Richard cast a glance at the three burly men and the other two standing nearby. The three muscle-bound guys were clearly trained operatives—ordinary humans, but not amateurs. The old man, however, held some energy within him, and the woman beside him... she definitely had something supernatural going on.
Henry led the group out of the villa and into another building. "Tell me what tools you need," he said. "I'll have them prepared right away."
"Mr. Henry," the woman spoke up suddenly, "may we see the bodies?"
Henry gave her a sharp look, then nodded. "Of course. Follow me."
Soon, the group arrived at the morgue of a private hospital—one funded by Smith himself. Inside, several mutilated corpses lay on cold slabs.
Each body bore massive claw marks, bite wounds, and ripped-open abdomens with the organs torn out. Shattered firearms lay nearby—one shotgun so badly bent, it looked like it had been twisted by a hydraulic press.
"These are the beasts' handiwork," Henry said simply.
"No beast has that kind of strength," the old man muttered grimly as he examined the shotgun. Deep gouges ran down the barrel.
Henry shrugged. "That's exactly why the boss hired you. You think thirty grand's easy money?"
"We've already thrown a ton of manpower at this problem," he continued. "You're not the first team we've sent. But every single one of them failed."
"Let's hope you're the ones who make it."
"Tell me what you need. I'll get it arranged."
"We'll need heavy weapons—assault rifles, grenades, night vision with infrared. If you've got a rocket launcher, even better." One of the burly men rattled off a list. They were clearly equipped like a military strike team.
Henry nodded. "Consider it done." He then turned to Richard's group. "And you?"
"I need firearms and silver bullets. Silver weapons, rock salt, wolfsbane... and if possible, have someone make me some salt rounds," the old man said, dead serious.
The female witch requested similar tools, plus a list of herbs.
When it was Richard's turn, he took the opportunity to ask for a few guns and extra ammo. No way was he going to miss out on free gear.
That afternoon, the team departed for the incident site—a mining zone deep within a forest. It was surrounded by dense woods and abandoned shafts, remnants of early colonial operations. The mine spanned a vast area, supposedly rich in high-quality gold-copper ore, nestled within an expansive wilderness.
At the forest's edge, the three soldiers led the charge, armed to the teeth. Surprisingly, the witch followed right behind. Bringing up the rear was the old man, who turned to Richard with a sidelong glance.
"Kid, the name's Olsen. I'm a demon hunter. This isn't your average wildlife problem. You're still young—if you don't want to die, turn back now."
Richard smirked. "Old man, for your attitude today... if you run into trouble in there, I'll save your life."
With that, he strode straight into the woods.
Olsen blinked, then chuckled and followed, gear in tow.
Once inside, Richard noticed a faint mist lingering in the air. The trees—mostly red pines and birch—grew in twisted patterns. The light dimmed noticeably; it felt like a different world altogether. The forest exuded an eerie, ominous aura.
The wind rustled through the trees with a haunting wail—like a chorus of weeping souls. The leaves clashed together, sounding like scattered applause.
After scanning the surroundings, Richard quickly realized the ambient negative energy here was off the charts. The warped tree growth wasn't due to human interference—it was the result of the forest's strange energy field.
The canopy was so dense, sunlight barely reached the forest floor. Despite the thriving vegetation, the atmosphere was oppressively cold. Visibility dropped sharply within just 30 to 50 meters due to the ever-present fog.
Richard closed his eyes, attuning himself to the surrounding energy currents, then began heading in a specific direction.
He didn't know the exact location of the "beasts," but he could sense where the energy was most concentrated. Supernatural creatures were instinctively drawn to such places—it was basic survival instinct.
In the unnervingly quiet forest, bird calls and insect chirps were rare. Richard didn't rush to find the creatures. Judging by the terrain and atmosphere, he had a hunch they weren't ordinary animals—they were likely supernatural entities.
His own powers had recently taken a hit, so charging in recklessly was out of the question. Better to let the others probe the danger first. As for their survival... they were all adults. They'd chosen this path, and he wasn't about to disrespect their decisions.
With a subtle movement, Richard melted into the forest shadows.
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted in the distance. This was followed by guttural snarls, grenade blasts, and rocket fire. Screams—both human and inhuman—echoed through the trees. Then... silence.
The forest returned to its oppressive stillness. In the shifting shadows of the trees, a faint figure flashed and disappeared.
By the time Richard arrived at the scene, the area was a mess—bullet-riddled trees, scorch marks, broken branches. The signs of a violent battle were everywhere.
Blood and scraps of fabric littered the ground. Judging by the gear and the remnants, the three ex-soldiers from the States had likely met a grisly end.
Richard scanned the area quickly. Claw marks gouged into trees, splatters of unfamiliar blood, spent shells, and even bloodstained bullets lay scattered.
"System, scan the area," he said.
[Scan complete.]
A voice echoed in his mind.
[At least six hostiles detected. Estimated height: over 3 meters. Capable of bipedal locomotion. Weight range: 380 to 450 pounds. Strength: 1.3 tons minimum. High resistance to conventional firearms—though not immune.]
Richard wasn't surprised. Most supernatural entities had high physical resistance or regenerative capabilities.
Take vampires, for instance. Without the right tools—silver, sunlight—it was nearly impossible for an ordinary human to kill one.
The three soldiers might have been well-armed, but they lacked the right tools. Against supernatural threats, they were just fodder. They probably didn't even land a scratch.
Richard followed the tracks left by the "beasts." Their movements were swift and unhidden, with fresh blood trails along the way. Suddenly, an explosion boomed nearby, followed by furious roars and another round of gunfire.
Before Richard could reach the scene, the sound of trees snapping cut through the air. He looked up just in time to see Olsen fleeing in panic, pursued by several agile figures.
One of them—a hulking shadow—leapt into the trees and pounced from above. Just as it was about to strike Olsen down, the old man twisted mid-air and narrowly dodged death.
The attacker was a massive gray werewolf, at least 2.5 meters tall. Missing its target, it slid forward—right into a concealed pit trap.
Sickening howls filled the air as the beast was impaled on dozens of silver spikes. What even high-caliber rounds couldn't do, silver did with ease. The werewolf writhed and screamed, pierced through its body and even its chest.
Its wounds blackened and hissed. Regeneration halted completely. In moments, the once-fearsome creature was dead.
The other werewolves, enraged, surged forward. Olsen fired several rounds of silver buckshot, making one howl in pain. Clearly, his shells were specially crafted.
But ammo was limited. And these werewolves were cunning, using the dense trees to dodge incoming fire.
Their agility far outmatched humans. Even trained soldiers couldn't react fast enough in such terrain. That was how the previous team got wiped out.
Olsen understood this. That's why he brought a shotgun—spread fire increased his odds. He was stronger than most, and a seasoned veteran. But even he was being pushed into a corner.
He managed to wound another werewolf, but it wasn't fatal. Worse, his silver reserves were running low. As the beasts closed in, he ran dry. The werewolves lunged.
"Rainbow Spray!"
A dazzling orb of multicolored light exploded into beams, each streaking in a hypnotic pattern. Just looking at it made one dizzy.
The werewolves staggered. Some collapsed outright.
Stun, fear, nausea, blindness—it all hit at once.
"Control spells never disappoint," Richard said with a smile. Several Arcane Missiles shot from his fingers, piercing the skulls of the dazed werewolves. Their supposedly invincible heads burst like watermelons.
Magic didn't care about regeneration.
"Old man, still alive?" he called out.
"Cough... Yeah," Olsen groaned, nauseated and dizzy. His body felt like lead. After a few shaky tries, he finally stood up.
Even the werewolves couldn't withstand those spells—how could a human? He wasn't even the target, but the collateral damage alone nearly knocked him out.
"You're a sorcerer?" Olsen finally asked, still dazed.
"Yeah," Richard replied offhandedly as he collected materials from the werewolves.
Claws and fangs could be turned into daggers or poisoned arrows—but what he really wanted was their bloodline.
As he chanted, the werewolves' bodies shriveled into husks. A moment later, a marble-sized crimson crystal floated into his hand.
"No wonder you took the job," Olsen said with an awkward laugh, now watching Richard with wariness and awe. "Thanks for the save."
"Old man, I still like you better when you're defiant. Rest for now."
Olsen: ...
"You're an exorcist?" Richard asked after extracting the bloodline.
"Yeah."
"I've got some questions."
"Go ahead. I'll tell you what I can."
"Are there many people in your line of work?"
"Not really."
"Do you guys have a way to keep in touch?"
"Yeah, there's a website. We share monster data and post jobs there." He gave Richard the address.
Richard learned that the U.S. had its own agencies for handling supernatural threats—chief among them, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.
S.H.I.E.L.D., in other words.
They operated with limited manpower and usually under the guise of the FBI.
Some exorcists worked in pairs or trios. Others flew solo. The Church used to be the dominant force in exorcism, but its power had plummeted over the past few centuries. Nowadays, over 99% of priests were just regular people.
Real exorcists were rare—and instead of fieldwork, most just sold holy water and relics. Low-profile.
Rumor had it the Vatican had lost contact with their god.
Armed with this knowledge, Richard and Olsen continued deeper into the forest. The mission was far from over.
Olsen had thought only a few werewolves were hiding here. But the truth hit hard—it was an entire pack.
And these weren't the "evolved" werewolves that retained human forms and rationality. These were primal werewolves—fierce, savage, brutally intelligent.
They were stronger, more feral, and dangerously infectious. Worse, they held grudges.
Olsen had ambushed six of them earlier—killed two, took out another with a trap while fleeing, and the rest... Richard had handled.
Now, the two of them followed the trail toward the werewolf den.