Surrounded by three attackers, Glen no longer held the effortless advantage he once did. Their strikes came faster, wilder, impossible to predict—forcing him to rely solely on the refined instincts and battle-hardened reflexes of his previous life.

  Even so, for the first time in a long while, wounds began to mar his skin. He felt only a faint pressure, a slight thrill of challenge.

  But for the three werewolves facing him, it was a waking nightmare. The thin threads of reason that clung to their minds trembled in disbelief—they had never fought anyone so terrifyingly difficult. Their claws and fangs slashed through empty air again and again, while the only blood they managed to draw was their own.

  Frustration only fanned their feral rage, driving them to strike with mindless abandon. Even when their frenzied blows struck their own comrades, they did not falter.

  Glen, however, had grown weary of the game. A dark aura surged from his body, and his frame swelled, muscles expanding until he towered over all three opponents. With a single sweeping strike, he sent them hurtling backward through the air.

  The two spectators—Gotaya and Tia—were still frozen in astonishment. First, at the revelation that Glen himself was a werewolf, and then at the sheer power he wielded.

  He’s a werewolf? But he’s always so calm… aren’t werewolves supposed to be hot-tempered beasts?! Gotaya’s mind reeled in disbelief.

  Mr. Glen… a werewolf? But I’ve heard werewolves are cruel and wicked… he doesn’t seem that way at all, Tia thought, eyes wide.

  The battle, however, was far from over. The three fallen werewolves, bloodied and battered, still refused to yield. Their eyes glowed red with madness as they charged again, driven past all reason.

  The outcome was predictable.

  The first one to reach Glen received a savage swipe across the chest—five deep gashes tore through flesh and bone, nearly cleaving him in two. His scream echoed briefly before his body was flung aside like a rag doll.

  The remaining two followed, and Glen struck them down just as easily—one blow each, clean and decisive.

  At that same moment, across the street, in a shadowed house, a gray-skinned man who had been dozing in his chair suddenly opened his eyes. Bloodshot veins webbed his irises, seething with unrestrained fury and killing intent.

  “Too noisy,” he rasped, his voice like rust grinding on metal.

  Then, in an instant, he dissolved into a billowing mass of black mist and shot out through the window.

  Glen was just about to finish off the two crippled werewolves when he sensed an ominous energy rising nearby. He turned his head—and saw something grotesque and shapeless fall from the opposite window.

  The werewolf he had thrown earlier happened to be in its path. In a heartbeat, the creature was shredded into nothing but flesh and blood.

  Then Glen felt it—the weight of a gaze locking onto him.

  “Was it you who disturbed my sleep?” came the guttural voice from within the dark mist.

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  Glen’s wolfish eyes glowed faintly as he met the unseen stare. “Get lost. This has nothing to do with you.”

  His voice was cold, calm—unmoved by the suffocating aura pressing against him.

  From the old man’s house, the observer gasped. “Damn it! I knew that boy would provoke him.”

  He’d met the gray-skinned neighbor only a handful of times, but one thing was clear: the man despised noise—and his power was unfathomable.

  “You woke me from my dreams… for that, you deserve death!” the voice howled, and the black mist surged toward Glen.

  As it drew closer, Glen caught a whiff of its foul stench and heard the maddening whispers that accompanied it. Unpleasant, yes—but not enough to shake him.

  His muscles tensed, and he struck out with both hands.

  Boom!

  The moment his palms met the black mass, he felt its searing corrosive force—dark vapors clung to his arms, eating into his flesh.

  “I told you—get out of my sight!”

  With an explosion of strength, he hurled the thing back through the air. Ignoring the burning pain, Glen lunged forward, following up with a barrage of savage blows.

  From the resistance of his claws and fists, he could tell there was a human body within the mist. But as his relentless assault continued, that body began to twist and deform, mutating grotesquely in an attempt to retaliate.

  It was futile. His fists rained down like a storm, his claws tore through the air like blades of wind. Even the corrosive black aura coating his body only managed to cause him a flicker of pain.

  The magic resistance of a fifth-tier werewolf was formidable indeed—clearly, this fool had no idea who he was facing.

  At last, the shadowy figure dissolved to escape his onslaught, reforming its body some distance away.

  Glen shook off the smoldering black vapor rising from his fur, fixing his glowing eyes on the hesitant mist. “If you still want to fight,” he said, his voice edged with killing intent, “I’ll gladly end your life.”

  Not far away, the defeated leader and his subordinate had reverted to human form, lying sprawled on the ground. They stared at Glen with the wide, horrified eyes of men gazing upon a monster.

  For a moment, silence reigned—until an oppressive wave of murderous auras flared from the nearby houses. Every single one was locked onto Glen.

  Sensing the shift, the man within the black mist seemed to regain confidence and drifted closer.

  “Noisy creatures don’t belong here,” the voices hissed from every corner. “Leave… or die.”

  Glen’s fury erupted. They had provoked him, yet these residents dared to turn against him?

  “Fine,” he growled. “Let’s see if this place can survive a proper cleansing.”

  Malice rippled through his transformed body—he was ready to unleash his strongest form. He hadn’t used it since the forest, and though it would leave him weak afterward, a quick meal would restore him soon enough.

  But just as his resolve hardened, a familiar voice thundered from deep within the town:

  “Get back!”

  The command wasn’t aimed at Glen—it was directed at those restless presences lurking in the shadows.

  “Black Crow?” Glen muttered, surprised.

  The oppressive auras wavered, hesitating in fear or calculation. Yet some chose defiance and began to stir again.

  “Get back!”

  This time it was a woman’s voice—clear, commanding, yet melodious. The Black Crow’s wife.

  “Get back!”

  And then, from a nearby window, Miss Puppet flung it open and barked fiercely, “Get back, all of you!”

  Instantly, the oppressive energies vanished. The black mist retreated, slipping back into its home like a fleeing specter.

  Glen exhaled slowly, letting the violent energy within him subside. He gave a slight nod toward the town’s depths in acknowledgment, then waved to Miss Puppet. She waved back—before a pair of wooden hands pulled her inside and shut the window.

  The two surviving werewolves on the ground trembled, terrified beyond reason. What kind of place is this? they thought in unison, hearts pounding.

  Glen reverted to his third-tier form, walked over, and freed Tia and the others from their bindings. Then, looming over the two defeated men, he spoke coldly:

  “I trust you have enough coin—or something of value—to repay the damage you’ve caused. Otherwise…” His eyes glowed crimson. “I promise your deaths will be slow and excruciating.”

  With that, he began searching their bodies. Their clothing was peculiar—clearly designed for shapeshifters. The joints and key areas were left uncovered, while the rest consisted of finely crafted leather segments that expanded seamlessly with their transformations.