The Last Werewolf: Shadow of the Grail

A copper-plated sign reading "Rusty Silver Coins" swayed from an iron pole outside the shop, creaking occasionally in the evening breeze. Even so, very few people stopped to admire it throughout the day. This was the daily routine of Han's antique shop. Located at 47 Lemon Street in Sasha, the location was neither good nor bad, much like its business.

Antique shops weren't ordinary shops; Han's main source of income was his regular clientele. The family had once lived in cities further south of Dorne, but after his parents, who valued family unity, passed away, the decision of where to settle fell to him alone. Four years after his military service, he took over the shop using his £600 discharge pay and his share of his father's inheritance. The antique trade was quite close to high society, and with his talent, he was more successful than his counterparts who sold their wares on the streets.

Han was in his workshop on the second floor of the shop, wearing a mask and apron. He bent over, using long tongs to retrieve five slightly faded and peeling medals from a bucket of murky liquid. These were Loren War Medals of Honor, awarded by the Royal House of Dorne only to soldiers who participated in five or more battles during the Loren War; only a little over six hundred were issued, making them extremely valuable commemoratives.

Han had handled 24 of them—23 of which were fakes, the only genuine one belonging to him. When antique dealers couldn't find genuine antiques, they had to learn to create them. "Mr. Han, your guests have arrived," came the announcement from his female assistant after a knock. "I know, Miss Charlotte, you can go home now," Han replied through the door.

He carefully absorbed the corrosive liquid from the fake medals with a sponge, wrapping them in silk and placing them on his workbench. Then he took off his apron, put on a black jacket, and went downstairs to greet his guests. In the display cases on the first floor, enamel and crystal ornaments gleamed under the electric lights. On the walls hung swords that looked incredibly valuable, unsheathed, as if ready to be thrown back into battle at any moment.

The brown-haired youth waiting on the first floor, however, showed no interest in them, merely glancing at the rusty exhibits in the cases with his hands behind his back. When Han stood behind him, he turned around. "Lieutenant, long time no see." Seeing the brown-haired youth in his white suit, Han stepped forward and embraced him. "Joe, I didn't expect you to be back. It feels like just yesterday we last met."

Lieutenant was his rank in the army; only his old comrades still called him that after his retirement. They had fought together in the 163-year-old Loren War, comrades in the same company. After retiring from the military, Joe inherited his parents' antique shop, but driven by his ambition to travel the world, he was unwilling to run such a stable business and sold it to Han.

Standing side-by-side, the difference was immediately apparent. Han's hairstyle and beard were his unchanging side parting and thick royal mustache; his features were more rugged, and he appeared a head taller than Joe, his tawny eyes intimidating. Seeing his former superior still looking familiar, Joe was pleasantly surprised: "Me too. Seeing you doing well puts my mind at ease. But I'm here for business."

He pulled a small box from his jacket pocket and opened it. On the soft, pale yellow velvet lay a pure silver ring, its surface stained a mottled black by oxidation. "A bishop's seal of the White Church, a top-quality item." Han immediately became serious when business was mentioned, but instead of taking the box, he said in a low voice, "This kind of treasure is indeed valuable, but not easy to buy or sell."

Joe shoved the box into Han's hands without further ado. "Don't worry, this is absolutely legal, no one will interfere. It originally belonged to a foreign friend of mine, but his business has been struggling lately, so he was planning to sell these things to make up for the financial shortfall. I bought this out of friendship, but I don't have a hobby of collecting, so I brought it to you."

Han reluctantly accepted the box. "How much did you pay for it?"

"Three hundred gold pounds."

Han rubbed his temples to relieve the pressure. It wasn't a small amount of money, but it certainly didn't match the value of a genuine bishop's seal. "You didn't meet this friend at the poker table, did you?"

"Haha." Joe chuckled awkwardly, blinked twice, and didn't continue.

Han closed the box and stuffed it into his jacket pocket: "I won't say much this time. If you plan to leave Sasha City anytime soon, I'll send the money to your old house after I appraise the ring." Joe had no objection to this, and then made a new suggestion: "How about we go for a drink at the Big Treehouse at six o'clock tomorrow night, like before?" Han had no objection either.

After chatting for a few more minutes and seeing off his old comrade, Han went upstairs alone to clean the studio and finally turned off the power. He took a lantern, went out to lock the door, and then walked back to his rented cheap apartment. Han didn't finish university. He joined the army at eighteen and served eleven years as a cavalryman in the Torrent Guard of Dorne.

When he retired at thirty-three, Han felt like an old man. Nothing could interest him. His parents died of illness while he was serving, and his older brother was struck in the heart by a stray bullet on another battlefield. Han gave the army more than just eleven years of his youth; time was merely the least valuable commodity he lost. He chose to become an antique dealer hoping to change himself through the immersion in artifacts.

After dinner, Han went to rest in his study. Joe's gift gave him a headache. To sell it for a good price, one would have to find some fanatical believers, but Han was not good at dealing with them. He took the ring seal out of his pocket and positioned the seal facing him. Two crossed tridents guarded the pointed bishop's cap at the top. The design belonged to the Inquisition, a horrific institution abolished by the White Church three hundred years ago.

He noticed a square protrusion under the velvet cloth inside the box. He emptied the cloth, and a note lay on the table: "Legend has it that the rings of the bishops of the Inquisition are protected by divine power; they can verify that their owners have not been replaced by shapeshifting monsters. The wearer will immediately revert to their original form."

Out of a sense of curiosity, Han picked it up and put it on his left pinky finger. Ten seconds passed. Nothing happened. "It was fake again, after all. I'm so stupid!" He tried to remove the ring in frustration, but his finger was too thick. He went into the bathroom to lubricate it with soapy water.

But at that moment, a sudden, intense burning sensation shot through his body. His torso swelled, tearing his clothes apart. Jet-black fur, as sharp as steel needles, pierced his entire body. His limbs displayed exaggerated muscle mass, and his head transformed into a wolf shape, his tawny eyes glowing in the darkness. Han scratched his head with his sharp nails, a much deeper voice emanating from his wolfish muzzle: "Incredible! This time it's actually the real deal!”