Chapter One

My name is Arthur. I work at a dilapidated Italian restaurant in Chicago's immigrant district.

To be precise, I'm a crippled waiter.

At eleven PM, I was wiping oil stains from the bar counter with a rag.

"Bang!"

The door was kicked open.

Five guys in black leather jackets barged in, led by a blonde young man with a wolf head tattoo on his neck—Victor Lupin, the young master of the werewolf family.

"Good evening, Angelo." Victor grinned, showing sharp canines. "And our crippled friend."

Boss Angelo walked out from the kitchen. The sixty-something Italian old man's face turned deathly pale: "Mr. Victor, our restaurant has already closed—"

"Closed?" Victor casually grabbed a plate from the table and smashed it hard on the ground. "Perfect, saves me from disturbing your business."

Porcelain fragments scattered.

I gripped the rag in my hand tightly.

Victor walked up to Angelo and grabbed him by the collar: "Listen up, old man. The Lupin family is rebuilding this street. Within three days, all shops must move out."

"But... but our lease still has two years—"

"Lease?" Victor sneered. "You think your refugees' scrap paper means anything?"

He let go. Angelo staggered backward and knocked over a chair behind him.

I limped forward to support Angelo, my voice calm: "Victor, let's talk this through."

Victor turned his head, looking at me like a cockroach: "Dead cripple, I'm talking to your boss. Is it your turn to interrupt?"

Before he finished speaking, he kicked me in the chest.

I fell backward, my back slamming hard against the bar edge.

The werewolf lackeys burst into laughter.

"A cripple trying to be a hero?"

"Probably trying to show off in front of the deaf girl, hahaha!"

Angelo rushed over to help me. I stopped him with my eyes.

Victor squatted down, gripped my chin, forcing me to look up:

"I remember you, the outsider who came half a year ago." His nose sniffed around my neck, his brow suddenly furrowing.

"There's a disgusting smell..."

I didn't answer because I knew what smell he meant.

He let go and stood up, looking down at me condescendingly:

"In three days I'll come personally to collect. If you're still here by then... I guarantee you'll regret being alive."

With that, he left with his men.

I supported myself on the bar and stood up. Angelo immediately came over and said quietly: "Don't be impulsive. Your injuries haven't healed yet."

"I'm fine."

I bent down and began picking up the fragments on the ground.

Angelo wanted to help. I shook my head: "Boss, you go rest. I'll clean up."

He was silent for a moment, patted my shoulder, and went upstairs.

I cleaned the restaurant alone.

I tidied everything piece by piece, then from the hidden compartment under the bar counter, I took out an inconspicuous glass bottle.

Inside the bottle was transparent liquid, with a faded Latin label on the bottle—holy water.

I opened the cap, dipped my finger in a little, and applied it to the edges of the doorframe and windows.

The moment the liquid touched the wood, it made a slight "sizzling" sound, quickly seeping in without leaving a trace.

Suddenly there was a sound. I turned around.

The deaf-mute foster daughter Emma stood at the stairway in pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

She asked me in sign language: "Are you okay?"

I walked over, touched her head, and replied in sign language: "I'm fine, just accidentally broke a plate."

Emma stared at me for a few seconds, then gestured: "You're lying. I heard a very loud noise."

This child, though she couldn't hear, had keen perception.

I crouched down to eye level with her: "There were a few rude customers, but they've left."

Emma hesitated, then nodded and turned to go upstairs.

Halfway up, she turned back and gestured: "Thank you for protecting us."

I smiled and waved for her to go sleep quickly.

After her figure disappeared around the stairway corner, the smile on my face slowly faded.

Angelo came out from the kitchen, handing me a cup of hot coffee: "You shouldn't have gotten involved, Arthur."

"Boss—"

"Let me finish."

Angelo's voice was soft but firm. "This street is our only home, but your life is more important. If it really comes to a fight... you leave first."

I held the coffee without speaking.

"I know you have a past."

Angelo looked at me. "Although you never mention it, I can sense it. A young man doesn't end up dragging an injured leg, hiding in this broken place working for no reason."

He sighed: "The Lupin family isn't someone we can provoke. You're still young. Don't throw your life away for two old folks and a girl."

I put down the cup and looked out the window.

"Boss, half a year ago, you took me in."

I turned my head and said seriously, "You gave me a home."

Angelo patted the back of my hand. Without saying anything more, he turned and went upstairs.

I sat alone at the bar, finishing that bitter coffee.

Then I climbed up to the attic step by step.

The attic was small, with just a single bed and a wardrobe.

Under the bed was hidden a rusty iron box.

Dim moonlight shone in, reflecting on a silver long spear.

On the middle section of the spear shaft was engraved a blurred Latin inscription:

"Cinis et Ignis"—Ashes and Fire.

I stared at this spear for a long time.

My fingers stroked the spear shaft, the touch ice-cold.

Finally, I closed the box and pushed it back under the bed.