A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 103: A Deadly Discovery

•Thunoa’s North Forest•

[Philip’s POV]

A deep, familiar grumble echoed from my stomach. I tugged gently on the reins, bringing my horse and wagon to a creaking halt. I hopped down, my boots sinking slightly into the soft loam, the cloth-wrapped lunch Mrs. Melinda had pressed into my hands feeling warm and heavy, a tangible piece of the home I’d just left.

I found a sturdy oak, its gnarled roots creating a natural seat, and sank to the ground with a soft groan, leaning my back against the rough, furrowed bark. untying the knotted cloth released a fragrant cloud of steam. The aroma of roasted herbs, fresh-baked bread, and spiced meat made my saliva flood instantly. Inside, golden-brown pastries nestled beside thick slices of honey-glazed ham and roasted potatoes still gleaming with fat—a final, delicious testament to Thunoa’s kindness.

I took a large, grateful bite of a pastry, its buttery, flaky layers dissolving on my tongue. As I chewed, the memories washed over me with an almost physical force: the overwhelming warmth of Mrs. Melinda’s kitchen, the surprising, delicate perfection of Ovelia’s cooking, the sheer, absurd hilarity of Ace using me as a living javelin against a witch. I chuckled around the food, the sound swallowed by the dense trees. The heartfelt, starlit talk with Ovelia on the rooftop, the chaotic, feather-filled joy of the pillow fight with Ray, Colt, Kai, and Shin...

"Ahhh," I sighed to the empty, watching woods, a bittersweet smile pulling at my lips. "It was really fun. And saying goodbye was truly sad."

CRACK.

My head came up. The sound was too deliberate for the forest. All traces of relaxation vanished. In one fluid motion, I silently re-wrapped the lunch, set it aside, and rose. I pressed myself against the broad trunk of the oak, my breathing even and controlled as I peered around its edge.

Two men moved with a purposeful, scanning gait that didn’t belong to simple foragers or hunters; their clothes were rough but serviceable, and on their chests, I saw a silver badge with wolf’s head at the center.

Werewolf hunters.

I remained still, my breathing shallow, counting their steps and mapping their patrol pattern. Two. Armed with tools, not finished weapons. Grumbling about a failed objective. They were low-level, frustrated. The perfect marks for a carefully crafted approach.

"—need to find the raw materials for gunpowder," one of them, a burly man with a woodsman’s axe strapped to his belt, grumbled, kicking at the dirt. "Sulfur is the priority."

So the bastards really are manufacturing firearms, I thought, the food in my stomach turning to a cold, hard stone.

"We split into five groups, each assigned a different quadrant," replied the other, hefting a pickaxe onto his shoulder with a grunt. "But we’ve been walking for an hour. There’s no sign of a mining trench. Are you certain this is the right location?"

I closed my eyes for a brief second, assembling the persona I needed. When I opened them, I stepped out from behind the tree. Every ounce of the cheerful, harmless merchant I embodied was gone, locked away in an instant. In its place was a void, a cold, focused intensity that made the two men freeze.

The two men spun around as one, their hands flying to their weapons—the axe, the pickaxe—their eyes wide with shock and instant hostility.

"Well, well," I said, my voice low and stripped of its usual congenial warmth. It was a voice I rarely used. "Werewolf hunters. And from what I couldn’t help but overhear, you’re having sulfur troubles. For guns, I presume?"

The man with the pickaxe tightened his grip on the tool, his knuckles bleaching white. "Yes! What’s it to you, stranger?!" he snarled, adopting a clumsy defensive stance.

I could overpower them. The calculation was instantaneous. But the memory of Ray’s story—the hunters who’d chosen suicide over capture—stayed my hand. A public fight risked innocent casualties and revealed my capabilities far too early. I need to lay low. I need information.

I let my shoulders slump, injecting a raw, painful tremor into my voice. "You see... I hate werewolves." I clenched my fists, the image of my sister’s smiling face flashing behind my eyes, a cherished memory now weaponized as part of this. "A werewolf killed my sister. I’ve heard guns are the only things that can truly make them pay. That they can kill them easily, from a distance."

The axe-wielder’s aggressive posture softened a fraction, a flicker of grim understanding in his hard eyes. "What you heard is right. And I know your pain. But we can’t just give you a gun. We don’t even have any finished pieces ourselves. We’re just gatherers."

"Then let me join you," I said, my voice cracking with a carefully manufactured break. I let my gaze drop, as if ashamed. "She... she was all I had. I want to become a werewolf hunter. I want to make them all pay." Now. Give me something useful.

The axe-wielder shook his head, a gesture of finality. "You can’t just join. You have to be found. Recruiters are scattered like ghosts across the kingdoms, cities, towns and villages. They seek you out; you don’t find them."

"And they only approach you in your darkest hour," the pickaxe man added, his voice grim. "When your hatred is fresh and boiling, or you’ve just suffered a new loss at the hands of the beasts."

"Is there no other way?" I pressed, layering my voice with a desperate edge. "No badge? No symbol to look for in the towns? A way to signal them?"

"No," the pickaxe man said, shaking his head. "Only us rookies wear these badges." He tapped the silver badge on his chest. "It’s so that if we’re captured and fail to silence ourselves, the veterans can identify and... silence us before we talk. They protect the organization’s secrets above all. Above us."

My stomach turned. They were utterly disposable. Pawns willing to die, or be killed by their own, for this twisted cause.

The axe-wielder misread my horrified expression for shared, fervent zeal. "Don’t look so grim. Our loved ones are dead. Revenge is all we have left. If we can’t have that, we’re happy to die rather than give those damn mutts any information!"

"Do you know where their base is? Their headquarters? Anything?" I asked, the question hanging between us.

"We don’t know," the pickaxe man admitted, a hint of frustration in his own voice. "They blindfolded us, made us sleep with drugged wine. We woke up in a stone room. A leader spoke to us, but we never saw his face. Never learned his name."

"Hey! That’s enough information!" the axe-wielder snapped, suddenly wary, his eyes darting around the forest.

The pieces clicked into place with a chilling, crystalline clarity. They were pawns. Expendable. The real hunters were ghosts. I had what I needed from these two; pressing further was pointless and dangerous. My performance needed a new direction.

"Thank you," I said, letting my shoulders slump in pretended, crushed disappointment. "I’ll... I’ll try to find a recruiter myself. I am a merchant; I travel widely. I will keep my ears open."

"Keep this to yourself," the axe-wielder warned, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Talk of guns is treason. If the wrong people know you’re aware they still exist, you’ll be captured. Or you’ll simply disappear."

"I understand," I nodded, turning to leave, my mind already racing.

As I took my first step, the axe-wielder called out, "Wait!" I turned back just in time to see a coil of dark, shimmering metal flying toward me. I caught it on instinct. It was unnaturally cold and hummed with a faint, malevolent energy. A prototype black magic chain.

"Use that," he said, his voice gruff. "It’s a prototype, but it’s stronger than the regular magic chain. It’ll protect you from werewolves." As he spoke, I saw their hands tighten subtly on their weapons, their bodies coiling with a new tension. They were testing me. Ensuring the chain’s dark energy didn’t affect me, confirming I was fully human.

"This is my first time seeing something like this," I lied smoothly, turning the cold, humming chain over in my hands with what I hoped looked like awed curiosity. "Do you make these yourselves?"

"No! We just—" the pickaxe man began, eager to share more.

CRACK! CRACK!

Two gunshots, impossibly loud, ripped through the forest’s sacred silence. The two hunters jerked violently, a fine spray of crimson misting the air before they crumpled to the forest floor like discarded puppets, their lives extinguished in a heartbeat.

DAMN IT!

My head snapped toward the sound. A tall, lean figure emerged from behind a thicket of thorny bushes, wearing a featureless white mask that was more terrifying than any skull. No badge adorned his chest. This was no rookie. This was a veteran. A cleaner.

"They gave you valuable information. You are a pest. And you will die here," a cold, mechanized voice rasped from behind the mask, devoid of any humanity. In each gloved hand, he held a sleek, deadly pistol, smoke still curling from the barrels.

I yanked my dagger from my belt just as both guns roared to life again. I dove behind the oak tree, the air tearing around me. Bullets shredded through the wood, sending a shower of sharp splinters peppering my face and neck.

I can fight him, but I’m not sure if I can win. Dying here is not an option, especially since I learned something important. I had to run.

I burst from cover, sprinting toward where my wagon stood. The guns barked again behind me. I heard the high-pitched whine of bullets zipping past my ears, felt one tug at the sleeve of my tunic. I swung my arm back in a blind, desperate parry, deflecting one shot with a jarring CLANG of steel on lead, the impact numbing my entire arm to the shoulder.

I saw him pause, the briefest of moments, to eject the spent cartridges and reload. It was all I needed. I put my fingers to my lips and blew a sharp, piercing whistle—a signal I’d thankfully drilled into my horse for precisely this kind of danger. It whinnied in alarm and began to gallop toward me. I ran, timed my move, and launched myself into the back of the moving wagon, grabbing the reins.

A sudden, sharp, burning impact struck my shoulder, followed by a wave of nauseating heat. A graze. It had torn through cloth and skin.

I chanced a glance back. The masked man was already a small, menacing white speck in the distance, but he wasn’t pursuing. He had no horse. He simply stood there, watching, a faceless omen of death.

I urged my horse faster. Warm blood seeped through my tunic. With my free hand and my teeth, I tore a strip from my undershirt and tied a tight, efficient bandage over the wound. The bleeding would stop soon. I needed to get to the kingdom. I needed to report this. Now, I wasn’t just an investigator. I was a target.

I looked up at the slivers of sky visible through the canopy, the trees blurring into a green smear as we raced onward. A fear far sharper than any for my own safety lanced through me.

Ovelia... Ace... everyone... I hope to God you are all okay. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

My stomach growled. I’d left Mrs. Melinda’s lunchbox behind that tree. And in the face of mortal danger, my primary concern became a profoundly stupid one: my lunch...