Werewolf Hunting Rules.

Chapter 477 An Unexpected Opponent

This meeting was rather awkward. Halcha had important business to attend to, but his mount had been killed, so he had to transform into a wolf and continue on his way, disappearing from Clayton's sight once again.

Five minutes later, a roar came from the east.

Clayton recognized it as not Halcha's voice, but it was still a werewolf's howl.

Unlike Harcha's angry roar, this roar, besides venting his anger, also carried the meaning of summoning his kin, and sounded somewhat weaker than Harcha's.

In response, many wolf howls rang out from afar.

Are there really that many guys who dare to provoke werewolves at night? Clayton was really confused. He wanted to go and see, but he didn't want to run into a bunch of Conionai if he got there, so he had to give up.

However, this also had its advantages; at least he knew that Conionai would head in that direction, making his route much safer.

He quickened his pace and went straight into the North District.

Joseph's house was near a bridge on the Cutthroat Road, and he remembered the route.

Conionai's temporary camp is on Cutthroat Pass. Although they have a "spring outing" today, there may still be scattered scouts around. He has changed his scent, but we should still be extra careful.

The camp's boundaries were easily discernible, with simple eye patterns painted in chalk and paint on the south-facing exterior walls of the buildings. The patterns were simple, but enormous, and some details were inexplicably accurate; the artist had even drawn individual eyelashes.

The line formed by these buildings with eye patterns marks the boundary of the camp.

Clayton hadn't seen these things when he last came here, so they're probably some kind of detection spell.

He had no intention of testing the magical effect; he simply avoided the eyes, but found it somewhat amusing.

The shepherds of South Buriga did similar things. Even when he was still farming and herding back home, Ulun would paint two brightly colored eyes on the rumps of the cattle and sheep with him. Carnivorous predators are accustomed to attacking from behind. If they see the eyes on the back of these animals from afar but can't make them out clearly, they suspect the prey's head is facing them, perhaps already seeing them, and might flee at any moment. Therefore, they become more cautious, either leaving immediately or retreating and circling. They then continuously circle, reducing the possibility of launching an attack.

In the past, he drew these eyes to guard against ferocious beasts, but now he himself has become the object of those eyes' defense.

The camp in Conriona was lit up, and there were people moving around on the streets, but the northern area was much quieter than the last time I came.

Because of the werewolf invasion, all the illegal businesses that used to operate in the area have disappeared, customers are afraid to come, and the gang thugs have vanished without a trace. But the local residents probably won't thank them.

A proper job can't support so many people.

They finally arrived at Joseph's house, but standing in front of the familiar door, Clayton felt a sense of unease.

Although the scent of Joseph's family still lingers here, it has clearly been diluted considerably, replaced by unfamiliar smells.

He knocked on the door, and it opened immediately.

The door was opened by a man with an unfriendly expression. Over his shoulder, Clayton's night vision revealed several short, stocky men lying on the floor inside, including the Moriel. Weapons such as short sticks and brass knuckles were placed nearby, and empty bottles were scattered all around them.

This is undoubtedly a criminal who no longer participates in outside activities, perhaps sent by a local gang to monitor Conionnai.

“Where did the previous residents go?” Clayton asked kindly.

"They moved away." The moment the thug opened the door upon seeing Clayton, he became obedient and answered the question honestly. The reason was simple: those gleaming eyes and burly physique were strikingly similar to the Bodalabik fiends entrenched on Cutthroat Ridge, and he didn't want to die.

"What I need to know are the specific details, not stupid things like 'moved away'."

"Sir, I really don't know where they went. Moving is too common for people like us here, but they may have gone to Cocoon Street, where there are many poor people like them."

“Do you know what they look like?” Clayton suddenly asked.

“A few kids. The tallest isn’t even up to my chest,” the thug gestured as he spoke.

"Only a few children?"

Who else are you looking for?

"Didn't you see a sickly woman?"

"I've never seen anyone like this before."

Faced with the thug's oath, Clayton nodded and turned to leave.

Cocoon Street is a small place, filled with all sorts of criminals and gang members besides ordinary residents, but only the lowest-ranking guys and newbies live here. When Joseph took Clayton to withdraw money, Cocoon Street was their first choice besides the throat-slitting route. The houses on Cocoon Street are all unfinished, abandoned projects. The investors all ran away due to pressure from the Friendship Society. The houses are a gray, drab mess, with bare window frames and scaffolding still up, looking very uneven and like broken cocoons.

There were clearly no proper beds inside the house, so people had to bring their own blankets to keep warm.

There is no rent for the houses here; you only need to pay a small management fee to the gang that manages this place.

After receiving payment, the gang would ensure that no one fought, stole, or engaged in inappropriate urination or defecation. Those who died of illness would be removed by their men and disposed of in a nearby cemetery. They would also register residents and verify their addresses—a practice that genuinely provided a sense of security.

Unlike before, Cocoon Street is now overcrowded.

As soon as Clayton entered a cocoon, a wave of oppressive heat and the stench of sweat hit him. The corridor was full of people lying down, reminding him of the countless wounded soldiers housed in field hospitals.

Conionai allocated a large area of ​​land in the North District for himself and his Darkin allies, forcing the original residents to relocate elsewhere.

Among those who lost their jobs due to the werewolf attack, there were a number of people who couldn't afford to rent a place and were too afraid to live in the park, so they had no choice but to move to the North District. No matter how shabby it is, there is a roof over their heads, so they won't get moon mania.

It's very difficult for a werewolf's nose to distinguish its target amidst such complex scents.

But Clayton has a mouth and money.

"Have you seen these kids?" He turned back and asked the gang members patrolling the street.

After asking only five people, he learned the whereabouts of what appeared to be Joseph's brothers and sisters, and hurried there.

But at some point, the wind blowing from the end of the long street changed.

Clayton was the first to notice this. He squinted, turned around, and casually tossed his briefcase onto a rooftop that was out of reach. Leaning on his cane, he looked toward the end of the long street. His unusual behavior drew the attention of the gang members who were drinking and keeping watch at the entrance of the cocoon.

However, they soon noticed something was wrong.

"Why does it smell so bad?" A gang member kicked the lantern away from his feet and frowned as he asked the others, "Can you guys smell this? It smells like the dried-up carcass of a dead rat in the corner of a closet that's been thrown into a water tank."

Others said they had also smelled that odor.

Their gazes followed the wind and landed on the gentleman who had just come to inquire about the news. Clayton Bello was standing in the middle of the road, facing the strange wind.

They were filled with awe.

Clayton ignored their interpretation of his sense of smell. He was no ordinary man; he could sense far more than just scents from the wind. He could also sense the curse within him echoing something, and through the influence of the curse, he perceived even more subtle information.

A primal and pure malice blew in the wind; it was hatred for all living beings.

Clayton did not give way. The other party's route was obviously getting further and further away from Conionai's camp. Since it was not coming for Conionai, he believed that it was coming for him. There was no particular reason, just that no one here was worthy of being its opponent except him.

He waited, and about a minute later, a swaying figure finally appeared at the end of the long street.

His body was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, and he swayed unsteadily. From his head to his torso and limbs, he appeared withered and weak, yet he gave Clayton a great sense of danger.

The eyes of the dead, glowing red, flickered like flames on the night streets, drawing ever closer.

The gang members who were sitting at the entrance of the cocoon stood up when they saw the red, will-o'-the-wisp-like eyes. They trembled and cursed under their breath to vent their emotions. Then, recognizing reality, they retreated back inside in perfect unison, leaving the terrifying presence to Clayton, this outsider who didn't look like a good guy.

A mummy from Maxwell.

Clayton never imagined he would encounter such an opponent.

Upon seeing the other person's true appearance, he was instead plunged into deep confusion.

Maxri's mummy shouldn't be in a city in Dorne. This immediately reminded him of the Wendigo that had just been killed by Halcha, and then, more deeply, of the Fairy Rift.

But thinking about it more carefully, shouldn't Maxri's mummy have appeared in a major city of Dorne?
In some areas, they seem to be quite popular in Dorne.

It's just that people don't usually see it in its entirety.

With the arrival of the Cursed Lord Darkmoon, his power is more than enough to revive a mummy used in a pharmacy to grind aphrodisiacs.

So this is different from Wendigo, and it was a complete accident?
Clayton pondered for a moment, but his movements were anything but slow as he pounced on the attack.