Chapter Three

Angelo suddenly knelt down. He just wanted to live quietly, didn't want to provoke these werewolves.

I froze.

This stubborn old man never bowed to anyone. Even when Victor grabbed him by the collar last night, he only remained silent.

But now, he knelt on the ground, his forehead against the cold tiles.

"He's just a disabled person." Angelo raised his head, speaking to the bald man.

"Just a cripple who doesn't know better. Please spare him."

The bald man clutched his wrist, his eyes viciously fixed on me.

"Count yourself lucky." The bald man spat blood. "Wait. This isn't over."

He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a low voice.

Ten minutes later, a black Cadillac stopped in front of the restaurant.

The sound of the engine shutting off was like some kind of verdict.

The car door opened. A middle-aged man in a three-piece suit got out—the werewolf family boss, Lucien Lupin.

Victor followed closely behind.

When Lucien entered the restaurant, all the lackeys automatically made way.

He didn't look at anyone, walked straight up to me, bent down, and took a deep breath near my neck.

Then he smiled.

"Holy water, silverware, and the smell of burning."

Lucien straightened up, adjusting his cuffs. "Old man, do you know what you're harboring?"

Angelo's face was deathly pale: "He's just an injured veteran—"

"Veteran?"

Lucien interrupted him, turning to me. "There's a legend among demon hunters. Fifteen years ago, an 'Ash Legion' slaughtered three werewolf families in North America."

My heart skipped a beat.

"They say their leader was ultimately sentenced to death by the Church internally."

Lucien said slowly. "They say all members were burned to ash—no one ever saw a single corpse."

He crouched down and patted my crippled leg.

"Who broke this leg? The Church? Or us werewolves?"

I said nothing.

Emma hid behind me. Blood was still dripping from the back of her hand.

"He's just an injured veteran."

Angelo repeated, his voice trembling. "He's an ordinary person."

Lucien stood up, dusting off nonexistent dust from his suit.

"Then you should thank him."

He looked at Angelo. "48 hours. Either hand over all the deeds for this street, or all die here."

Victor walked over and kicked over a chair.

"By the way, cripple."

He leaned close to me, lowering his voice. "Next time you dare touch my people, I'll sell that deaf-mute little bitch to the 'Rabbit Club' and make her a toy for those perverts."

I raised my head and looked directly into his eyes.

Victor froze for a moment and instinctively stepped back half a step.

"Let's go." Lucien said indifferently.

The werewolves filed out.

The black Cadillac drove away. The restaurant fell into deathly silence.

Angelo got up from the ground, walked up to me, and for the first time got angry with me.

"Why did you fight back!" he roared. "Do you know what this will bring us!"

I opened my mouth but didn't know what to say.

"I saw too many people die from impulse when I was in the demon hunter logistics unit."

Angelo's voice was hoarse. "I don't know who you were before, but now you're just Arthur, an ordinary person!"

Emma tugged at my sleeve and signed: "I'm not afraid of them."

But her hands were shaking.

Angelo took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"Leave Chicago tonight."

Angelo said. "I'll figure out how to deal with the werewolves."

"If I leave, they'll kill you both."

"That's better than you exposing your identity and being caught by the Church!"

After Angelo shouted this, he turned and rushed into the kitchen.

I stood there, hearing the sound of things being smashed in the kitchen.

Emma hugged my arm, burying her face in my sleeve.

I touched her head.

"I'm sorry."

At eleven PM, I climbed up to the attic.

The iron box under the bed was pulled out.

The inscription on the spear shaft gleamed coldly in the moonlight: "Cinis et Ignis"—Ashes and Fire.

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

Then I flipped out a small cloth bag from the bottom of the box.

Inside was a badge—a silver wolf head pierced by a sword, surrounded by flame patterns.

This was the symbol of the "Ash Bishop."

Fifteen years.

I thought I had already forgotten all of this.

Firelight, screams, blood.

And those wastes at the Church tribunal.

I put the badge back in the cloth bag, closed the iron box, and pushed it back under the bed.

Then I lay on the bed.

48 hours.

Angelo told me to leave.

But if I left, they would all die. The werewolves' viciousness was innate.

Even without me here, once this place was targeted by werewolves, there would be no survivors.

The blood mark on Emma's hand appeared in my mind.

And Angelo kneeling on the ground.

Half a year ago, they took me in.

Gave me a home.

I opened my eyes. I thought I couldn't just walk away.