"Your Fireball proficiency has reached max level."
The last wisp of flame went out. At the desk, the gray-haired young man finally let out a satisfied smile.
This was Ethan's second year in this world. For the past two years, he had done the same thing every single day—practice Fireball.
4,015 prayers. 16,060 casts.
At last, he had pushed Fireball's proficiency into the realm of true mastery.
But the smile faded quickly.
Right now, compared to other people, he was only… a little better at Fireball. A beginner spell. The most basic of the basic.
And beyond this window lay the real nightmares of this world—ancient gods awakening, new gods ascending, and the fanatical believers who served them.
Ethan had no interest in ever crossing paths with creatures that insane.
This world was riddled with danger. His road was still long.
He lit the gas lamp. The desk was piled with documents, and the topmost one was a notice the guild had issued a few days ago.
Bounty Target: Werewolf. Estimated Threat Level: Tier One.
The commission came from Madam Royce of the town.
A few days earlier, her husband had gone out hunting with a shotgun and never returned. When the guild organized a search party into the mountains, they found what was left of him—half-eaten. His chest had been torn open. The attacker had swallowed his heart.
Every sign pointed to a werewolf: the failed products of those who worshiped the Goddess of the Hunt but botched their advancement, degenerating into mindless monsters that fed on hearts.
The bounty notice had been written by Ethan himself.
He was the guild's clerk in this little town. His job was to register abnormal incidents, publish commissions, record completion progress. It was tedious work, but it had one priceless advantage—without ever leaving home, he could stay abreast of anything "abnormal" happening in town and along the borderlands.
Normally, he only needed to sit safely in the rear and read the tides of danger through paperwork.
But today, Ethan had made a catastrophic mistake.
Because outside his window hung a red moon.
And within that moon was a pupil—turning now and then, like a giant, watching eye.
Ethan opened an old parchment tome on his desk and flipped through the table of contents until he found the matching entry.
Blood Moon Rite.
He skipped the descriptive parts and went straight to what mattered. The book stated that under the influence of a blood moon, evil and aberrant creatures would receive a tremendous boost in power. If applied to werewolves, that meant sharper senses, greater strength, faster speed, and regeneration bordering on the absurd.
The blood moon would also amplify humanity's negative emotions, driving people to lose their judgment under fear, anger, greed, and other corrosive impulses.
In simple terms?
A massive battlefield buff for dark creatures… and a debuff for humans.
The people who had taken the commission were three experienced hunters. The guild had awarded each of them a Tier One medal. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a guaranteed hunt.
But an unexpected anomaly had changed everything.
In the end, it really had become a matter of heaven's wrath and man's resentment.
Ethan's stomach twisted with anxiety.
Everyone knew werewolves were pack creatures.
So the question was—
Why was there a lone wolf prowling the mountains outside town?
Why had it suddenly begun attacking townsfolk?
And also…
Who, exactly, had been firing Fireball into the deep mountains every night?
Why did his skill proficiency sometimes tick upward by a tiny, unnatural amount?
Was this the distortion of human nature, or the collapse of morality?
At this very moment, the red moon outside was scrutinizing the suspect beneath the gas lamp—certain Mr. Sen.
Even nature itself seemed to pity the lonely werewolf in the mountains. Ethan could picture it clearly: once, it had been a carefree little wolf, living an isolated yet happy life deep in the forest. It had a massive pack. Every wolf in it was gentle, friendly, warm.
Until one day, several fireballs streaked across the starry sky and smashed directly into their foreheads.
Ethan, humble citizen of the town, knew for a fact that someone had launched more than ten thousand Fireballs into those mountains over the past two years.
He had even caused two forest fires.
Every number that represented proficiency reeked of sin.
The strange red moon was affecting him. The moment he closed his eyes, he could see the hunters' fate.
Rustling sounds crawled along the edge of his hearing. His vision shook violently—
As if he had become one of those hunters, stumbling through the forest in blind panic.
His right leg had been pierced clean through. He couldn't take large steps. Every movement sent white-hot pain lancing up his body.
The sound of pursuit pressed close behind.
A shadow moved at terrifying speed through the underbrush, then leapt up onto a branch.
The hunter looked up and saw it pass him in a blur—
And then the monster, nearly three meters tall, dropped straight down from above.
A severed arm landed in front of him.
It looked like a woman's arm. A guild mark was still visible on it.
The hunter collapsed backward, screaming as he scrambled away with hands and feet.
But that massive body only needed one light leap—
And it pinned him to the ground.
The scream was drowned out by the sound of bones snapping.
Claws tore open his chest. Inside was a still-beating heart.
The monster's eyes gleamed with delighted hunger. It ripped the heart free and swallowed it whole.
"—Hiss!"
Ethan sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body cold.
He had tasted the hunter's terror.
And also the werewolf's grief and rage.
No werewolf wanted to become a lone wolf.
It should have hunted with its pack, filling the entire valley with the joyful air of life.
This couldn't go on.
Guilt rose up and drowned Ethan's heart.
Since all of this had begun because of his Fireball, then it was only right that Fireball should end it as well.
He would use Fireball's warmth to soothe the lonely wolf's wounded heart.
That way… they could both find peace.
With that thought, Ethan began his 4,016th prayer.
As his devout chant echoed through the room, a meteor streaked across the far edge of the night sky. Rolling flames ignited the blood-stained heavens, bathing the town in daylight once more.
Ethan had heard people say that meteors represented hope.
The falling star drew closer and closer, until it finally smashed into the mountain peak like a sun that had dropped from the sky.
Sadly, he was still inexperienced. All he could do was force his Fireball to look like a meteor.
But he believed the lonely wolf in the forest had seen it.
And then—just like the fairy tales—
The little wolf would see its grandmother in that brilliant light.
So gentle. So kind.
Grandmother would scoop it up, hold it close, and carry it away to a world with no cold, no hunger, and no pain.
This was the story of The Little Werewolf Who Bought Fireballs.
Ethan found a small measure of comfort in it.
He looked up at the blood moon high in the sky. Clearly, the moon approved of his actions as well—it closed its eye, no longer watching him with that cold, accusing gaze.
Another good deed done today.
"Helped a lost child reunite with family."
Ethan lowered his head and wrote it down.
Then he turned off the gas lamp and closed the notebook.
On the cover, a faint title could be made out:
The Good Deeds Record of Creekwood Town
Advance Chapters available on Patreon
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