Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The werewolf Jones could clearly feel its life rapidly draining away. It did not believe it could leave this place alive tonight.

The vampire behind it, though low in rank, was more troublesome than any vampire Jones had ever encountered.

She was too calm, her reactions too swift, just as difficult to deal with as those old monsters in the Holy Court.

Gluck's body was still warm, lying not far away.

In such a situation, only a fool with his head up his ass would let it go.

Jones's hand trembled against the ground. It just wanted to know what the vampire was really after.

It wasn't afraid of death. It just thought, if it could extract a bit of information for the boss before dying... If its death could leave behind something useful... whether it was the vampire's distinguishing features or some other piece of intel...

"I want to choose..." Jones made a rasping sound, widening its eyes and feigning a desperate desire to survive. "I want to choose... What do you want me to choose? Is it... if I tell you about the potion smuggling, you'll let me go?"

Yet, unexpectedly.

"No."

Lyle pulled the silver chain tighter. Jones's neck was being wrenched from its shoulders. "Though I'm sorry, you will die today without a doubt. The choice I mentioned has nothing to do with your life. What I meant was, whether you wish to preserve this potion smuggling route for your comrades, for your Mr. Dalton."

Jones struggled to breathe, its body growing colder. But it was frozen in shock by the vampire's words.

"P-preserve?"

Did Lyle want to ask about the specific location of the potion factory, or intelligence about the werewolf distribution within the Ash Yard?

She wanted to.

But if she asked, would Jones tell her?

No.

Then if she threatened it with its life, would it tell her?

No.

Perhaps due to blood loss-induced delirium, the werewolf's acting was utterly atrocious.

The vampire could clearly discern that within those amber pupils lay sharp desire, heavy resentment, and the calculation for one last gamble.

The only thing missing was the will to survive. It had already given up on living.

Asking directly for what she wanted to know at such a time would most likely result in lies.

How many villains met their doom because of misleading clues?

So, Lyle decided to take a roundabout approach.

"Yes, preserve." The vampire's tone was icy. "After all, my goal isn't these Holy Potions at all. Come on, I'm a vampire. I don't need any potions, do I?"

"Think carefully. If you hadn't discovered me tonight, hadn't surrounded me, would your brother be lying there in eternal slumber? You are clearly the ones who caused this. I never actually wanted things to turn out this way."

Jones was baffled.

Wait...

With each breath, Jones was spewing out strands of blood from its mouth. That was because its neck was being slowly constricted.

Its thoughts grew sluggish.

It seemed... it did seem that way... Although werewolves could also take human form and weren't afraid of sunlight, for some reason, the vampire race always had it better than them.

In Jones's impression, vampires were always noble and elegant. Countless Holy Gold Coins were only good for paving the ground under their feet. Vast, opulent castles were the standard for every Vampire Clan.

There were always countless Cursed Objects serving them dutifully. With their innate beauty, a mere wave of the hand would have foolish humans willingly bowing down.

"Urgh..." Jones coughed up more blood... It thought of many things. This vampire hadn't been very aggressive along the way... Look at her attire, the delicate vine-patterned dress, the scent of expensive lambskin from her long boots... The blood vials she carried were beautiful crystal bottles, drinking from which could instantly restore her health...

The vampire seemed... truly didn't need Holy Potions...

If its side hadn't attacked first...

Within the framework of the Middle Ages, even in a world filled with fantasy, the concept of psychological manipulation hadn't been born yet.

"Then... what do you actually want?" the werewolf struggled to ask. "Besides this smuggling route, you... what do you want... Tell me, tell me... Besides the potion smuggling route... whatever you want... we can... do..."

"Really?" The vampire stopped her actions, appearing thoughtful. "You can really help me?"

Seizing the chance to breathe, Jones immediately widened its eyes. "I... I promise... I choose to preserve the smuggling route! As long as this route is preserved, we can provide help! What exactly, *cough*, what exactly do you want? Can we talk this over properly?"

"I want..." Lyle leaned close to the werewolf, casually fabricating a line, "...to destroy the small monastery. I hate that place. It holds the graves of all my kin."

Jones stared in disbelief. "...Revenge on the small monastery?"

"Yes, revenge on the small monastery."

The vampire looked down at it. "I followed you here precisely because I wanted to speak with Mr. Dalton personally. You know my race. It doesn't allow me to appear openly before any creature. I just didn't know the exact location and was afraid of arousing your suspicion and anger, so..."

"So you stalked us?!" Jones almost wanted to cry. It had completely given up on living, but now the desire to survive surged wildly because of the vampire's words.

"Just for something like this?! This matter isn't difficult at all... You want to, *cough*, avenge your kin, want revenge on the s-small monastery, we can help! Really can! We have manpower... have... weapons... Like this... you let me go first... we go to the Ash Yard together. Mr. Dalton is in the dilapidated house right next to the gray wall as you enter..."

Manpower? Weapons?

Lyle's eyes narrowed. Her voice suddenly turned cold. "Don't lie to me. Your leader, Dalton, who amassed great wealth from potion smuggling, would live in such a shabby house?! You deceitful wolf!"

"No—I didn't—I'm not lying!" Jones kicked its legs, its eyeballs bulging with agitation. "We... we have our... our purpose, but this... this purpose is absolutely, absolutely useful to you... You... believe me..."

Absolutely useful to me?

Lyle stopped tightening, seeming completely unaware of the detail revealed in Jones's words. Instead, she kept repeating what appeared to be completely unimportant matters. "So Dalton really lives in that dilapidated house? The one on the left side of the gray wall gate, with the broken chimney?"

The first time she secretly slipped out of the Ash Yard, she had seen that house from afar. It was indeed very shabby, with half the roof collapsed.

Considering Barbavin, who was on the same smuggling line as the werewolves, whose bedroom floorboards were even paved with gold—how could the gap be so huge?

"Yes, yes!" Jones coughed violently, its throat becoming a small fountain. "That's the place least likely to be noticed. Mr. Dalton lives there to protect our entire pack! The other wolves are scattered in all the gray-roofed houses in the Ash Yard... If there's a problem, they can assemble in under five Holy Minutes... So you don't need to worry... As long as you... state your purpose, I... I'll help explain the misunderstanding, none of them will give you trouble..."

"Really?" Lyle's voice held suspicion and delight. "You'll really help me? But there are quite a few Clergy in the small monastery. If you choose to help me, what about your business?"

"...Potion smuggling has dedicated werewolves in charge. They normally never appear in the Ash Yard, so you don't need to worry about it affecting us." Jones looked up desperately, urgently. "Believe me, as long as you... you have no interest in potion smuggling, as long as you... you... whatever help you need, we really will help you!"

"That's really..." Lyle beamed a brilliant smile, her hands giving a sudden, fierce pull. "...too kind of you."

Streams of blood gushed out from the constricted seams, in an instant dyeing the vampire's dress an even more eerily alluring hue.

The werewolf's golden pupils froze the moment it relaxed, still seemingly confused about what had happened. Then, its head slowly detached from its neck, thudded to the ground, and rolled a short distance with a low rumble.

Above, the profound moonlight was imprinted in its eyes, pale and sharp as a blade.

Only then did Lyle finally allow herself to breathe in ragged gasps.

The violent breathing nearly made her chest burst, but she couldn't control her body's reaction.

...That was way too close.

Her legs gave way, and she slumped to the ground. The events of the night replayed relentlessly in her mind.

Werewolf physiology was truly monstrous; a low-level vampire stood no chance in a direct confrontation.

If it weren't for the two werewolves underestimating her and giving her an opening tonight, if it weren't for Vig's Angel Emblem, Anthony's Holy Water, and the Holy Prayers she had learned by heart, she would never have survived.

Lyle covered her face with one hand, her shoulders trembling slightly as if in a spasm, her grin widening uncontrollably.

But she had survived!

Not only survived but also secured information.

Jones's head lay not far from her feet, its human-like eyes frozen in the disbelief of its final moment, as if it couldn't believe it had died just like that.

But Lyle had said it: tonight, it and its brother were dead meat.

Keeping it alive this long was only to extract more information.

However, Lyle understood one principle well—information was never worth more than her own life.

Jones wasn't a dumb wolf; extracting precise details without raising suspicion was impossible.

Just look: Lyle had merely hinted at something related to the potion smuggling, and its claws were already itching to act.

So the vampire chose to eliminate the threat permanently.

"At the very least, I now know the werewolves are indeed involved in part of the potion production, and the factory is even located within the Ashfield."

Moreover, the werewolves seemed to harbor deep hatred for the monastery.

Until the very end, Jones believed she shared the same enemy as them.

Lyle slowly straightened up, leaning on her knees. "And it mentioned they have manpower—yes, the werewolves aren't just producing potions; they're also handling transportation and sales. To pull that off, a mere twenty or thirty wolves would never be enough."

This was strange.

Barbavin, their collaborator, had beds inlaid with gold, yet the werewolves still lived in the slums on the town's outskirts. How was that possible?

Excluding the possibility that werewolves were all masochists who enjoyed suffering (impossible, as Gluck's words clearly revealed their pride), only one explanation remained—they had a compelling reason to stay in the Ashfield.

What was in the Ashfield? Criminals, bandits, murderers, heretics—all the human scum not permitted by the Holy Court hid here.

No soldiers or knights would come here; it was unregulated, secluded, and offered easy escape routes in all directions.

The werewolves had set up a potion production factory in the Ashfield, amassing great wealth from it, yet none of that wealth was visible.

A large number of werewolves held vast amounts of gold coins and possessed a substantial stock of potions capable of curing diseases.

What were they really planning? Was it simply to buy a few houses in the central city and live a peaceful, settled life?

Was that likely?

The vampire called up the mission details, her gaze lingering on the main storyline quest.

[Investigate the source of the potion smuggling case]

What could the source be...?

Lyle pinched the bridge of her nose hard, feeling the situation growing increasingly complex.

But for now, this wasn't the most pressing matter.

She coldly surveyed the chaotic battlefield. She had no time, nor was it possible, to restore the area to its original state. The next best option was to completely conceal her own traces.

This included the corroded ground, shreds of her dress, fallen strands of hair, and footprints.

The latter could be dealt with through basic cleanup, but the marks left by her corrosive blood were difficult to erase.

What to do?

Her gaze suddenly fell on Jones's neck. Like Gluck's chest, Jones's neck was covered in scorch marks from the holy silver chain.

Huh??

The vampire's eyes lit up, and she immediately had an idea.

She smashed the Holy Water Bottle into several pieces, then lifted Jones's body and placed it over the areas corroded by her blood, letting the werewolf's blood cover the marks left by her own.

Next, she used the shards of the holy water bottle to scrape over the werewolf's spilled blood. Soon, the residual holy water on the shards corroded the werewolf's blood, leaving shallow pits on the ground that looked similar to the marks caused by her blood.

Lyle was satisfied.

She repeated the process in other areas, not needing to be overly meticulous; one or two spots were enough to mislead.

Then, she used the Angel Emblem to poke at the two werewolves' bodies.

She chose the angles carefully, leaving only one or two pairs of angel wing scorch marks each time, making it impossible to tell this was the Paladin Commander's emblem.

"Since I don't know what the werewolves are really planning, I'll just ignite their fury and help accelerate their plans."

After finishing all this, she carefully packed her belongings, melted into the darkness, and navigated several alleys before finding the two carriages Gluck had hidden.

The commotion from the fight had spooked the horses; approaching them would trigger their whinnies. But those terrifying red eyes glowing in the darkness were like a demon's gaze. The horses, sensing imminent danger, took one look and feigned death—their legs stiffened, and they collapsed motionless.

Lyle had no interest in living creatures other than humans. Covering her nose, she jumped onto a carriage and immediately inspected several of the barrels.

—Three Banshees were tightly bound together in an upside-down, curled position by three metal rings: one gagging their mouths, one binding their limbs, and one covering their eyes and ears, like shoes crammed into a shoebox.

The rings were densely inscribed with Holy Prayers, rendering the banshees completely immobile and mute.

Above the banshees was a circular wooden board, piled not with anything else but a thick layer of human excrement.

If inspected, opening the barrel lid would indeed reveal only the foul-smelling waste.

But no one would know that beneath the disgusting top layer lay the real "cargo."

Staring at the banshees and the barrels behind them, Lyle felt as if three options had appeared before her.

1. Release these Cursed Objects—they might become her own subordinates.

2. Leave things as is.

3. Kill all the Cursed Objects to make the Holy Court’s presence tonight seem more authentic.

Three options, corresponding to three entirely different paths.

Yet there was no possibility of going back.

Lyle thought carefully, weighing the potential gains and losses behind each choice.

So she first ruled out option 1.

In a way, Cursed Objects were not much different from animals of somewhat higher intelligence, and their bizarre appearances were very likely to attract attention.

Using these creatures as subordinates would be betting her own life.

She absolutely could not allow such a thing to happen.

Moreover, releasing them would only arouse suspicion without yielding any positive outcomes. Lyle was not particularly kind-hearted; in this strange otherworld, nothing held greater importance than her own survival. So she looked down.

In the end, she chose option 2.

Killing all the Cursed Objects would indeed cut off future problems at the root, but the gain was far too low.

If they remained alive, however, it would be entirely different—these were things the werewolves had painstakingly smuggled out of the small monastery, and Barbavin had also taken significant risks.

Similar operations wouldn’t be undertaken often. If the pack was truly preparing for something major, they would never abandon these two cartloads of Cursed Objects.

But the premise was that the werewolves had to “actively” discover the aftermath of the battle.

After a moment’s thought, Lyle returned to the werewolf corpses. Wrapping Jones’s severed head in the werewolf’s clothing to ensure no blood dripped, she began running toward the Ashfield.

Werewolves were as keen as vampires. She wanted the wind to carry the scent of their companion’s blood back to Dalton’s nostrils.

She wanted the werewolves to plunge headlong into the trap she’d already laid.

She wanted the wary and sharp wolves to become obedient, docile dogs that would actively lead the way for her.

As for Vig, who was still searching the Ashfield—

A smart dog would find a way to slip through the troublesome Paladin Commander’s cordon. She was sure of it.

-

It was a moonless night.

Dark, heavy clouds shrouded the sky, and the streets and buildings of Central City lay quiet in the gloom.

Only the dim lights from the three monasteries flickered like candles against the thick darkness, but tonight, the brightest place was not the monasteries.

“Paladin Commander! We have searched seventeen alleys in the Ashfield and over four hundred structures that could be called ‘houses,’ but we have found no one named Dawson Augusta.”

Countless torches were held high by the Crusaders, their flames drifting from the narrow alleys like wandering fireflies, dyeing the entire Ashfield in an orange-red hue.

All the residents here had been herded into corners, their faces gloomy as they stared at the Crusaders before them, occasionally muttering a curse under their breath before being sharply reprimanded by the alert soldiers.

Vig sat on his horse, his gaze scanning each person.

There were no elderly in the Ashfield—most were rough, burly individuals, with a smaller portion being grimy children on the verge of adulthood.

Once the liveliest mining district in Central City, even though it was located at the town’s edge closest to the mountains, the Ashfield had once enjoyed a prosperity that even the Holy Court had taken notice of.

Large quantities of mined ore were transported here, forged through countless complex processes into the tools and utensils people knew.

Innumerable workers came and went, turning their sweat into the driving force behind Central City’s flourishing development.

But a plague later changed everything.

The corpse of an unknown monster unearthed from the mines infected the miners, and death struck almost instantly.

Numerous bodies were burned on the spot, and panic spread even faster than the disease.

To protect more people, the Holy Court chose to build new walls, turning the Ashfield, the source of the outbreak, into an isolated island.

The hastily built walls had no design or aesthetic appeal, resembling melting limestone monsters standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the darkness, enveloping most of the Ashfield in a deep, gloomy shade where sunlight could never reach.

Even now, long after the plague had subsided, the Ashfield, isolated outside the city walls, had become a natural haven for all sorts of unsavory characters evading capture.

Bandits, thieves, murderers, heretics—from their faces, Vig could read violence, cunning, and cruelty. It was no surprise that Dawson Augusta lived here.

The only thing that puzzled Vig was that these supposedly chaotic wild horses seemed to possess order.

Because from the moment he led the Crusaders into the Ashfield to search for Dawson until now, seven or eight Holy Hours had passed.

During this time, not a single conflict had erupted—it was utterly baffling.

Vig keenly sensed that beneath the dim light cast by the torches lay a subtle, almost imperceptible strangeness.

“Tell everyone,” he ordered the soldier beside him, “if anyone knows Dawson Augusta, step forward. Whoever provides information about Dawson will receive 1 Holy Gold Coin.”

The soldier quickly shouted the Paladin Commander’s words, and the people herded together all looked up.

Vig saw the almost naked greed in their eyes, but not a single person stepped forward.

This time, even the Crusaders felt a strange sense of dissonance. The small monastery’s investigative capabilities were powerful and meticulous; no one could deceive the eyes in the sky.

Dawson returned here every Holy Day, and he had no other place to stay within the city.

He must live here, yet in the vast Ashfield, not a single person knew him?

Vig tightened the reins, his tone flat. “5 coins.”

The Crusaders immediately announced the number to everyone. “5 coins!!”

Under the eerie light, in one of the less conspicuous alleys controlled by the Crusaders, a row of men crouched as well.

One of them had his arms crossed over his chest, wearing the most ordinary coarse cloth short robe, his entire face hidden in shadow, making his features completely indistinguishable.

Only his dark gray eyes held a faint ring of pale gold.

He remained at the very end of the crowd, his posture fixed on the ground unchanged.

The moment the Paladin Commander mentioned 5 Holy Gold Coins, a low voice suddenly whispered in his ear, “Sir.”

A dark shadow, avoiding the Crusaders’ torches, silently emerged from the ground at the corner.

“The time has passed, but the goods haven’t arrived.”

The man raised his eyes slightly, his lips parting a little. "How long has it been?"

"It's been ten Holy Minutes already. And just now, we seemed to catch a familiar stench of blood—very, very strong."

"Hey!" At that moment, a Crusader who had noticed the commotion quickly approached, waving his torch. "Who was speaking just now?! Was it you?!"

The gray-eyed man was grabbed by the collar and yanked up from the ground by the Crusader. The angry soldier didn't notice that, as soon as he made this move, a fierce, cruel golden glint flashed in unison in the eyes of all the nearby crouching figures.

But the next moment, the mysterious man abruptly smiled. His voice carried a lazy tone, like a cat awakened from sleep.

"Sir, what are you talking about? Didn't that gleaming white-clad lord mention a reward? A whole five Holy Gold Coins! Isn't it normal for us to try and recall whether we've seen that Dawson fellow?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried far in the silent night, like a small stone dropped onto a calm lake, instantly stirring ripples that spread outward.

More and more people stood up, facing the stern Crusaders with a nonchalant shrug. "Exactly! Gold coins just for knowing Dawson? Then we all know him!"

The scoundrels exchanged glances. "He has black hair, right?"

"No, no, he must be a dwarf!"

"Not at all! Dawson? Definitely the one with a limp! The one who catches cockroaches from rat holes to eat every day!"

Listening to this nonsense, the Crusaders were fuming—they had been searching here for too long, and everyone's exhaustion had turned into fury.

In their rising anger, these soldiers in chainmail naturally overlooked many things: like why the Ashfield, which had been quiet for so long, had suddenly turned chaotic.

Or why, as these people bantered among themselves, they had all stood up and were slowly, almost imperceptibly, moving closer to their side.

They were simply angry, and then one of the Crusaders couldn't help but kick the person nearest to him.

The kick, fueled by surging emotion, landed with full force. The person kicked flew backward dramatically along the alley.

He flew all the way out of the alley, landing at the intersection of four or five streets, then let out a scream like a slaughtered pig. "Murder! The Crusaders are killing people! They promised five gold coins but won't pay—they want to kill all us filthy scum for the Holy Court!"

A single stone stirred a thousand waves.

Vig, not far away, wanted to intervene, but it was already too late.

The man's scream was like throwing a match into a warehouse leaking oil. Instantly, the eyes of all the scoundrels in the Ashfield turned dangerous.

"Thwack!" In the gloom, someone—no one knew who—stuck out a foot and kicked the torch out of the nearest Crusader's hand.

Suddenly, countless whistling projectiles erupted through the air!