The forest was filled with heavy, ragged breathing. Three druids, Sheriff Claude, and Rudolph were sprinting through the woods.

  "When did an 18-werewolf pack appear near Lemon Town?"

  "I don't know, Sheriff. This is the first time we've seen such a large pack! Every werewolf pack has an alpha. If there are fewer than ten werewolves, the strongest among them is usually a Rank-1 alpha. But an 18-werewolf pack means their alpha is at least Rank-2!"

  Among the five fleeing individuals, only Sheriff Claude was a Rank-2 Apostle, but as an Alchemist, he wasn't specialized in close combat. A pack of 18 werewolves posed a significant threat, even to him.

  "Get out of the forest first!" Claude finally decided.

  While druids held the advantage in the woods, it was a severe disadvantage for him and Rudolph. Both relied on firearms and weren't accustomed to fighting in dense pine forests.

  Rudolph felt a small sense of relief—he had managed to keep up with the others. His physical strength had improved slightly since becoming a wizard apprentice. The growing brightness ahead indicated that they were reaching the forest's edge.

  "They're coming!" the middle-aged druid shouted.

  With his warning, Rudolph quickly caught the sounds of movement around them—something was rapidly closing in.

  Three werewolves suddenly leaped from the underbrush, lunging at them.

  Sheriff Claude was quick on the draw. His revolver fired instantly, and a bullet tore through one werewolf’s head. Blood sprayed as the beast crashed to the ground.

  Rudolph watched as the werewolf, originally a towering two-meter-tall beast, slowly shrank back into its human form. Its fur receded into body hair, its limbs shortened, and its elongated snout retracted, leaving behind a naked man. The back of his skull wasn't just bleeding—it glowed red, as if the bones and scalp were burning. This was the unique effect of alchemical bullets, which continued to sear the wound.

  The remaining two werewolves landed, cutting the druids off from Claude and Rudolph.

  More werewolves—seven, maybe eight—emerged from the shadows.

  Claude shouted to Rudolph: "Clear a path!"

  Rudolph had already raised his double-barreled shotgun. Shotguns required minimal aiming time, making them perfect for breaking through.

  He fired two alchemical shells, not bothering to aim for their heads. Instead, dozens of pellets sprayed forward, tearing into the massive bodies of the three werewolves blocking their path.

  Knowing he was the weakest among them, Rudolph was the first to charge toward the opening he had just created.

  As he escaped the encirclement, he glanced back. A young druid and his bear were each grappling with a werewolf.

  It was clear—the werewolves hated druids the most.

  Rudolph didn’t waste another second. He turned and ran, with Sheriff Claude close behind.

  While fleeing, Rudolph reloaded his shotgun, while Claude covered their retreat with precise revolver shots.

  Behind them, the sounds of battle grew fiercer. The bear let out a pained roar. In contrast, the werewolves barely made any noise—silent hunters.

  The rustling of undergrowth, the sound of bodies crashing against trees, the sheriff's gunfire, and the young druid’s desperate shouts painted a chaotic picture of the fight.

  Rudolph, now fully reloaded, scanned the area as he ran. Strangely, no werewolves moved to cut them off.

  Claude’s experience and accuracy were keeping the werewolves at bay.

  Then, Rudolph saw the horses tied up outside the forest.

  There was no time to untie them. He pulled out his knife and sliced through the ropes securing them to the trees.

  The werewolves’ natural intimidation made the horses restless. They were already panicking.

  Rudolph swung onto a horse, finally feeling a sliver of safety.

  He was the first to charge out of the forest.

  Being weak had its advantages—the weakest ran first.

  As he rode away, he turned back and saw Claude burst from the trees, mounting a horse and galloping after him.

  Next came the middle-aged druid, followed by another druid.

  But that was it.

  The young druid, the one Rudolph had constantly questioned, was nowhere to be seen.

  Even his bear hadn’t made it out.

  Rudolph realized he hadn’t even learned the young druid’s name.

  "Keep moving! Back to the farm!" Claude commanded.

  Rudolph lashed his horse, racing toward the farm.

  Behind them, the werewolves dropped to all fours, sprinting in pursuit.

  Then came a deep, resonant howl—the alpha's call.

  The werewolves slowed their chase, eventually stopping altogether.

  From a nearby hill, they stood watching, their cold eyes following the fleeing riders.

  Rudolph glanced back, feeling a chill down his spine.

  Werewolves were patient hunters.

  They had been marked.

  For a long time ahead, they would be in danger.

  Before long, they reached the farm.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Rudolph, gather every piece of copper you can find and bring it to the barn," Claude ordered.

  Inside the barn, there were simple tools. The sheriff hadn’t expected to face such overwhelming odds on this trip, so he needed to replenish his ammunition.

  Rudolph hurried into the farmhouse, searching for copper objects.

  Fortunately, he found twelve copper handles, a ring of copper keys, three copper candlesticks, and a spool of copper wire.

  Claude worked with intense focus, using crude tools to refine alchemical copper.

  Five units of regular copper could be refined into one unit of alchemical copper—a metal imbued with the burning power of alchemy.

  The sheer resource consumption was why Alchemists were so costly to maintain.

  The farm’s weapons stash still had some bullets. Using them as a base, Claude crafted a fresh supply of alchemical rounds.

  Rudolph also found a revolver in the weapons locker. He eagerly handed it to the sheriff, clearly asking for it.

  Revolvers were way cooler than shotguns.

  Claude sighed. "Just this once… Lead bullets are much cheaper than copper ones. I’ll be giving you lead rounds from now on."

  Rudolph didn’t care about the future—he now had twelve gleaming alchemical bullets.

  He loaded six into the revolver and the other six into a speed loader, then stepped outside with his binoculars to scout for werewolves.

  Watching him leave, the middle-aged druid turned to Claude.

  "In such a dangerous situation, that young patrolman isn’t afraid at all?"

  Claude paused his work and said,

  "That’s what I like about him. I can see the curiosity in his eyes—especially these past few days.

  That curiosity makes him fearless and willing to take risks.

  Of course, people like that tend to die fast.

  But I hope he grows stronger.

  And survives."

  It was already late at night, and Sheriff Claude decided to stay here until morning before setting out again. Given the werewolves’ keen sense of smell and tracking abilities, traveling at night was practically suicidal.

  The night was not easy to get through. The druids guarded the first floor, while Sheriff Claude and Rudolf took the second. There were four rooms upstairs, and Rudolf was only responsible for watching over one room and the direction outside its window.

  As the moon rose, Rudolf held his breath, his chest tightening with nerves. Although he had the *Tooth of the Undead*, he wasn’t particularly eager to replace one of his organs with a fresh corpse’s—not yet, at least.

  Soon, multiple pairs of glowing wolf eyes flickered in the darkness beyond the farm. There was a certain connection between werewolves and the moon—it triggered their bodies to release more hormones, making them even more frenzied and violent.

  Black shadows emerged in the distance. The werewolves crawled forward, their shoulder blades rolling beneath the night sky as they moved. Before long, they slipped through the fences, creeping toward the farmhouse.

  The sudden clang of metal shattered the silence—one of the druids’ traps had been triggered. Druids were masters of these wilderness mechanisms, and in the darkness, a pained whimper from a werewolf rang out.

  Arrows shot out from the first-floor windows, striking the ensnared werewolf with deadly accuracy. The combination of the steel trap immobilizing it and the precise arrow strikes made the druids’ method of dealing with werewolves brutally efficient.

  Rudolf’s vision wasn’t as sharp as a druid’s, so he couldn’t make out the situation clearly from a distance. He extended his revolver out the window, waiting for a werewolf to come close.

  A shadow suddenly dashed toward the house. Rudolf hurriedly adjusted his aim, trying to track the creature. He fired two shots, but they only hit the werewolf’s leg. Given a werewolf’s regenerative abilities, this wound wouldn’t slow it down for long.

  Only now did Rudolf understand why the police station had issued rookie patrolmen like him a shotgun. Even with a revolver in hand, he couldn’t land his shots properly. Crude but effective, the shotgun was simply the better fit for an ordinary person like him.

  It was said that the military primarily used rifles. Alchemists believed that different weapons suited different numbers of fighters and battle conditions.

  Even though he knew the revolver wasn’t the best weapon for him right now, Rudolf wasn’t ready to give it up. He couldn’t lug around a bulky shotgun forever. The revolver was more agile—and for a man, style mattered.

  From the other side of the second floor, rapid gunfire erupted—Sheriff Claude was engaging the enemy. In less than eight seconds, the sheriff emptied two full magazines, firing twelve rounds in total. Compared to Rudolf’s pitiful performance, the sheriff was undoubtedly racking up kills.

  Leaving the window, Rudolf positioned himself at the doorway, keeping his eyes fixed on the staircase. A fierce battle was already raging on the first floor—the druids had clashed with the werewolves. If a werewolf so much as showed its head on the stairs, Rudolf was ready to fire.

  Just as he was at peak tension, a thunderous crash erupted behind him.

  Rudolf barely had time to turn his head when he saw the wooden floorboards explode into the air. Splinters and debris struck his back.

  A massive, bristling werewolf had just burst through the floor—and worse, it was a *second-tier* werewolf!

  This one was noticeably larger than the others, standing over two meters tall when upright. The weak light filtering through the window was completely blocked by the beast’s form, shrouding Rudolf in darkness.

  Now that he was seeing a werewolf up close, Rudolf realized how absurdly large its head was compared to its body.

  But the werewolf was far faster than him. Its rancid, fanged maw was nearly upon his face, while his revolver was still only halfway raised.

  Just then, a thunderous gunshot roared within the room.

  It wasn’t from his revolver.

  Earlier, Rudolf had watched the druids set up traps. Taking inspiration from them, he had rigged a simple mechanism using his shotgun near the window.

  That trap had just been triggered.

  The shotgun blasted into the werewolf’s back, sending the beast howling in agony. A dozen enchanted lead pellets embedded themselves into its flesh, sizzling with alchemical heat.

  Rudolf’s takeaway from this fight: Never step into an enemy’s prepared battlefield.

  The werewolf, wracked with pain, reared back and arched its spine. Its clawed hands instinctively reached for its wounded back.

  At that moment, instead of retreating, Rudolf *charged forward*.

  Executing a smooth baseball slide, he wasn’t trying to attack—he was escaping.

  With all the speed he could muster, he dove into the hole the werewolf had just torn through the floor.

  As he plummeted, he caught sight of the shotgun wounds on the werewolf’s back—charred, gaping holes left by the enchanted shells. But he also saw something else: the beast’s flesh *rapidly* regenerating.

  One by one, the lead pellets were *pushed out* of its body. The moment they were gone, the wounds sealed themselves shut.

  Terrifying.

  This was a battle for seasoned warriors. Rudolf had no business being here.

  He was out.

  The second floor erupted with gunfire—Sheriff Claude was now engaging the werewolf. At the very least, Rudolf had served *some* purpose—he had warned the sheriff about the breach.

  Upon crashing down to the first floor, Rudolf ignored the pain in his back and quickly rose to a crouch, raising his gun.

  The floor was littered with dead werewolves—some in their beastly forms, others in human shape.

  Whether they reverted to their human selves upon death depended on whether they still held onto their humanity in their final moments. If their minds had been completely overrun by their bestial nature, they remained as wolves.

  The first floor was clearly in bad shape. Though the werewolves had lost a few more of their numbers during their charge, they still held the advantage over the druids.

  The wooden walls had been almost completely destroyed in the struggle, leaving Rudolf with a clear shot.

  Now that he was certain there were no second-tier werewolves down here, he was no longer afraid.

  With the werewolves focused on the druids, he took careful aim and pulled the trigger.

  The first shot struck a werewolf clean in the head.

  The creature instantly went limp, its form shrinking back into that of a man.

  The gunshot wound hissed with heat as the alchemical bullet burned away flesh and bone.

  Now, a naked corpse lay where the monster had stood.

  Movies were full of lies—transformation never came with clothes.

  Then, several pairs of wolf eyes snapped toward Rudolf.

  In an instant, every hair on his body stood on end.

  There was no emotion in those eyes—only the cold, mechanical instinct of a predator sizing up its prey.

  Their gaze sent an overwhelming sense of dread crashing over him.

  Panic set in. He fired wildly.

  Only one of his shots struck true, knocking a werewolf to the ground—but it wasn’t a headshot, so it wasn’t fatal.

  The other two lunged at him.

  At this range, Rudolf dearly missed his shotgun.

  But unfortunately, all he had was a revolver—

  —*and his legs.*

  His six shots spent, Rudolf bolted.

  He dove headfirst out the window.

  The form was great. The problem was… so was the glass.

  Shards of broken glass tumbled through the air with him.

  As he hit the ground and skidded across the dirt, his worst fear was realized—

  A sharp fragment lodged itself deep into his waist.

  *Damn… Will this scar affect my patrolman exam?*

  Rumor had it the station’s official assessment was strict. No tattoos, no visible scars.

  Was this wound about to *cost him his job*?