Rudolph found two flatbed carts in the farm’s storeroom. On one cart, a werewolf—destined to be used as a sacrifice—was being dragged. The cart creaked as the horses pulled it along the road, and three alchemical daggers attached to the werewolf’s back vibrated with each step, causing the creature to whimper in pain. Sheriff Claude, driving that cart, wore a furrowed brow; the situation was looking grim. According to Druid Elder Tag, werewolf packs never appear without reason—apparently, a large group of werewolves was migrating toward Lyman Town for some unknown purpose.
On the second cart were only Rudolph and the wolf girl. The wolf girl had sold the farm to the druids—since druids aren’t inclined to run a farm, they would find someone else to take it over. Rudolph couldn’t understand why she, as a werewolf, would head for Lyman Town; the town was far too dangerous for her kind. By now, Rudolph knew her name was Yvonne.
“Yvonne, the town isn’t very safe either. Don’t worry about the station—I’m a big deal there. But… sometimes the Fabro City Tribunal sends people to town. Their enforcers are even tougher than the sheriff,” he warned, adding that it was best for a werewolf to avoid the town. Yvonne simply sat on the cart, hugging her knees with her face buried in them, only her eyes visible. “Last night, I heard the alpha’s call…” she murmured.
Indeed, the town was dangerous—but for a wolf girl, staying out in the wild was even more perilous. If a nearby werewolf pack existed and its alpha outranked her, she would have no choice but to obey, or risk being killed by the pack. At the mention of the alpha, Rudolph was startled. Even though the afternoon sun was still bright, he hurriedly grabbed his binoculars and scanned the surroundings—the forest’s edge and the mountaintops of the low hills revealed nothing.
“Could there be a Rank-2 werewolf nearby?” Yvonne was only a Rank-1 werewolf, and only a Rank-2 alpha could affect her. Finding nothing, Rudolph resumed driving the cart. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain at his waist—almost enough to make him cry out. How could Yvonne’s grip be so strong? Yvonne snapped at him hard. Rudolph turned to see anger shimmering in her crystal eyes.
“What did you see last night?” she demanded, her cheeks flushing as she spoke.
“What did I see?” Rudolph tried to recall the events, forcing his expression to remain neutral… Yvonne pinched him again. Gritting his teeth, he protested, “I didn’t see anything!” Clearly unconvinced, Yvonne pinched him once more. “I mean… it was so pale… ow, ow, ow… I’m not saying you’re pale—I mean, the werewolf you turned into was really pale…” Rudolph thought his waist must now be bruised and battered.
“By the way, is there anything special about a white wolf?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Yvonne had only ever been the daughter of a farmer, and the only apostles she’d encountered were the druids hired by the farm; she didn’t really understand werewolves.
The two carts rocked and swayed as they entered Lyman Town. “Rudolph, go fetch the Red Priest for the station!” came the order. Without hesitation, Rudolph headed straight to the Red Priest’s chapel. His memory of the chapel was that after every full-moon sacrifice, the townspeople would line up there to have their bloodletting therapy. Besides presiding over the monthly full-moon rites, the Red Priest also treated common folk by performing free bloodletting. It was said that everyone who underwent the therapy felt refreshed afterward. Rudolph had deliberately skipped it last month, thinking it useless and a waste of nutrients. This was his first time entering the chapel since crossing over; the entire place radiated moon worship. Two rows of columns—fifteen in total—were carved sequentially with images from a crescent to a full moon, and the ceiling’s fresco depicted mythic moon legends. The only sound inside was his own footsteps as he walked toward the pulpit at the far end. Ahead, he could see a few figures; the Red Priest stood at the front, his back to the door. In the first row, three others sat—probably the chapel staff, whom Rudolph had never seen before in town.
“Red Priest, Sheriff Claude sent me to fetch you to the station. The sacrifice for the December full-moon rite is ready—a Rank-1 werewolf,” Rudolph announced. At the word “werewolf,” the Red Priest turned around, his face lighting up with delight. “Excellent, let’s go see our sacrifice right away.”
The Red Priest climbed into a cart and, to Rudolph’s discomfort, invited him along. The Red Priest’s face was long and gaunt, pale with no beard—and upon closer inspection, no eyebrows either, as if he suffered from albinism. Yet his expression was cheerful, and he even chatted with Rudolph about the details of capturing the werewolf sacrifice. When they arrived at the station, Rudolph was the first to jump off the cart. The cart was a bit chilly, and Rudolph longed to feel the sun again—he detested the cold, damp feeling, especially since he had the Tooth of the Undead.
Rudolph promptly escorted the Red Priest to the station’s basement—the holding cell for werewolves—where Sheriff Claude was already waiting. The sheriff and the Red Priest exchanged pleasantries about their recent successes. The Red Priest praised Claude’s efficiency in capturing the werewolf, and Claude in turn credited the station’s achievements to the Red Priest’s support. Seizing the moment while the Red Priest was in high spirits, Claude said, “Red Priest, I’d like to request more manpower for our station from the higher-ups. We lost many men during the last witch-hunt, and it’s been nearly a month without our request being approved. I hope you can endorse my application so we can increase the forces at Lyman Town Station. With so many werewolves in the wild, our manpower is woefully inadequate…”
Rudolph wholeheartedly agreed; he had been patrolling day and night without proper rest. Claude patted Rudolph on the shoulder and added, “Red Priest, look—I'm out here fighting a pack of 18 werewolves with nothing but this half-baked kid. It’s incredibly dangerous! Don’t you think such reckless youth is unfit to bear the burden of fighting werewolves? We urgently need more recruits. If we can’t bring in more alchemists, we must at least recruit more trainee patrolmen, request more firearms, and get more ammo.”
Rudolph’s face twitched in indignation—recruits were one thing, but why use him as a bad example? It wasn’t like he nearly shot the sheriff yesterday; was it really that serious?
After the Red Priest left, Rudolph followed Claude to his office. “What do you mean ‘reckless young man’? Why can’t I shoulder the responsibility of fighting werewolves?”
“I said that to help you push for more resources from higher up. Look at you—you’re still just a reckless kid,” Claude replied.
“Can the Red Priest really influence the higher-ups? Does he have any say in this matter?”
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“Of course. The Red Priests in Fabro City wield far more power than our station—what they decide, we must execute.”
Sheriff Claude continued, “Rudolph, I’ve decided to promote you to a full patrolman. In a few days, I’ll assign you a trainee to mentor. I sense that the days ahead will only grow more dangerous.”
Rudolph, however, wasn’t too concerned about his rank. “So, as a full patrolman, will I get more alchemical bullets?”
“Certainly.”
“I want alchemical bullets for my revolver.”
“Shotguns are more effective against werewolves.”
“But revolvers are cooler!”
Exasperated by Rudolph’s stubbornness, Claude relented, “Fine, I’ll get you some revolver rounds. In the meantime, keep an eye on that werewolf.”
“Understood!” Rudolph replied happily as he left the sheriff’s office. Claude was pleased with him—after surviving two brutal battles, Rudolph’s competence and luck were evident. For a subordinate like him, the sheriff was more than willing to allocate extra resources.
Later, in the basement holding cell, Rudolph sat on a chair outside the werewolf cell, fidgeting with the two revolvers he’d just received. The police-issued revolvers were far superior to the farmer’s models. Rudolph’s pair were reminiscent of the Colt S&W Python from his past life. Compared to ordinary revolvers, these had long barrels, with a total length of nearly 25 centimeters—long and sturdy, exactly the style he favored. His belt also held a bandolier containing five speed loaders: three of them loaded with alchemical bullets (18 rounds in total) and the remaining two with standard rounds. Rudolph could even use the Scorpio incantation “Venom” to poison the bullet heads, but as a mere wizard apprentice, his venom was weak—barely a trace, and far less lethal than Sheriff Claude’s Rank-2 alchemical rounds. Thus, Rudolph reserved his poisoned rounds only for desperate situations.
Just as Rudolph was reveling in his new toys, a wolf howl cut through the air. The alchemical daggers affixed to a werewolf had been removed; it leaped from the ground toward Rudolph, but the cell’s iron bars—made of refined alchemical iron—stood between them. Not even a Rank-1 werewolf could break them. The werewolf pounded the bars wildly, but to no avail. Rudolph thought to himself that the station really should recruit more personnel; he had just been promoted and got a raise, yet here he was, stuck in a cell. How could a 20‑meter-long holding cell have any purpose for patrol?
A few days later, December’s full moon arrived. On that full-moon night, Rudolph stepped out of the station. High above the starry sky, the full moon hung resplendently. The moment the moonlight touched him, a chorus of murmurs echoed in his ears once again. He rapped his forehead with his hand and continued outward. Behind him, a werewolf—with an alchemical dagger freshly reinserted in its back—followed close. When werewolves encounter full-moon light, they suddenly shake off their lethargy. Their eyes flare with ferocity; for some inexplicable reason, the moon’s rays drive them into a frenzy, their hormones surging until every last shred of reason is lost.
“Shoot!” In such circumstances, the station had a contingency plan. Six people—armed with shotguns (including Calita, who had been on duty in the hall)—opened fire. The yard of the station erupted with gunshots. Six alchemical shotgun shells tore into the werewolves’ bodies. Rudolph signaled for everyone to hold fire as he observed: the lead rounds caused the werewolves to hunch in pain. “Three more rounds!” After three more shots, Rudolph nodded in satisfaction; the dosage was just right. These lead rounds didn’t hit the werewolves’ heads—so they wouldn’t kill them outright—but the embedded pellets would keep them subdued. Rudolph planned to take the werewolves to the town square, making them the main attraction for the night.
The townsfolk had no idea why wizards had to die—compared to them, ordinary people loathed werewolves even more. Werewolves posed a tangible threat to everyone’s livelihood. People were reluctant to travel far, for in the remote wilds, packs of werewolves roamed freely—even attacking caravans during the day. If not for alchemists supplying alchemical bullets to the farmers, many would not dare stay on their own land. With the werewolves’ presence, only large-scale farms could supply the town with food, as only they possessed the means to defend themselves. Druids, too, could only counter werewolves thanks to the increasing power of alchemists; without their help, druids were perpetually overpowered in the wild. If the werewolves ran rampant, food prices in town would soar. Conversely, if grain prices dropped, it meant the druids and farmers had recently eliminated many werewolves.
When the werewolves were paraded into the square, the crowd erupted in wild cheers. The terrifying werewolf heads—dripping with slobber and displaying monstrous maws—thrilled the townspeople. This was the wild’s greatest nightmare: werewolves lurking in the darkness. Rudolph noticed the Red Priest at the sacrificial altar, watching contentedly at the alchemical bullet holes in the werewolves. While ordinary wounds would heal quickly, the burns from alchemical rounds lingered. At the altar, two butchers were already at work. For other apostles, a simple fire would suffice as a sacrifice—but werewolves were so detestable that extra measures were needed. Two tall, burly butchers hoisted the weakened werewolf onto a slab. Rudolph turned away, finding the scene too gruesome—he pictured the werewolf being chopped up and fed to dogs. Werewolves despised being called “stupid dogs,” so feeding them to dogs was the ultimate humiliation. Nearby, four dogs—drugged and roused into a frenzy—howled and barked excitedly.
Rudolph frowned; the full-moon murmurs were giving him a headache. As the sacrifice proceeded, the most intense murmur emerged. “They overfed my dog…” Rudolph watched as one dog’s belly on the sacrificial altar swelled like a balloon on the verge of bursting. He frowned, suddenly understanding the purpose of the full-moon murmurs. They enabled one to hear the apostles’ whispers under the full moon—which meant one could locate the apostles by tracking the dog owners. And why find an apostle? If Rudolph were a ruthless wizard, capturing one would allow him to use that apostle as material for a magical artifact. In this way, the full-moon murmurs served as a secret boost for wizards. While poisoning is considered wizardry, the creation of magical artifacts is even more vital for a wizard’s progression. To ascend to a Rank-1 wizard, Rudolph needed to use a Rank-1 apostle to craft a Rank-1 artifact.
Rudolph sidled up next to Officer Calita. “Calita, these four dogs aren’t our K-9s, are they?”
“Of course not; if our police dogs were overfed to death, Sheriff Claude would have his tongue out for weeks.”
“Then where did these dogs come from?”
“A new circus arrived in town—they sold these dogs to us.”
After the sacrifice, there would be entertainment—a circus would set up a small performance area on the edge of the square. When the rite concluded, Rudolph loaded the two overfed dogs onto a cart and drove to the circus. Facing the circus manager, Rudolph asked, “Are these your dogs? If you have no objections, I’ll take care of them for you.” Before the manager could answer, a short clown nearby blurted out, “Had I known the dogs would die, I’d never have sold mine to you!” The clown, who looked rather young with his face smeared by tears and grease paint, couldn’t hold back his emotions. Rudolph continued, “Oh, I’m sorry. This was a miscommunication from the station about what the dogs would be used for.” Overwhelmed by Rudolph’s offhand explanation, the clown broke down in tears. Rudolph was convinced that this clown was most likely the apostle behind the full-moon murmurs.
“Kuber! You’d better head back!” the circus manager ordered. Kuber left without a word. “Sheriff, please don’t mind him—Kuber’s still too young,” the manager hastily added. “I’m the circus manager—I’m Seko. If the sheriff ever needs anything, just contact me directly.” Seko was a stout middle-aged man, and his portliness was no small feat.
“Manager Seko, I’m just a patrolman—not the sheriff,” Rudolph retorted before leaving the circus with the cart to dispose of the dogs. Feeling sorry for the poor creatures, Rudolph planned to bury them in the cemetery.
Just as Rudolph was about to leave the square, trainee patrolman Sam suddenly ran toward him. “Captain! A werewolf has appeared on the outskirts of town!”