A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 121: The General in the Shadows
[Ray’s POV]
The festival was a sensory assault, a deliberate weapon against my kind. My greatest asset—my sense of smell—was rendered nearly useless, drowned in a thick, cloying soup of scents. Sizzling pork fat fought with cloying perfumes, the earthy crush of herbs underfoot mixed with the sharp, sour tang of spilled ale. It was impossible to filter through the olfactory chaos for the cold, metallic scent of a witch’s magic or the aggressive, territorial musk of a hostile werewolf. And the masked man? He was a ghost. I didn’t even have his scent to begin with. My right hand, resting on the pommel of my sword, clenched into a fist of pure frustration. If only that masked man hadn’t slipped from my sight so easily.
The memory of Shin’s report at the Thunoa’s Inn surfaced in my mind, clear and urgent: black magic restraints were circulating in the local black market at a high price. My gaze swept over the bustling, deceptively cheerful streets. This village was booming, its prosperity evident in the new paint and sturdy stalls. And where there was rapid growth and new wealth, the rot of a black market was never far behind, feeding on the underside of progress. It was an unwritten law of civilization. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚
From the corner of my eye, I caught it—a narrow slit of shadow between two brightly lit taverns, their windows glowing with warm, inviting light. The cheerful music from the main square faded into a muffled, dissonant hum the moment I turned my body toward the darkness. Am I lucky enough to stumble right into it? Or foolish?
I stepped into the alley. The change was immediate. The festive warmth vanished, replaced by a damp, chilling air that smelled of stagnant water, cheap tobacco, and unwashed bodies. A few figures lounged against the grimy walls—men who looked like thugs, their eyes hard and assessing, and others huddled in rags, pretending to be beggars but watching everything with a thief’s sharpness.,
Even in this energetic village, there’s always a darker side, I mused, my boots scraping softly on the uneven cobblestones.
Three men detached themselves from the shadows, moving to block my path. They were human, their movements clumsy with false bravado. Each held a cheap, poorly balanced knife, the blades catching a sliver of light from the distant main street.
"You have some fine clothes there," the one in the center said, a man with a jagged X-shaped scar carving through his cheek. His voice was a low, greedy rasp. "That fabric looks expensive. If we sell it, it would be a fortune for the likes of us."
I let out a soft, genuine chuckle, shaking my head. "What are you talking about? These are just a regular merchant’s clothes," I said, spreading my arms slightly as if to display the simple, though well-made, tunic and trousers.
"You can’t fool our eyes. Now take them off if you don’t want to get hurt," snarled the one on the left, a thin man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Embers scattered as he suddenly lunged, his knife aimed for my ribs.
I didn’t even bother to draw my sword. I sidestepped the lunge with a casual shift of my weight, and as his momentum carried him forward, I drove the heavy, metal-reinforced hilt of my still-sheathed sword deep into the soft tissue of his stomach.
A choked, gurgling sound escaped his lips. His eyes bulged, wide with shock and pain, all the air forced from his lungs. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the wet stones.
While still holding my sheathed sword, I turned my gaze to the remaining two—Scar-face and a third man in a stained black hat. I offered them a calm, closed-mouth smile, though my eyes remained cold. "Now, now," I said, my voice deceptively gentle. "You can both run away now, and I’ll forget this unfortunate encounter ever happened."
"That one was just weak!" Scar-face spat, though a flicker of uncertainty was now in his eyes. "Just give us your clothes and we might let you walk away with your life."
I opened my eyes fully, letting the placid smile drop from my face. I looked at each of them in turn, my orange gaze boring into theirs, allowing a fraction of my true, predatory nature to show through. I saw them flinch, their knuckles whitening around their knife hilts, but their greed quickly overrode their fear.
With matching, desperate yells, they charged at me together, swinging their knives in wild, unskilled arcs. I weaved between their attacks, the movements so minimal they were barely perceptible. My feet barely seemed to move. A blade whistled past my ear; another swept toward my stomach, and I simply leaned back, letting it pass harmlessly through the air where I had been.
I can’t even blame them, I thought with a detached pity. Driven to this by poverty and desperation. The weak preying on the perceived weaker. But understanding their motives was not the same as forgiving their actions.
"Why can you dodge our attacks so easily?!" the man in the hat screamed, his voice cracking with fury and rising panic. "What are you, a werewolf?!"
I just looked at him, my expression one of profound, utter boredom. My wolf didn’t even stir with interest; these were gnats, not prey. I made a show of yawning, covering my mouth with my free hand. The insult was a physical blow to their pride; I saw the rage ignite in their faces, burning away the last of their caution.
They came at me again, more recklessly this time. It was getting tedious. If only they were werewolf hunters or high-ranking criminals, I lamented silently. That would be a challenge worth my time. I’d be happy to extract information from them, piece by piece.
As the scarred man lunged, I finally moved with purpose. I swung my scabbarded sword in a short, brutal arc, smashing it against his wrist. There was a sharp crack. He cried out in pain, and his knife clattered to the ground. Before the man in the hat could react, I reversed the swing and struck the back of his knife hand with equal force, sending his blade skittering across the stones.
"You—" the scarred man began, clutching his broken wrist.
I didn’t let him finish. I swung the scabbard again, this time connecting with the side of his neck with precisely calculated force. His eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a sack of grain.
I turned my smile to the last man, the one in the hat. He was now backing away, his face a mask of pure terror, all fight gone. He threw a wild, panicked punch. I blocked it easily with the flat of my scabbard, and with my free hand, I drove a fist into his stomach. The air whooshed out of him, and he folded in half, collapsing to the ground unconscious.
Near an overflowing trash bin, I spotted a coil of discarded, greasy rope. I retrieved it and efficiently bound all three men, hands and feet, leaving them trussed up in the middle of the alley.
It was then I noticed a small movement from a deep doorway. A young boy, no more than ten, was huddled there, trying to make himself invisible. He was trembling violently, his eyes wide with fear.
I walked over to him, my steps slow and non-threatening. He flinched as I approached. "Go and call the village watcher," I instructed, my voice low and calm. "Tell him exactly what happened here." I then reached into my coin purse, pulled out a 100-spina coin—a small fortune for a child—and held it out. "Here is payment for your errand. Make sure you use it in the right way. For food. For your family."
He stared at the coin, then at me, and gave a quick, jerky nod. His small hand darted out and snatched the coin.
"By the way," I added, crouching down slightly to his level. "Have you seen a black market around this area? A place where people sell things... away from the main streets?"
The boy’s eyes widened further, and he shook his head so hard I thought it might come loose. Without another word, he turned and sprinted out of the alley as if demons were on his heels.
I sighed, straightening up. How silly of me, asking a child about the black market. It was only natural that regular people, especially children, would have no knowledge of it. I could only hope the boy would actually follow my instructions and fetch the authorities.
As I continued deeper into the alley, the few other inhabitants—the thugs and the false beggars—simply watched me pass, their expressions carefully blank. They quickly returned to their muttered conversations or stared with feigned disinterest at the damp walls. None made a move, none met my eye for more than a second. This must be a common occurrence here, I realized. Violence was so routine in this shadowy corner that it warranted no more than a passing glance, another piece of the scenery.
I looked down the long, dark path ahead, the lantern light from the festival now just a faint, mocking glow behind me. The damp, foul air seemed to thicken, pressing in from all sides. The question hung, unanswered and heavy: How far do I have to walk to find what I’m really looking for?
