I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 130: The Remains
The forest was silent except for the hum of insects and the crunch of boots on pine needles. Chris Argent stood before the corpse illuminated by the harsh white beams of flashlights. The man's body lay crumpled against a tree, chest hollowed, spine torn open like a page ripped out of a book.
It wasn't the savagery that unsettled Chris — he'd seen far worse in his life — it was the precision. No sloppy claw marks. Tearing consistent with a werewolf kill. Just a surgical split, deliberate and clean, as if something had burrowed in and carved its way out.
He crouched beside the corpse, gloves creaking as he examined the wound. "This wasn't an animal," he muttered. "And it wasn't rage. Whoever—or whatever—did this knew exactly what they were doing."
Behind him, Edward, one of his senior hunters, crossed his arms, jaw set tight. "You're overthinking it, Chris. Hale territory. Hale handiwork. They've gotten bold since that boy Isaac started running with them."
Chris straightened and fixed him with a cool, measured stare. "You've been in this line of work long enough to know when something doesn't fit. There's no wolf residue, no similar claw drag. This doesn't look like one of them."
Edward scoffed. "And yet the body's in their woods. Where else would you find a monster?"
Chris didn't answer immediately. His eyes drifted toward the deeper trees — the darkness where sound seemed to die. Something about this kill reeked of design, not impulse. And design meant intelligence.
"Pull back the team," Chris finally said. "We'll collect samples and run a full analysis."
Edward stepped forward, bristling. "So what? We wait while the Hales regroup? While those kids kill more of our people?"
Chris's tone hardened. "We don't make assumptions that get more of our people killed."
Edward met his gaze, defiance simmering beneath restraint. "You're losing your edge, Chris. Gerard would've burned this whole forest by now."
Chris's eyes flashed with something sharp, dangerous. "Gerard's old ways costed us too much. Don't mistake restraint for weakness."
The two men stood locked in silent opposition, the rest of the hunters uneasy around them. The forest seemed to lean in, listening.
Finally, Chris broke the standoff. "Bag the body. Quietly. I'll handle the report."
Edward hesitated, then gave a stiff nod before barking orders to the others. Chris watched as they lifted the corpse onto the stretcher, the spine wound gaping like an unanswered question.
As the team moved out, Chris lingered a moment longer. He looked back toward the trees — at the faint trail of crushed leaves and disturbed soil leading nowhere.
Something was wrong in Beacon Hills, something that didn't belong to wolves or hunters.
And for the first time in a long while, Chris Argent wasn't sure which side of the line he was really standing on.
Lucas's Perspective
The forest still smelled of blood and ozone when Lucas returned. Damp leaves whispered underfoot, the early morning sun glinting off broken bark and scorched soil. This was where he had killed the puppet yesterday— where the parasite had died.
But now the place was… wrong, after the Argents left.
The scent trail left behind was faint but mostly undisturbed — heavy bootprints, metallic tang of hunter gear, gun oil, and a little wolfsbane residue from the Argents. Yet the air was off, stripped clean. The hunters had come and taken the body.
Lucas crouched where the man's corpse had fallen. His eyes shifted, pupils narrowing as he inhaled the story buried in the soil. The smell of decay was missing, replaced by antiseptic and a trace of familiar musk — pine soap, latex, faint cologne.
"Deaton," Lucas muttered.
He stood, brushed the dirt off his hands, and started walking toward town.
The bell above the clinic door jingled faintly as Lucas entered. The place smelled of alcohol wipes, hay, and faint magic — the quiet, humming kind Deaton always kept on hand.
Deaton stood over a steel table at the back, examining something under the glow of a surgical lamp. The faint tendrils of the parasite — what was left of them — floated in a petri dish like threads of rotted ivy.
Lucas's reflection appeared beside Deaton's in the glass. "You found it before the Argents did."
Deaton didn't flinch. He kept his eyes on the sample, his voice even. "I had to. If they'd arrived first, they would've taken this without understanding what it really is."
Lucas stepped closer, studying the remains. "You think this… thing can be useful?"
"I don't think," Deaton said quietly. "I know." He picked up a pair of tweezers, turning one shredded vine under the light. "This organism was capable of interfacing directly with the nervous system. It hijacked a host's brainstem, feeding off their rage and pain — amplifying it. Imagine what happens when that energy moves through wolves and hunters already primed for violence."
"War," Lucas said flatly.
Deaton nodded. "A war carefully arranged by something that didn't care who won."
Lucas folded his arms, gaze cold. "How did you even find the site?"
"Laura," Deaton answered, setting the tweezers down. "Malia told her what happened. Laura called me. Derek and I followed the scent and found the body before the Argents. I brought what I could here — enough to study, to understand."
Lucas studied the remains — what was once "Tony." He thought about the vine crawling along a man's spine, wearing a human face like a glove. "Can you prove it?"
Deaton met his eyes. "Not yet. But if I can isolate whatever chemical this parasite used to manipulate its hosts, it'll be something tangible — evidence both sides can't ignore."
Lucas exhaled slowly, the weight of the woods still in his bones. "Then we'd better hope you find it before someone on the hunters' side runs out of patience."
Deaton's gaze drifted back to the sample under the light, its withered tendrils glistening faintly under the light.