Werewolf Hunting Rules.

Chapter 518 Strategic Shift
"What kind of person am I, really?"

Clayton didn't think about this often; he believed only what a person did, not what they thought.

A virtual personality, merely existing in self-perception and leaving no trace in the world, is tantamount to nothing. He also wants to leave something worth boasting about in this world.

Whether it's the glory of battle, the kindness that benefits others, or even instilling fear in others, it's better than remaining unknown.

Moreover, the spring of the year 170 in the new calendar is approaching, and he wants to fully enjoy this spring and celebrate his "rebirth," rather than regretting that he saw something ugly in winter and did nothing when he should be strolling through the woods smelling the flowers.

"If only I had done this or that back then, things might have turned out differently."

Just thinking about it makes me feel sad.

The werewolf's roar, delivered with all its might, echoed through the dungeon, repeating itself sixty-one times in twenty minutes.

A powerful sound reverberated repeatedly underground, like a surging tide.

The faint screams from underground showed that even though members of the Witchcraft Society could reduce the impact of the roar through mental connection, they were still severely weakened after listening to this "song".

A few coughs echoed loudly in Clayton's broad, wolf-neck cavity, and his voice became a little hoarse.

There were still ten minutes left until the agreed time, but he believed the time was right.

He turned to follow Julius's scent, leaping lightly across the blackened corridor with his powerful hind legs, stepping over charred corpses and damaged furniture and doors, only to be blocked by his intended target in the now-empty restaurant.

Abigail walked in through the side door of the restaurant, and with the tables still covered with tablecloths and dishes and wine, she looked like she was heading to a date.

Clayton targeted the Witchcraft Society to punish her, and now she's come on her own.

“You will pay for offending me,” Abigail said.

Her tone was fierce, but considering that it was a woman dressed as a man talking to a wolf, the scene looked rather comical.

The wolf sighed helplessly.

"Uh, I just promised someone I'd leave you with them. Could you wait a little longer? Never mind, let's leave it at that. This might not be the best option." He changed his mind.

“Indeed, it is the best choice,” the prophet agreed.

Without asking the reasons for the hostility or seeking reconciliation, Abigail had already seen the results of various attempts, at the cost of her mind being tainted by the werewolf curse once again, and the itching in her soul made her increasingly manic.

She couldn't predict the course or outcome of the battle, but beyond that, she did everything she could.

Five attendants walked past her into the desolate restaurant.

They were not close comrades-in-arms, but they possessed the qualities of warriors. They carried pistols and longswords, and each of them was a dueling expert. The crisscrossing duel scars on their cheeks proved that they had all experienced near-death sword fights more than once. In terms of courage, they were second to none.

Although Clayton, a wolf, was strong and had powerful claws that reached the chest of an adult male without standing upright, he had been injured in the waist by the silver-plated weapon and his roar was weak and feeble. He had no chance of winning in a head-on confrontation with them.

So the wolf twisted its body and rushed up the stairs along the wall to the second floor, where there were guard rooms and servants' rest rooms.

Four of the prophet's followers followed closely behind, and another man remained by Abigail's side. He jumped onto the table, merely raising his pistol to aim at Clayton, waiting for the right moment to fire.

As Abigail watched her followers chase the black wolf, her eyes shone, illuminating half the hall. The light from countless full moons from the future overlapped and shone through her eyes onto Clayton Bello, triggering the berserk factor in his blood.

No matter how disheveled Clayton looks now, he should not be underestimated. Although moonlight can enhance a werewolf's strength, a beast that has lost its mind is easier to hunt.

As the prophet turned her head, the intense moonlight shone like a spotlight on a stage, constantly illuminating the wolf that was fleeing in the second-floor corridor. Its thick black fur did not reflect any light under the direct sunlight, making it look like a shadowy figure.

Clayton had no idea what the woman was doing. He only felt warm all over in the light, his stubborn wounds began to heal, and he could run faster.

The priests of the Witchcraft Society had taken away Clayton's will to fight beforehand, so he couldn't go mad, but the prophet was completely unaware of this.

A sword slashed down from behind, coming from the fastest swordsman. Clayton tucked his tail between his legs and ducked low, narrowly dodging the attack. The sweeping sword sliced ​​through the wooden handrail behind him like a slice of bread, sending splinters flying.

The price of successfully dodging was a furious gunshot.

The bullet entered the wolf's back, causing it to pause for a moment. The gunman, standing on the first-floor dining table, seized the opportunity, and a second bullet struck Clayton, but fortunately, it hit its head. The lead bullet pierced flesh but was deflected by the hard, thick skull, leaving a small hole in the pale yellow wallpaper.

Having confirmed that the two guns most suitable for firing had already missed, Black Wolf twisted his body, his wolf form expanding and rising, and his thick, half-human, half-wolf arm swept in a half-circle, slashing horizontally at the swordsman behind him.

Although the corridor on the second floor was narrow, the other followers were still two body lengths away from arriving, leaving room for them to dodge. The swordsman, who was already skilled in speed, nimbly retreated, but he underestimated the werewolf's ability to extend its limbs when it transformed.

He was only two centimeters away from safety.

Realizing he had misjudged the distance, the swordsman's heart raced. He raised his longsword to defend himself, but the moment he formed his standard defensive stance, the sword was struck.

It wasn't claws, but a werewolf's clenched fist covered in dense, black, needle-like hair.

The fist was slashed open by the blade, but the sword itself also bent and deformed under the immense force.

Never abandoning one's weapon is the first rule warriors accept. The swordsman's right hand always gripped the hilt tightly, which ironically led to his injury. Inhuman force transmitted through the blade caused his body to stagger to the right. Only then did the pain of his broken wrist make him drop the sword; a layer of skin had been scraped off his palm.

The blood-stained black beast claws gripped his neck in the next moment, while the other claws seized his thigh.

The werewolf held him horizontally across his chest, just as he had held his sword before. Then, he turned and leaped lightly onto the railing of the walkway. With another high leap, he landed above the prophet, pressing the human body down into his hands. At the same time, his powerful legs retracted and gathered momentum again, before slamming down heavily in a posture as if he were crouching on the human body.

Abigail's expression changed drastically. Although she couldn't see, the alarm bells of her intuition rang frantically, and she heard screams all around her.

The guard standing nearby reached out and pulled her towards him in time, saving her from a dangerous situation.

The werewolf landed heavily where she had been standing. The swordsman beneath it was not as lucky as his master; blood and bits of entrails gushed from his mouth, staining the restaurant's beige carpet.

Clayton crouched down, pressing his hands to the ground to prepare himself, his yellow wolf eyes fixed on the female prophet.

Abigail was pushed away by the guards again. The three armed followers on the second floor saw that the enemy was so close to their master that they dared not shoot directly, but hurriedly jumped over the railing and down.

However, Clayton's real target was them.

The werewolf simply turned around abruptly, extending its massive and powerful claws. The two armed henchmen fell into its claws as naturally as ice cream falling into a cone, while the werewolf, like a child afraid of its ice cream falling to the ground, clung tightly to its food.

One tight grip, and two more lives were lost.

Only one armed follower who jumped from the second floor survived. Seeing how the others died, he rolled to dissipate the force as soon as he landed, then lunged behind a dining table, using the various tables and chairs in the restaurant to cover himself.

The prophet was unaware that the obstacle to stripping Clayton of his sanity came from his own allies, but his cunning tactics showed that he remained unaffected.

"Loretta!" she screamed, black tears streaming down her face. Then the skin around her swelled, and moths began to emerge from beneath her eyelids, fluttering their wings and flying toward Clayton.

These moths were small and black, making them difficult to distinguish from the background color.

No matter how the werewolf tries to evade, they can always track it down and pounce on its face.

The werewolf had no choice but to stop and raise its paws to defend itself, but this was exactly what the moths wanted. A swarm of moths clung to its paws and face, then melted into a fleshy red liquid, completely covering its right eye. Its left eye, along with half of its wolf face, was glued to its raised left paw, which it had used for defense. It looked as if the moths were growing out of its own flesh and blood, and it could not break free by brute force. Instead, it would experience intense pain that was unbearable even for the werewolf.

Clayton was completely deprived of his sight.

Even with his extraordinary hearing, he could no longer be as sensitive and agile as before.

Since becoming a werewolf, no moment had made him feel more threatened than this. But at the same time, he heard Abigail's heart-wrenching screams; casting such a spell would also come at a heavy price for her.

“Kill him! Kill him!” she screamed, panting.

With complete darkness before him, Clayton calmly overturned the table and chairs in front of him to use as an obstacle. Then, with his free right hand, he grabbed the edge of the dining table beside him, trying to analyze the distance of the enemy by sound. If anyone approached, he would swing the table at them. But the result was different from what he and Abigail had expected.
The two surviving followers did not attempt to attack the blind werewolf; judging from the sounds, they dragged Abigail away.

Their primary objective was, after all, to protect Abigail's safety. Once they determined that the enemy was too for them to handle, all other tasks would be relegated to a secondary priority.

However, Clayton was not yet safe; he heard footsteps coming from underground.

The Witchcraft Society members are coming out, and he can't handle them right now.

Clayton looked up to sense the direction of the airflow, then escaped the building through the vent.