air floated in the air, winding in a specific direction toward the north, further away than any other house in the village.

I located it! Alastor thought, his body moving forward as he stepped onto the next branch and continued onward, his movements obscured by the gentle rustling of the leaves.

Behind him, walking on extremely thin lines, Tereza followed her master with a cold and lethal expression. In her hands, threads moved as if they had a life of their own, creating a path for her to walk on, even though this path was less than a centimeter thick.

Still, she balanced herself in a sublime manner that would put a circus clown with decades of experience to shame.

Alastor paid no mind to Tereza and pressed on, always following the inhuman scent. Jumping from tree to tree, his figure resembled a black shadow, causing anyone who saw him to question whether they had glimpsed a ghost or a monster.

At one point, he stopped and balanced himself on a branch, looking ahead.

His gaze was fixed on a seemingly cozy wooden house; it looked like a typical lumberjack's dwelling. However, in Alastor's eyes, the entire environment was cloaked in the inhuman smell—a scent reminiscent of a wet dog but far more intense and powerful.

Alastor also subtly picked up the smell of blood in the air, coming from a clearing not far away. It reached him along with screams for help that were impossible for normal human ears to hear.

The missing girl had been found, but Alastor did not rush to save her immediately. The target was the Werewolf; only when the Werewolf lay lifeless at his feet would he rescue the poor girl. Until that happened, his focus remained on the criminal.

Tereza had arrived beside Alastor, balancing on an extremely thin wire, almost invisible in the dark night. This wire curled around the surrounding trees, supporting her entire weight.

She threw the silver case towards Alastor, who caught it silently. He opened the case and took out a fragmentation grenade filled with pure silver.

To avoid unnecessary risks in a close-quarters fight, Alastor intended to blow up the entire house and force the Werewolf out. If the Werewolf couldn't escape, it would save him a lot of trouble.

Pulling the pin with his mouth, he aimed for the glass window and tossed it inside the house.

The grenade soared through the air toward the lumberjack's wooden house.

Crack!

With the sound of glass shattering breaking the silence of the surroundings, the door of the house swung open abruptly, and a figure emerged just before an explosion sounded within.

BOOM!

All the windows of the house shattered simultaneously, scattering shards of glass into the air.

Alastor's eyes didn't focus on the house but on the figure that had exited before the explosion. Even in the dimness of the night, he could see the image of the man clearly.

It was Karl Lambert, the Werewolf.

He was shirtless, revealing his bare chest covered in thick fur. The deep blue of his eyes had vanished, replaced by glowing yellow eyes filled with a fierce, bestial fury. He wore only pants, barefoot against the cold ground.

Karl raised his gaze and spotted the small figure standing on the branch above; those snake-like red eyes looking directly at him sent chills down his spine. A shiver colder than the night breeze made his body tremble from head to toe.

"Agrece," the name slipped through his tightly clenched teeth, his voice tinged with fear and terror.

"What did you expect? The Court of Darkness?" Alastor replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "You dare to perform rituals for the Crimson Moon in my territory; of course, it would be the House of Agrece that would take your insignificant life."

Jumping from the branch, Alastor landed softly on the ground on the tips of his toes, two daggers dancing delicately between his fingers.

"Are you ready to die?" Alastor asked, tilting his head to the side with a cold, expressionless look.

"Die?" Karl suppressed the fear that came with the name Agrece and seemed to find it amusing. His body began to grow as his mouth widened, his nose narrowed, and teeth elongated. Brown fur sprouted from his body, covering him almost entirely; his spine curved, and his arms elongated, sharp claws emerging from them.

"You, a little brat, dare to say you'll kill me. Even if you are an Agrece, don't be arrogant, brat," he said with a cold, murderous voice, his tongue licking his teeth, spreading saliva throughout his mouth.

At that moment, a monster over two meters long with a curved spine and four limbs on the ground took the place of Karl Lambert. The beast was covered in a thick layer of brown fur, and its bestial yellow eyes shone in the darkness. Its body appeared skeletal, with its ribs sticking out. A threatening growl hung in the air, spreading through the night.

The entire atmosphere changed drastically, becoming threatening and deadly.

Alastor looked at the werewolf with curiosity; it was the first time he had seen a supernatural being, and he had to comment that werewolves performing sacrifice rituals were truly hideous. Normal werewolves looked like giant, beautiful wolves, not the skeletal abomination before him.

Taking an attack stance while holding his two daggers, Alastor whispered, "Come on, filthy dog."

Although it was a whisper, in that silent environment, it seemed particularly loud for anyone to hear.

Karl's eyes blazed with immense fury, and his body lunged forward on all fours.

The werewolf was extremely fast, resembling a brown blur to the human eye, quickly closing the distance between them. His claws extended, aimed at Alastor's face, wanting to rip his head off in one go.

Karl couldn't help but feel a surge of euphoria in his chest at the thought of killing an Agrece; he would become famous and perhaps even accepted back into his pack.

But the carnage and bloodshed he expected did not happen. Instead, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as the boy dodged the attack. Blood sprayed from his shoulder in a geyser.

Karl couldn't stop due to his momentum and fell heavily to the ground with a whimper reminiscent of a dog!

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