"Demons? Attack?"
It had been a long time since Darrick had heard those two words together. He froze for a moment. The nun, seeing this, shook off his hand and sprinted outside to help the wounded.
By the time he snapped out of it, he spotted Roger—freshly revived as well. The two exchanged a glance, then turned toward the chaotic scene outside.
A dozen severely injured people had been laid out in front of the Resurrection House, and more were being brought in at a run—some already no longer breathing.
They were placed outside not because the priests were indifferent, but because wide-area Healing was easier to perform in the open. Those in critical condition needed higher-tier healing spells cast directly on them.
No one worried about payment. Demon attacks were classified as natural disasters; the local lord would inevitably visit the victims afterward—and cover all medical fees.
Which was why the priests and nuns were pulling out potions far too expensive for anyone to normally afford—both to save lives and, while they were at it, shear a bit of wool off the lord's back.
The injured got treated, the Church got its compensation, and the lord gained prestige. A perfect win-win-win.
Darrick crouched beside one lightly wounded man who had regained consciousness, lowering his voice. "Where did you encounter the demons?"
"Sigh… we were just… sigh." The man kept sighing between every sentence. "Our caravan had just delivered a batch of ingredients to Val City—you know, Gourmet Zone stuff. Since it was still early after unloading, we figured we'd hurry back overnight for the next shipment. Val City isn't that far from here, right?"
"But that night, when it was my turn to keep watch, the moon wasn't even out. I was nodding off when I heard strange noises nearby. So I woke everyone up—and then the demons attacked! Aside from a few of us who managed to escape in the wagon by dumb luck, everyone else died there!"
The more he spoke, the more terrified he became. When he reached the intense part, he trembled violently, his eyes darting around as if a demon might leap from the shadows at any moment.
"There was a leader among them! I saw him! Short, skinny, with a purple gemstone in his forehead! My buddy was drained of blood right in front of me!"
His emotions spiraled out of control. He started screaming, flailing wildly—nearly hitting Darrick.
Roger hurriedly pulled Darrick aside—only to feel something sticky.
He looked down. Blood. Darrick's blood.
"H-Hey—what's wrong with you?" Roger stammered. Darrick's expression was terrifying.
Darrick's fists were clenched so tightly his nails pierced his palms, blood running freely.
A possibility flashed across Roger's mind. With a strange look, he asked, "Don't tell me… you've got a personal grudge with that demon leader he just described?"
Wonderful. Truly wonderful. The drama was unfolding like a theatrical play.
Roger suddenly remembered something Antilly once mentioned during one of their conversations. They had been discussing who to test something on, and the topic shifted to Dar.
Antilly had said:
"Darrick Chester… His surname is the same as a beast-tamer family that used to exist. I can't ignore that."
"Why not just ask him directly?" Roger had replied.
"No. If I ask him face-to-face, it might turn into a fight."
Shaking her head, she continued, "The Chester family vanished in a fire. They say no one survived. That was twenty years ago—I was just a kid. I only remember the elders feeling deep pity whenever they mentioned it. Beast-tamers were already rare."
"…Wait, how old are you?"
"Are you looking for death!?"
Back in the present, Roger glanced at Darrick with sympathy. Antilly was likely right.
The Chester family did have a survivor—and the massacre wasn't caused by an "accidental fire."
Since Darrick carried beast-tamer blood, it wasn't strange that the wolf pack trusted him.
"Describe that leader again—clearly!"
Darrick seized the injured man by the shoulder, voice cracking with urgency.
But before the man could respond, his chest wound split open again. Flesh that had been healing under holy spells suddenly tore apart, purple-black slime pulsing from within.
He collapsed with a choking sound. A nearby priest rushed in—but the same thing began happening to the other wounded.
Wounds burst open one after another. Chaos swept through the area.
"…"
Darrick stepped aside quietly.
He didn't need to hear any more.
These wounds were unmistakable. The purple-black slime was the demon leader's signature.
It caused injuries to reopen nonstop, making healing impossible. The only solution was to extract it before it burrowed deeper.
But these people had dragged it out too long. The corruption had already taken hold.
A long-forgotten nemesis had appeared right beside him—in the most unexpected way.
Instinctively, Darrick touched his left arm. He pulled a priest aside, warned him about the slime, then left without waiting for a reply.
Val City was southwest. The demon attack happened southwest. His wolf pack was southwest!
The wounded man had said the attack happened closer to Val City—but it didn't matter. He was terrified for the farm.
"Hey—wait! I'm coming with you!" Roger shouted, immediately understanding his intentions and following after him.
Along the way, everyone they passed was whispering about the demon attack. A suffocating tension hung over the city.
Dash. Run. Sprint.
As soon as Darrick cleared the gates, he unleashed a speed he had never shown before—running like a frenzied wolf.
Roger couldn't keep up. He staggered, gasping. He finally cast a mid-tier speed spell—Windstride—on Darrick, making the man blur like a racing shadow.
"I… I can't… run anymore…" Roger collapsed to the ground, muttering:
"I should've told him… he didn't need to run that fast. Antilly… made a little modification to his wolf pack…"
When Darrick reached the farm, the metallic stench of blood hit him like a blow.
No harmless but intimidating fire wyvern to mislead him this time. The farm was deserted—ruined beyond recognition.
Bloodstains everywhere. Dried flesh and scattered fur. Ground and walls torn apart. Signs of a violent, desperate struggle.
And in the air… the stench Darrick feared most—the stench of demons.
No… no, this isn't a coincidence. Why is this happening again!?
His face drained of color. Stumbling, he walked toward the farm shed, where the smell of blood was strongest.
Think positive… Maybe the wolves escaped. Maybe they're safe—
But the blood on the ground—clearly belonging to the wolf pack, not demons—shattered that fragile hope.
He reached for the shed door—then stopped.
Before he could touch it, the tightly shut door suddenly collapsed.
A tidal wave of bloody stench burst out.
Inside was a crimson hell.
"...Awoo…"
A weak whimper.
Darrick snapped toward the sound. A wolf pup curled in a pile of hay, trembling.
Relief flooded him—a survivor—
Darrick stepped forward.
Then froze.
Several tall figures sat inside the shed, feasting on raw flesh.
Dark-gray fur. Muscular bodies. Claws. Warped skulls—
Werewolves.
Four of them. Tearing apart a humanoid corpse, eating greedily.
The wolf pack huddled in the corner, shaking violently, eyes locked onto Darrick as if begging for salvation. They were lambs awaiting slaughter.
Darrick forced himself to stay calm and grabbed a nearby pitchfork.
Four werewolves. But they looked thin—without the usual explosive strength. Maybe… maybe he could win.
Only maybe.
He suddenly thought of the old wolf. If only he had been brave enough to accept the wolf's blood back then—today wouldn't be "maybe." It would be "definitely."
Lack of strength—so damn powerless. So much regret.
If he survived and saved them… he would accept the wolf's blood. He would gain power!
Darrick formed a rough battle plan and charged.
"Awoo?"
The werewolves turned at the noise, eyes locking onto him. They lunged.
Darrick tightened his grip. He struck first—thrusting the pitchfork at a werewolf's throat. A perfect hit.
But—
He pierced nothing.
As if the werewolf's head had vanished.
"What—?"
A crushing weight slammed into his chest. He collapsed backward. The reek of the werewolf's breath filled his lungs.
How!? How did it dodge!?
Because the werewolf had instantly transformed into a much smaller wolf.
As the fangs lunged for him, Darrick made a desperate move—grabbing the wolf's jaws—
And the wolf… licked his palm.
"…?"
The familiar sensation stunned him. He stared at the wolf pinning him down.
He recognized it.
"Pointy-Head?" he choked out.
"Awooo!" Pointy-Head barked happily, rubbing its head against his chest.
Darrick's mind blanked.
He looked around. The other three werewolves reverted too.
"Gap-Tooth… Star-Eyes… Short-Tail…"
The world had officially lost all logic.
"How did you all become werewolves?"
Something slipped from his pocket—a pouch.
Antilly's gift.
The item from the world of Pokémon—
Rare Candy.