The trek deeper into the Grey Moors was eye opening. The fog muffled the sound of their footsteps, hiding the treacherous drops of the ravines and the acidic peat bogs that dotted the landscape. If it weren't for the newly reborn Robert leading the vanguard, Michael was certain they would have been wandering the death zone for days.

  As they walked, Michael observed his new thrall. Robert moved with a purposeful stride. The man had just spent who knows how long trapped in his own mind, a prisoner to a feral curse, forced to act as a rabid biological weapon for a tyrant. The grief of losing his family was etched deeply into the scars crossing his back. But beneath the grief, Michael could see the burning coal of vengeance. Robert wanted revenge.

  "We are close," Robert rasped. He stopped at the edge of a particularly dense bank of fog and pointed a finger forward. "The air changes here. Daizen’s territory."

  "Proceed," Michael commanded, adjusting his grip on his cane.

  They stepped through the veil of the fog, and the Grey suddenly broke, revealing a sunken caldera in the rocky earth.

  This was the hidden werewolf settlement of Gare.

  Michael halted at the ridge overlooking the basin. He had expected a hidden, gothic fortress, or perhaps a primal, majestic hunter’s encampment befitting a race of apex predators. He had expected something out of a fantasy novel.

  Instead, he recoiled, his face contorting in an expression of disgust.

  It was an absolute disaster.

  The village was nothing more than a collection of squalid, collapsing mud pits. Lean-tos made of rotting wood and scavenged iron plating barely stood upright. The lycans who hadn't been turned feral were huddled together in the freezing mud, starved, broken, and shivering in the gloom.

  But it wasn't the poverty that offended Michael. It was the logistics.

  There was zero sanitation. Mounds of rotting, unprocessed meat were left exposed to the damp air near the center of the camp, breeding unimaginable bacteria. Contaminated, iridescent pools of toxic waste were seeping directly into the village's main drinking water supply. There were no defensive perimeters, no organized storage, no structural integrity to the dwellings.

  Michael’s "Janitor Brain" overrode any sense of caution. To a man who had spent his life meticulously cleaning up hazardous chemical spills and ensuring corporate logistics wings ran with spotless efficiency, this village was a crime against basic management.

  "Disgusting," Lavius hissed, taking a delicate step backward. She wrinkled her nose, her eyes burning with contempt. "They live like the swine the humans slaughter. Master, please tell me we are here to burn this filth to ash. The smell alone is an insult to your presence."

  "It is... severely lacking in infrastructure," Morpheus observed dryly, his eyes scanning the squalor.

  Drummond stood beside Morpheus, his jaw clenched tight. As a werewolf himself, seeing his kin reduced to living in radioactive mud pits filled him with sorrow. He looked at Michael, watching closely to see how his Master handled such degradation.

  "Who approaches the Alpha’s den?!" a brash voice roared from the center of the caldera, echoing off the rocks.

  The commotion of their arrival on the ridge had not gone unnoticed. From the largest of the mud hovels, a figure emerged.

  Daizen.

  The Alpha of Gare was a terrifying physical specimen. Even in his human adjacent form, he stood nearly seven feet tall, his chest bare and covered in runic tattoos that pulsed with the light of his Berserker class.

  He was on top of a "throne" constructed entirely out of wrecked Harvester Golem parts, rusted iron gears, and brass piping. He looked down at Michael’s party, his face twisting into a sneer.

  Then, his eyes locked onto Michael. The Alpha’s nostrils flared, picking up the necrotic scent of the Progenitor.

  "What is a rotting Corpse doing in my territory?" Daizen said.

  Michael blinked, genuinely taken aback.

  Corpse? Michael thought, his internal monologue stalling.

  In Romanov, the lore was simple. All supernatural races—Vampires, Werewolves, Elves, Succubi, etc.—were unified by default. They were the "Monsters," and the human factions hunted them all equally. There was no internal racism. A werewolf didn't care if you were a vampire; you were both on the same team against the Paladins.

  But this wasn't a game anymore. It was a world.

  Michael realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was his very first time encountering a sentient supernatural being while openly presenting his Vampiric nature. Michael had been a human when he first encountered Drummond in the woods, and Robert had been completely feral.

  If the monsters of this world hated each other just as much as the humans hated them, the political board was infinitely more fractured than he had assumed. They used slurs and had territorial prejudices.

  Mental Note, Michael filed away. Use Drummond as an intermediary for all future werewolf diplomacy.

  "Daizen!" Robert stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked up at the Alpha’s throne. "Your reign ends today! You poisoned our minds and threw us to the machines!"

  Daizen’s eyes locked on Robert. For a moment, the Alpha looked confused to see one of his feral weapons speaking coherently. Then, the confusion warped into rage.

  "Robert," Daizen snarled, bearing elongated, yellowed fangs. "You stand with a Corpse? You bring a blood-sucking leech to our hidden den? Traitor! To work with their kind and betray your race is treason!"

  Daizen stood up on the rusted iron chassis, his chest heaving, his Berserker aura beginning to bleed into the damp air like a red mist. "Treason is punishable by death! And I will mount the Vampire's head on my gates as a warning to the rest of the night-leeches!"

  "Listen to me," Michael said, attempting to project reasonable authority. "Your logistics are broken and your environmental conditions are a biohazard. I am not here to conquer you, I am here to—"

  "I don't speak to walking rot!" Daizen roared, completely uninterested in reason. He threw his arms wide. "Kill them! Tear the traitor to pieces!"

  From the mud pits, the earth began to shake.

  Dozens of feral werewolves—the villagers Daizen had forcefully cursed—surged from the hovels. They scrambled up the sides of the caldera, their eyes burning with mindless hunger.

  "Let me take them, Master!" Drummond growled, his bones cracking as he prepared to shift.

  "Stand down," Michael ordered.

  Because of Daizen’s unique Berserker buff, the Level 26 ferals were enveloped in a red aura that temporarily boosted their strength, making them near equals to Robert’s Level 36 power.

  They hit Michael’s party and did absolutely nothing.

  One of the largest ferals lunged directly at Michael, its jaws snapping shut on his forearm. The teeth struck Michael’s skin—and shattered. The beast whimpered, its fangs breaking against the max level physical defense of a Level 100 Progenitor. Another feral slashed its claws across Michael’s suit, unable to even tear the fabric.

  They were Level 26. Even with the buff, to Michael, they were less than ants. The gap in the math was insurmountable.

  Michael looked down at the feral gnawing uselessly on his sleeve. He was annoyed. This entire detour was throwing off his schedule, and he refused to slaughter innocent villagers who were just victims of a terrible leader.

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  "Off," Michael said, shaking his arm to dislodge the beast.

  He raised his cane, pointed the silver knob straight up toward the sky, and mentally selected a non-lethal crowd control spell.

  Tier 4: Vortex.

  The air pressure in the caldera violently dropped and a magical tornado formed directly in the center of the feral pack.

  The wind was designed to sweep. The entire feral army—dozens of massive, eight-foot-tall werewolves—was instantly sucked off the ground. They were spun violently in the air, yelping and howling like confused puppies caught in a washing machine, trapped in a swirling funnel of gale force winds.

  Michael held the spell for exactly five seconds, letting the centrifugal force do its work, before snapping his fingers.

  The wind died instantly and the feral army rained down onto the bogs below, landing in dizzy heaps. They were completely knocked out, but entirely alive.

  Lavius let out a disappointed sigh, crossing her arms. "You are far too merciful, Master."

  Up on his throne, Daizen froze as the brash sneer was entirely wiped from his face. He stared at the unconscious bodies of his entire strike force, his brain failing to comprehend how a man with a walking stick had neutralized his army in three seconds without shedding a drop of blood.

  "Impossible," Daizen whispered.

  Then, his shock warped into a suicidal rage. The red runic tattoos on his chest flared with a blinding light.

  "I AM THE ALPHA!" Daizen screamed, his voice tearing at his vocal cords.

  He activated his ultimate Berserker ability while the sound of his bones cracking and elongating echoed through the canyon like rifle shots. Daizen mutated and grew to a towering ten feet tall. His fur was pitch black, rippling with dark red, feral magic that scorched the mud beneath his paws. His claws lengthened into foot long blades.

  He looked like a genuine boss monster.

  Daizen launched himself from the throne, clearing the distance to the ridge in a single jump and landed directly in front of Michael, raising both of his glowing red claws, and unleashed his ultimate flurry.

  It was a devastating combination of terrifying speed, raw physical power, and primal magic. His claws came down like guillotines.

  Michael stood completely still.

  He just stood there, letting Daizen’s ultimate attacks rain down on him.

  The Level 28 Berserker strikes bounced off Michael’s passive baseline defense. The impact sent shockwaves of red magic rippling into the fog, blowing the heather backward, but they didn't even leave a scratch on Michael’s pale skin.

  Amidst the blinding flurry of claws and feral magic, Michael casually reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, flipped the lid open, and checked the time.

  It was late.

  Michael frowned. He still had to get back to the city, file the completion report with the Lodge, and oversee Dralis’s cataloging of the library. This detour was taking entirely too long.

  "Are you finished?" Michael asked.

  Daizen stopped mid strike, panting heavily, his chest heaving. His eyes stared down at the unbothered Count in absolute horror. The Alpha finally realized, far too late, that he wasn't fighting a rival. He was fighting a natural disaster in a suit.

  "My turn," Michael said, clicking the pocket watch shut and sliding it back into his vest.

  Michael focused his mind on his passive aura, and concentrated exactly ten percent of it into a single point directly on Daizen’s skull.

  Daizen dropped to his knees, his hands flying to his own throat as he gasped for air. The atmospheric pressure around his head multiplied by a thousand in a fraction of a second. It was the equivalent of being dropped to the bottom of the ocean.

  For three seconds, the Alpha’s eyes bulged, as the suffocating weight of the Progenitor crushed his reality.

  Then, Daizen’s head exploded.

  The headless body of the Alpha swayed for a second before collapsing face first into the mud, sending a spray of blood across his throne.

  The moment Daizen’s heart stopped beating, the Berserker magic tethering the village shattered.

  Down in the peat bogs, the knocked out werewolves began to stir. They groaned, clutching their heads. The rabid light faded entirely from their eyes and the feral hunches straightened out. Their sanity had returned.

  Michael lowered his cane, adjusting his cuffs. He looked down at the ruined, squalid village, the toxic waste pools, the rotting meat, and the hundreds of confused, newly-lucid villagers slowly standing up in the mud.

  He couldn't leave it like this. It was fundamentally inefficient. It violated every janitor instinct in his body.

  "Morpheus. Lavius," Michael said, stepping up to the edge of the ridge. "Observe. This is how you conquer."

  Michael raised his cane high into the air and mentally selected his signature, high-tier restoration spell.

  Tier 5: True Repair.

  A golden geometric circle expanded from the tip of his cane, shooting up into the sky before expanding outward like a halo, covering the entire diameter of the caldera.

  The werewolves watched as the golden light rained down on their ruined home.

  What followed was a breathtaking display of reversed entropy. The squalid mud pits vibrated before solidifying into sturdy, dry earthen foundations. The collapsed lean-tos and rotting wood locked into the air, knitting themselves back together, reshaping into structured, weather resistant log cabins.

  Down by the drinking supply, the golden light washed over the iridescent, toxic pools of waste. The heavy metals and contaminants were magically scrubbed from the water, leaving behind crystal clear, purified springs. Even the rotting meat in the center of the camp was instantly sanitized and preserved.

  In a matter of thirty seconds, the disaster zone was transformed into a highly efficient, structurally sound, perfectly clean frontier settlement.

  The werewolves of Gare stared at their new homes, weeping in disbelief.

  Michael walked down the slope of the caldera, his boots stepping onto the newly solidified stone pathways. Robert and Drummond followed closely behind him, their jaws practically hitting the floor.

  Michael stopped in the center of the village and the Lycans instinctively parted for him, dropping to their knees, bowing their heads in reverence to the god-like being who had effortlessly killed their tyrant and rebuilt their world.

  "Listen to me!" Michael’s voice carried across the village. "Your previous leader was inefficient, emotional, and frankly, a biohazard! That ends today. We are restructuring."

  He pointed his cane at a group of broad shouldered Lycans on his left.

  "You lot. You are now the Scavenger Department. Your sole task is to safely mine the Mana Crystals from the bogs. You do not engage the machines. You mine, you stockpile, you survive."

  He pointed to a group of leaner, faster-looking wolves on the right.

  "You are the Night Watch. You are tasked with securing the perimeter against the threats of the Moors. You set up early warning systems. You stay out of sight."

  Finally, he pointed to the older, more battered villagers.

  "You are the Maintenance Crew. You are responsible for sanitation. Keep the cabins structurally sound."

  Michael turned around, facing his Thrall who had led them here.

  "Robert," Michael said. "Step forward."

  Robert swallowed hard, stepping up to the Progenitor.

  "Daizen is dead. You are the highest level Lycan in this settlement," Michael announced, his voice carrying to every ear in the caldera. "I am officially appointing you as the new Alpha of Gare."

  The villagers murmured in awe, bowing their heads lower toward Robert.

  "Your first objective as Alpha is diplomatic," Michael instructed, tapping his cane against the stone. "You will go to the Coal & Cog Syndicate border camps and negotiate with them. You have a stockpile of Mana Crystals. They have Harvester Golems. You will strike an equitable trade deal: you provide the crystals safely, they stop sending machines into your territory."

  Robert looked terrified. "My Lord... I am a werewolf. The industrialists will not parley with me. They will shoot me on sight. How can I force them to the table?"

  Michael smiled thinly and opened his spatial inventory.

  He reached into the glowing grid and pulled out a pair of enchanted silver-and-leather bracers. They radiated a lunar magic. They were Blue Tier items—Moon Cuffs.

  Michael tossed the bracers to Robert, who caught them clumsily against his chest.

  "Those provide a permanent fifty-percent buff to a Lycan's baseline attack power," Michael explained. "Coupled with the Progenitor blood currently running through your Level 36 veins, you are now strong enough to rip their Harvester Golems apart with your bare hands. If they refuse to talk... break a few machines until they find their manners."

  Robert stared down at the magical artifacts in his hands.

  A foreign Vampire Lord had just saved his mind, avenged his family, fixed his village’s infrastructure, armed him with god-like weapons, and set up a viable, long-term economic future for his people.

  And he had done it in under ten minutes.

  "You... you don't want anything in return?" Robert asked. "No monopoly on the Mana Crystals? No demand for our manpower in your wars? Why are you doing this?"

  Michael paused and turned his back, adjusting the lapels of his coat, preparing to walk back into the fog with Lavius, Morpheus, and Drummond.

  To Robert, and the rest of the awestruck village of Gare, Count Mikhail looked like an benevolent mastermind playing a game of geopolitical chess centuries ahead of anyone else.

  In reality, Michael just wanted the mess cleaned up. If the Lycans were self-sufficient and trading with the Syndicate, the local economy would stabilize. If the economy stabilized, the Royal Society of Hunters would stop sending hunters into the Grey Moors. And if the hunters stayed out of the Moors, Michael’s own backyard—the Gallows—would remain quiet, keeping the Church’s prying eyes far away from Castle Nightfall.

  It was basic conflict resolution.

  Michael looked over his shoulder and delivered a line of truth that sounded incredibly badass to the surrounding wolves.

  "Why would I demand a tree," Michael murmured, "when I have the forest."

  With that, Count Mikhail and the vanguard of House Sabwat vanished into the Grey, leaving Gare in their wake.