The Werewolf Hunting Law

Chapter 5: Chapter 5 Dead....Living



Life resembles a stagnant pool of water.

As time drags on, unexpected pieces of junk find their ways in.

Clayton held the candle to illuminate the cellar, as his amber eyes, receiving a little light, glinted amid the darkness.

Numerous iron hooked chains were affixed to the cellar's ceiling. Clayton had employed them to hang the meat, keeping rats away----- but not a human being.

With his back to Clayton, a man was gnawing at the hooked frozen beef, his shoulders quaking, the chewing sounds floating over intermittently as the iron chain vibrated noisily continuously.

Clayton's guess proved true: the Holy Grail Society could order Zombies around.

The colonial region was abuzz with rumors about Zombies, and there were unauthenticated photos of them circulating. The souls of those half-dead and half-alive individuals, suffering cruel torture and dying an excruciating death, were bound to half-rotten corpses with fury filling up the rib cages. A wizard wielded the power to awaken them in his thrall.

It's said that they reeked of corrupt flesh and shared the food preferences with werewolves, their hunger insatiable.

That explained why he had been attracted to the meat.

But Clayton had never expected that the man would lose control in the presence of raw meat.

Since his quest of surveillance had yet to be finished yet he was already pilfering, the man seemed to lack the slightest bit of professional dedication.

Sensing the sudden illumination------the chomping noises came to a halt------- the man turned around, revealing his lifeless, glass-ball-like eyes and bloodstained mouth.

Clayton remembered the man's smell because he had been around him in the theater.

"What are you doing here? Get out of here or I will fetch the constables!"

Normally speaking, a Zombie didn't speak. But, back in the theater, he had looked like an exuberant guy, displaying a myriad of expressions and making an assortment of gestures, so Clayton tried communicating with him.

Without a word, the Zombie drew a dagger from his waist and slightly bent his knees, before pouncing upon Clayton.

Clayton raised his free right hand and grabbed hold of the Zombie's wrist, preventing the blade from cutting him.

The Zombie was far stronger than an average man. If he hadn't awakened as a werewolf, the Zombie would have been tricky to tackle.

But, as he had become a werewolf, the Zombie was too overpowered to break free of his grip.

Having lost his senses----though his right hand had been clamped-----the monster didn't take defeat lying down, but instead took hold of Clayton's wrist with his left hand and then swooped down with gaping jaws, seemingly intent on grabbing Clayton's wrist in his surprisingly well-aligned teeth.

Clayton was in no mood to let the Zombie succeed in his attempt. He whirled a quarter circle about, shifting his weight to his right leg while lifting his left leg, landing a swift, solid kick on the Zombie's knee.

With a crack, the Zombie's right leg turned to the left side.

Having lost his balance, the Zombie crumpled sideways. His attempt had been frustrated, but he still tightly grasped hold of Clayton's wrist.

In Clayton's left hand, the tiny candlelight was flickering vehemently at the mercy of the rushing air currents.

Clayton indeed had night vision, but that only meant his eyes' heightened sensitivity to light. In a pitch-black setting---- the cellar was an example---he still couldn't see clearly and needed illumination.

If the Zombie could act unhindered in the darkness with the candlelight gone, that would imperil Clayton.

Reserving his strength was not an option.

With this in mind, he held the candle high with his left hand and jerked his gripped right hand, toppling the Zombie, now crippled in one leg, toward him. Then, he leaned on his left heel and whipped his right leg from right to left, driving his knee heavily into the Zombie's temple...

The corpse thudded to the ground, whereupon darkness claimed the cellar.

His violent motion had put out the candlelight, despite his care.

In the darkness, he pried the Zombie's grip off his wrist. Upon contact, he felt the Zombie's soft skin with lingering warmth, before his mind snapped blank.

As he recalled those legends, a Zombie was freezing-cold all over...

........

The next morning, on his way out of the Constabulary Station of St. Modred Parish, Clayton was in the worst mood ever.

Being a constable was nothing of a job, but a part-time volunteer post to which righteous citizens dedicated themselves.

The citizens of a city elected the constables and donated for their operation fund. Thus, a constable held limited authority and they might enforce laws tightly or loosely.

As a well-connected antique merchant, he was something of a respectable figure. The constables hadn't even bothered to visit his apartment before determining his innocence. By now, the corpse had already been transferred to the mortuary at the Constabulary Station, awaiting collection by his family.

The dead was an illegal trespasser prone to violence. Thereby, Clayton wouldn't be sentenced for murder.

But you couldn't simply judge the case this way.

Finishing off an enemy who acted of his own accord was one thing; Clayton would not feel the slightest bit of guilt by doing so. But killing a mindless person manipulated by an evil force was something else altogether.

Perhaps this man had been a decent gentleman earlier on, but now he had died, bearing a guilty name.

The Holy Grail Society deserved the blame for all this.

The rotten smell had made him mistake the man for a Zombie. Clayton had never thought that he was a living person.

Through closer contact, Clayton had discovered that although the corpse gave off a decaying stench, it wasn't a body odor.

The scent must come from the mastermind behind the scenes from the Holy Grail Society.

Clayton believed that the mastermind could drive an individual crazy and then control their mind. Otherwise, what could explain this unfortunate fellow's feast on raw meat ---- his body was of a normal man, after all.

Since the watcher hadn't returned, the envoys of the Holy Grail Society must have realized he had stumbled upon trouble.

Regardless of whether it's an accident, the other party would, in all likelihood, get tougher with Clayton.

Before the foreseen conflict arrived, he had to get all the intelligence as he could.

Perhaps Joe had divulged little about the Holy Grail Society for fear that Clayton would be drawn deeper into the trouble--------a choice no longer useful.

He was to look for Joe Mani and ask him at length.

Clayton found in the street the hackney carriage which had brought him here. Pulling open its door, he climbed aboard. As he trod on the steps, the carriage trembled briefly.

The coachman in front opened his half-closed eyes and held tighter the reins.

"Sir, where are you headed? "

"Just circle around the Parish, I want to get familiar with the area."

"Understood."

The moment the coachman yanked the reins, the horse reared up. In no time, the wheels started trundling, rolling over muddy puddles, which were splashed about, triggering a disturbance from the crowd of strollers.

After the Lauren War, Sasha City was renovated, partly by broadening the roads. However, as more and more out-of-towners swarmed in to seek jobs, the breadth of the roads soon seemed inadequate again.

The dense throng outside the horse-drawn carriage attested to it.

...

Joe Mani had never told Clayton where he would hole up, but Clayton had a few confident guesses.

The first choice was the area around the infantry barracks in the Santa Los Parish.

The second was next to the Cathedral of White Curtain in the city centre.

The third was neighbouring the Chief Constabulary in St. Melon Parish.

All three had something special about them, but a common point they shared was: nobody would dare to pick a fight near them.

Clayton was lucky enough to detect Joe's scent after the horse-drawn carriage traveled only a short distance.

"Stop right here," he ordered.

The coach tightened the reins, slowing the horse, before the hackney carriage pulled over.

The vehicle came to rest before a whitewashed chapel crowned in red.

Disembarking, Clayton paid the fare and stared up at the cross-topped spire with a frown.

Legends stated that after creating the world, the God of Light, Carola, bestowed holy swords upon angels, ordering them to guard the world. Carola's worshippers had since then made the Holy Sword Cross their symbol.

Joe Mani's smell issued from this very chapel.

But Clayton was unsure whether he, as a werewolf, would be unwelcome to the chapel. Now, he paused at the gateway.

A chapel was considered the God's territory. If it was protected by the divine power, as the Bishop's Signet Ring was, that could reveal Clayton's true form, and he would be stripped of his current social standing.

He stood rooted at the gateway for a while before a considerate priest in a black cassock came out.

"My son, do you need any help?"

To match up to his trade and social circle, Clayton's dressing style was deliberately sophisticated. Moreover, his facial features did not look bad. His polished appearance left little room for suspicion.

"Hello, Father. I am here looking for a man, who has newly arrived. I am dispatched to convey a message to him."

The priest mildly nodded, "I guess that you're looking for the new volunteer worker, Martin. "

Clayton took off his broad-brim felt hat. "It must be him, I should think."

The priest signaled for him to wait a while and then walked in. Soon enough, a middle-aged man made his way out.

The man was bald, a huge beard masking half his face, deep wrinkles carved alongside the wings of his nose. But he was light-footed as a young man and, at the sight of Clayton, his eyes flashed a hint of astonishment.

He was Joe Mani. Clayton almost instantly recognized him.

No matter how his appearance had changed, his smell persisted.

Clayton offered a seemingly unacquainted nod to him. "I'm Clayton Bello. I'd like to ask you about Joe Mani. Would you mind if I take up a little of your time?"

Before Joe could respond, Clayton gestured to the coachman behind him, who immediately caught his meaning and opened the carriage's door.

Joe let out a sigh and walked in.

Clayton, on his heels, got in as well. "My good man, do as I said before, circle around the Parish."

"No problem, Sir."

The vehicle started off again, while Joe stayed stone-faced, looking more solemn than a Saint Amsterdam debt collector.

But all this was thanks to the thickness of his mask; his mouth was talking like there was no tomorrow.

"What the hell, how could you know where I am? I have hidden here as an afterthought, after all. Even the Holy Grail Society couldn't have any idea about this, because I have thrown them far behind me this time, of that I am sure. Lieutenant, why the long face? Is it possible that..."

"I have my own method." Clayton interrupted.

Apparently, Joe's speech had been pent-up from the chapel's stern atmosphere.

"Alright, Lieutenant, you have your own secrets. What do you want with me now?"

Clayton curtly explained, "A watcher from the Holy Grail Society barged into and turned my home inside out. Accidentally, I killed him. I guess there is little chance that I can patch things up with them. But I don't want to abandon my property here and leave for another city..."

"So you want to knock off them all?" Joe got excited. He knew that his Lieutenant had quite some tricks up his sleeve.

"Roughly. But before that, I have to know more about the Holy Grail Society."


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