He plunged the dagger into the earth and rose, his towering figure casting a dark, menacing shadow.
"What do they take the Apennines for? Their private backyard?"
A glint of greed and savagery flickered in his eyes.
"We, the Red Moon Brotherhood, are the true masters of this land."
"Go. Tell our brothers—we have distinguished guests."
His voice echoed through the cave, brooking no dissent.
"It's time to collect a toll."
"And see for ourselves if this so-called cure is real or just a fairy tale."
As the tattooed werewolf leader issued his orders, his gaze drifted—almost absentmindedly—toward the deepest shadows of the cavern.
There, a thick iron chain stretched taut, binding a creature that writhed and struggled in the darkness.
Its form was hidden, but the stench it exuded was unmistakable—a nauseating mix of rotting flesh and fermented blood. Half of it was the wild rage of a werewolf; the other half, the icy malice of a vampire.
It was the foul, corrupted aura of two monsters fused as one.
The totem-marked werewolf looked away, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
The scene froze on a dozen pairs of blood-red, awakened eyes—hungry, feral, and eager for the hunt.
While the great powers hesitated and watched, these wildest of hyenas had already caught the scent of blood.
They were racing headlong toward the hunting ground Douglas had so carefully prepared.
Meanwhile, deep within the mine, Douglas appeared oblivious to the coming storm—or perhaps he had accounted for it all along.
His warriors—alone and together—were armed and ready. Now, it was time to set the perfect stage for the hunt.
"Marco," Douglas called softly. Yet the mere sound of his voice made Marco halt at once, even as he was handing out weapons.
"Take me to the most defensible place in the tribe."
He added, "Somewhere that can serve as our last bastion—if everything else falls."
Marco's expression grew grave. He understood exactly what Douglas meant.
This was the place for the final stand, should all other lines break.
"Follow me, Mr. Holmes."
Marco nodded, handed his axe to Aldo, and led the way deeper into the mine.
Douglas and Lupin fell in behind him.
They passed through narrow tunnels, barely wide enough for a single person. The air grew thick with the scent of ancient rust and damp earth.
Their footsteps echoed oddly in the cramped passageways, swelling and then vanishing into the darkness ahead.
Old kerosene lamps hung from the walls, their dim yellow glow lighting only a few steps at a time. Beyond that, the blackness was absolute.
After about ten minutes, Marco stopped at a cave mouth nearly buried beneath rubble.
He heaved aside several large stones, revealing a lower, tighter entrance.
"This is it."
He ducked inside first.
A dry, ancient draft rushed out to meet them.
Douglas and Lupin followed—and the world suddenly opened up before them.
It was a vast, natural cavern—so huge it defied belief.
The ceiling soared out of sight, lost in darkness, with only the faintest shapes of stalactites hanging like cathedral chandeliers.
There was only one entrance: the narrow passage they'd just crawled through.
Every other side was hemmed in by steep, jagged rock walls.
"We call it the Echoing Throat," Marco said. His voice bounced strangely in this space, as if dozens of people spoke at once.
"Any sound in here is amplified a hundredfold."
Douglas ignored the echo.
He drew his wand and began a careful survey of the cavern.
He quickly noticed the walls weren't solid—instead, they were riddled with tiny holes, like a honeycomb. It was these porous structures that gave the place its eerie acoustics.
He tapped the rock lightly with his wand. The sound was dull and deep, as if striking a massive block of rotted wood.
"Perfect."
Douglas nodded, satisfied. He had found his ideal canvas.
He strode to the center of the cavern and stopped.
Then, he raised his wand.
He began to chant.
This was not Douglas's usual, crisp spellwork.
Instead, a complex, layered incantation tumbled from his lips.
The syllables were strange and twisting—at times solemn, like a church's Latin hymn; at others, shifting into the tonal cadence of ancient Chinese.
Two utterly different languages, woven together in his mouth, became a new, rhythmic tongue of magic.
As he chanted, the tip of his wand glowed with a faint, concentrated light—like a bead of suspended mercury.
He began to move.
With the wand's tip, he touched the walls, the floor, even the unreachable dome.
Each touch left behind a shimmering rune—some shaped like tangled vines, others like soaring birds, or blazing flames.
The runes lingered for a heartbeat, then melted silently into the stone, like water soaking into a sponge.
The process took a long time.
By the time Douglas inscribed the last rune at the entrance, fine beads of sweat had broken out on his brow.
The Echoing Throat looked unchanged.
But Marco could sense it—the very air felt… thicker.
"Sir, what did you do?" Marco whispered, instinctively lowering his voice as if he might disturb something unseen.
Douglas holstered his wand, a cold, satisfied smile on his lips—the look of an artist admiring his masterpiece, though here, the paint was his enemy's fear and madness.
"An ancient Eastern spell."
He winked.
"Drawing a prison from the earth itself."
"Drawing a prison?" Marco echoed, baffled.
Douglas chuckled.
"Do you really think walls of copper and iron can stop a pack of rabid werewolves?"
Without waiting for a reply, he went on:
"Any physical barrier can be shattered by brute force. What I've set here isn't a wall—it's a lock."
He traced a shape in the air with a single finger.
"What I've created is a conceptual barrier."
His voice brimmed with the pleasure of sharing a secret.
"It doesn't block physical attacks. It targets living beings themselves—especially those ruled by rage."
Lupin's heart skipped a beat. He instantly grasped the brilliance of this magic.
"Anyone who enters this space—the more aggressive they are, the more malice they carry—the more oppressive, chaotic, and hostile this place will feel."
Douglas's voice rang through the Echoing Throat, but this time, there was no echo.
It was as if the sound itself was swallowed by the unseen barrier.
"When a werewolf, seething with bloodlust, charges in, he'll find the walls closing in on him like living things."
"The echoes will twist into the vilest mockery and curses."
"He'll see his allies as his most hated enemies."
"His sense of direction will shatter. He'll be lost in a hell built from his own rage, until his sanity is torn to shreds."
Douglas spread his hands, summing up with ease.
"Simply put, I've turned this space into a mirror."
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