Werewolf Hunting Rules.

Chapter 493 Afterwards
Having said that, Stewart refused to say anything more about Clayton.

Perhaps that's all he knows.

Nature, because Stewart mentioned Clayton's talent, made Julius re-interest in this old-fashioned term.

What makes Clayton so appealing isn't his good temper or his amazing energy, but rather his generous attitude.

"Generous" doesn't mean Clayton was lavish; Julius didn't feel he received a very satisfactory reward from him. Rather, it means that Clayton himself had a peculiar sensitivity to hatred, and was not very sensitive to wounds and blood.

If this trait is to be interpreted as the gentleness that Stuart speaks of, the wizard thinks that would be a fallacy.

Imagine a scenario where a gunman fires a shot at Clayton from a distance, hitting him in a non-lethal spot. The attacker notices this but doesn't fire a second shot. Instead, he gives Clayton an arrogant nod, indicating it's a lesson, and then turns and leaves.

Clayton's next move would be to draw his gun and fire, aiming at the same spot on the opponent, not a vital area. He might rush in and punch his opponent, but that would be after he had inflicted equal damage. And if the shot missed, Clayton would only be bothered by the fact that he missed, not by failing to eliminate his opponent.

It wasn't that he was unaware of hatred; it's just that most of the time, he seemed to be participating in a competitive game.

Unless something outside the game intervenes, or the other party in the game insists on doing something irrational or takes an extreme action, Clayton prefers to part ways amicably, even if he loses, he is willing to accept defeat.

His charisma in the "game" often impresses his peers, inspiring them to learn to enjoy the "game" as he does.

Julius also found reassurance in this game.

After a quick meal, they left the underground restaurant and returned to Easter Island's base in the city.

Stuart took a break, while Julius returned to the laboratory used for preparing chemicals. Standing at the table, he opened a drawer, where two syringes lay quietly. He stared at them, lost in thought.

Actually, he didn't sleep last night either.

I completed the experiment in the first half of the night with my unwavering determination, but in the second half, I was caught in an unprecedented dilemma.

Julius made a deal with the Grail Order.

The Holy Grail Order is still an enemy of the Presbyterian Church, but Julius, like a true businessman, is ruthless and disregards all considerations other than profit, selling out exclusive potion secrets to complete this deal.

Using data obtained from human experiments conducted by the cult, the potion for ascension has been initially completed, but it is uncertain whether the effects will be as he expected.

The fluid secreted by the pituitary gland possesses magical power, even influencing a person's emotions. The mechanism behind this remains a mystery, and the pituitary gland of a wizard is even more unpredictable.

The mad wizard is even worse.

By injecting these two syringes, crafted from the secret knowledge of the Soul Reaper School and the Holy Grail Order, he has a chance to open the tightly closed door and ascend directly into the world of the Copper Ring, or he may have his brain destroyed by the out-of-control magic.

Two days ago, Julius would have used these injections anyway; they were the strength he desperately needed.

But the situation was different. The Friendship Society and Conionne and the Society were locked in a stalemate, and Hazel was probably preoccupied with this, so he hadn't sent his guards to look for him. Moreover, so many days had passed, his plea for help had already reached Sasha City, and Hazel might not dare to attack him anymore, because his initial excitement due to fear had actually cooled down.

Should he still use this drug with unclear effects at this moment?

This is not simply a matter of testing courage.

Julius also needs to ask himself if he truly believes in his own abilities and that the truth he possesses can propel him to the next level, rather than wasting his life in vain.

He needs this to prove himself.

Wizards also have their own nature; they are proud and crave recognition.

It's not that I crave power, but rather that I want to see my research results impact the world.

Games may not satisfy him, but they can ignite his passion and prevent him from becoming complacent.

Clayton was originally intended as a stepping stone for Julius, but as they spent more time together, Julius gradually changed his mind. He realized that if this man was properly nurtured, he might be able to develop into a platform that would support him.

This is, after all, a werewolf.

With just two or three decades of effort, Clayton could establish a clan and attempt to change the situation in a city or region, just like Conionne.

If Julius were willing to renounce his human identity, he could even ask Clayton to perform a blood-donation ritual for him, betting that the wolfsbane wouldn't kill him. If successful, the immortality that wizards crave would be within his grasp, and his werewolf blood relatives would accept him into a warmer family than the forest elves.

But what does that matter?

If he uses unorthodox methods to achieve his goals, can his pursuit still have any weight?

Even Charlotte, the college student in Clayton's antique shop, insisted on finding a job that matched her major in history, rather than becoming a typist or secretary.

Is his pride worthless?
Following the typical formula of popular adventure novels, he should have suddenly injected the drug into his vein and ascended to heaven at this point, but he didn't.

Standing before the last door, he felt fear of death and began to doubt his own abilities.

Although Julius is still alive, he feels like a dead man trapped behind the twelfth gate, just one step away from being reborn into the world.

Looking at his own work, Julius became restless again.

I went out for breakfast just now to give myself some time to adjust, but it didn't work out well.

He now even resented the thieves in the lair for not stealing the two syringes while he was out. Perhaps he should go find Clayton, let the other's carefree and ruthless spirit infect him, and return to a state of peace, so that he would have the courage to inject himself.

He began to envy Clementia, the witch who, in her early days, dared to use a church as a sacrifice for a black mass.

After hesitating for a moment, Julius put away the injection and decided to go see Clayton first.

The various battlefields, littered with blood, were cordoned off by the police. Church clergy and militia members, their faces covered with masks, worked together to piece together the scattered corpses, neatly piled them together, and then counted their numbers and identities.

Locals were sent home, while unclaimed out-of-towners were buried in cemeteries. The pale, mangled corpses were piled up mercilessly, reminding those who saw them of the slabs of meat hanging in slaughterhouses.

The blood congealed on the ground, forming a dark red, lichen-like substance that would turn brown after a while and mix with the soil, becoming inseparable.

The cleanup lasted for most of the day, and the death toll was tallied.

The total number of deaths among the defending troops on the northern and western fronts was 116, with 12 missing. In the northern area, a total of 44 civilians died and 9 went missing.

This is not all; some others are "temporarily" alive thanks to the Holy Grail Order's help, and will not return to the underworld until tonight.

While Conionnai launched a surprise attack on the northern front of the Eastern District, their Darkin allies launched a surprise attack on the western front. When Conionnai moved from the northern front to the stalemate on the western front, the morale of the defending troops, which was already on the verge of collapse, immediately collapsed, and a large number of the dead were killed while fleeing.

In the afternoon, the city government building was still brightly lit.

These lights were left over from last night, but as the discussion became more heated, no one cared about something as trivial as turning off the lights.

Every now and then, a private servant would come in, whisper something to his master, and then leave.

"Failure is inevitable, but there are differences between failures. Some failures are catastrophic, while others are merely superficial wounds. We still have the strength to fight back. Many people will misunderstand what happened last night, lose faith in the government, and think that this government is about to collapse. We must do something to avoid falling into the worst possible situation." Speaking in the council chamber was Figo Hutton's brother-in-law, Granjo, who was also the second-in-command of the Weodie Water Department.

The city's water resources department has a wide range of operations, including the shipping department, and thus wields considerable power.

Many officials with red eyes met his gaze; they were all people who had stayed up all night. Some of the older, weaker ones could no longer stay awake and were snoring on their desks. Even with them, the number of people in the hall seemed sparse.

Sensing the impending crisis, the fraternity association, cobbled together by various families, once again disintegrated. Many chose to hold internal family meetings to decide on the next course of action rather than attend official business. However, the power these people wielded was not very important, and Grancho did not take them seriously.

"Who would have thought they'd have to fight to the death on their very first move? It's too late to say anything now," said Mr. Pryde, Granjo's brother-in-law and the head of the conscription committee, who had just arrived for the meeting.

Granjo retorted, "If it's too late to say anything, what are you doing here? Or are you feeling guilty about your negligence?"

"No offense intended, but I feel no remorse. I have done all I could: mobilize the remaining silver to urgently cast warheads, provide supplies and lighting for the militia, persuade the superhumans and soldiers to cooperate, and formulate salaries and compensation. If you want to question me, you might as well think about why the 'riverside tragedy' happened in the first place."

Grancho remained silent, staring gloomily at Pride.

They are brothers-in-law, but that doesn't mean they have the same bond as family members. The Hutton family's resources are limited, and they have to compete with each other, as do their wives.

“Why don’t we go home and sleep instead of arguing here? It’s much more comfortable that way,” said Swies of the Basby family coldly.

Many people looked at him; the sleepless nights had made them distracted, and they forgot to hide their unfriendly stares.

Bassbeth lost the silver.

However, this matter had nothing to do with Swies. His cousin was in charge of the train transport and storage business, and Swies himself was in charge of security, but that only included suppressing workers and cracking down on smuggling.

Granjo looked over and said, "Mr. Swies, take a closer look. Aren't there already many people sleeping here?"

“It’s better than none of Orlanster showing up,” someone scoffed in the crowd.

Swies raised his hands: "Enough. Everyone here is being foolish. Blaming each other is the truth, but it's also a waste of time. Mr. Pride has just returned from outside and must have some news. Let's hear what he has to say."

Grancho backed down.

Pryde scanned the room: "There is news, but it's bad news. Most of our militia have dropped their weapons and refused to answer the call again."

The meeting room immediately became noisy, as if hundreds of flies were buzzing around, waking up the sleeping elderly officials.

Last night, the defenses began to crumble on the western front. No reinforcements were sent to the west; the Friendship Society hadn't considered this plan, even with the advice of excellent retired officers. News traveled slowly and inaccurately throughout the night, and powerful officials below the mayor believed the city's militia was sufficient to hold off the werewolves' probing attacks, unwilling to risk temporarily diverting some of their defensive forces.

Based on their experience of conflict in the human world, they deduced that Conionai and Bodalabic's militia should have been entrenched in the North for some time. Pressure was often more important and simpler than killing. At the very least, they should have first sent those "outsiders" soldiers to attack the defensive line and deplete the Friendship Society's strength.

However, Opius did not play by the rules. He brought out half of the clan's strength for a decisive battle, launching a fierce attack on the defensive line at the cost of casualties.

In this battle, Conionne lost 11 members, one-fifth of the total number of personnel deployed, but the result was that no one dared to underestimate them anymore.

Although the more than one hundred soldiers who died were only one-sixth of the Friendship Society's strength, the Friendship Society suffered far more losses with their defeat.

“Our soldiers have lost their will to win,” said the man beside Swies. He was not Swies’ servant, but the head of security at the Basby mansion, a former captain. He hadn’t been there the night before either, but had arrived only an hour earlier than Mr. Pryde.

“I questioned some soldiers who had experienced last night’s battle, and they told me that the commander on the front lines was relentlessly pushing his soldiers forward to cover the outside superhumans, even at the cost of their lives. This made the soldiers not only afraid of the monsters but also saddened, and unwilling to fight for us anymore.”

Another official spoke up: "They are our allies, and arbitrarily driving them could lead to the breakdown of the alliance."

Swies sneered: "The alliance is still there now, but you'll see. Time will prove that these friends of ours are unreliable."

It is foreseeable that as the number of militiamen decreases, the proportion of superhumans within the Friendship Society will increase. Their power will not be significantly weakened, but this does not mean that the Friendship Society can turn the tide with them. After the loss of militiamen selected from the local population, the Friendship Society is left with only mercenaries and armed detectives from other areas, lacking a long-term means to counterbalance superhumans.

The scales of power will tip toward the side with more power.

After a while, it's hard to say who the league will listen to.

“It’s ridiculous. The more Conionne attacks us, the more important and frightening our allies become—even if they do nothing, I don’t know whose allies they are.” Mr. Pride laughed as if he had heard a very funny joke.

“Because they are a class,” said Basby’s security chief. “The only kind of superhumans are other superhumans.”

Conionne's fierce attack proved the absolute superiority of superhumans in urban warfare, raising the status of all superhumans in front of the Friendship Association. If the Friendship Association wanted to maintain its position, it would have to continue to rely on them.

“If I were in full charge, I would hang the commanders of both the northern and western fronts—if they were alive now.”

There will be one more chapter later.