"The beasts of the earth roared that they needed no god, and so the divine, heeding their cry, abandoned its throne."
"Endless light poured down, as stars, moon, and blazing sun shared the sky in unison."
"The beasts wailed beneath that radiance, begging for the divine to return."
"Only when the light had scoured the earth clean did the divine come back, shedding tears for the fallen beasts. Those tears nourished the soil, breathing life into the barren land."
"Those tears were mercy."
Adam closed the book, not bothering to read further. He knew the rest by heart. The only reason he'd cracked open *The Word of God* was for the illustrations. Printing tech varied wildly from place to place, so each region's version of the holy text had unique artwork, usually drawn by the best local artist. It was a quick way to gauge a town's skill level.
The Bokku family could barely afford bread, let alone books, so this copy wasn't his. It belonged to Friar Frala, a monk who'd taken a shine to Adam, insisting he had the makings of a holy man. Frala had urged him to enroll in the seminary, but Adam brushed it off, citing the astronomical tuition. Disappointed but kind, Frala lent him the book anyway.
Adam rubbed his temples, a flicker of unease crossing his mind—some half-buried memory he didn't want to dig up. In a place like the Holy Kingdom of Saintyne, with its oppressive zeal, he felt like prey. Danger lurked in every shadow, and he had no illusions about his safety. He needed power. Real power.
He knew scraps about this world's supernatural systems—far less than he did about theology. All he had was his werewolf transformation, a raw, physical gift that let him overpower common thugs. But against someone with true supernatural abilities? He'd be outclassed, maybe even dead.
"Gotta be careful tonight," he muttered, thinking of Baron Mansla. "He's definitely got powers." Adam didn't know much about the mystical arts, but he'd picked up enough street smarts to understand the basics. In this world, nobility meant power—real, supernatural power. Any noble without it was either a fraud or "impure," stripped of their title and cast down to commoner status. Baron Mansla, with his sprawling estate in Roya City, was no fraud.
"Something about their powers being tied to crests?" Adam mused. Back in his old world, heraldry was just fancy symbols—coats of arms, family pride, a record of deeds. Here, crests were more. They were conduits of power, but only for those with the right bloodline. Adam, with his werewolf curse, didn't qualify, so he'd never given it much thought.
As dusk settled, Adam said goodnight to Alice and Mary, ruffled little Lina's hair, and climbed the creaky stairs to his attic room. Stripping off his shirt, he lay on the thin mattress, listening as the house quieted below. When the silence felt safe, he eased open the skylight and strained his ears for any unusual sounds. Nothing. Time to move.
Moonlight spilled through the skylight, catching his face—lean, weathered, with a sharp jaw and dark eyes half-hidden under black bangs. A faint scar, like a sideways "less than" symbol, marked the skin below one eye. As he began to shift, those eyes flickered, turning a deep, predatory red.
His body warped. Muscles bulged, bones cracked and reshaped. His jaw stretched into a muzzle, fangs sprouting, ears sharpening to points. Black hair turned stark white. In moments, a towering, white-furred werewolf stood in the attic, nearly brushing the ceiling at six feet tall.
The transformation always felt... strange. Words couldn't quite capture it—a rush of primal energy, like fire in his veins. Tonight, though, there was something new. A restless itch, deep in his blood. His werewolf heritage was stirring, maybe even maturing. What that meant, he had no idea.
Crouching to avoid banging his head, Adam listened again for any signs of trouble. All clear. He slipped through the skylight, landed silently on the roof, and melted into the moonlit shadows, sprinting toward his target.
His werewolf blood wasn't just biology—it was something older, stranger, woven with secrets he didn't understand. He'd learned to hide its traces, though, masking the beast within. That skill came easier than tapping its deeper potential.
He hit the ground running, claws digging into the earth for grip. His body shifted from a blur of motion to absolute stillness in a heartbeat, blending into the darkness. In human form, Adam was cautious, a planner who weighed every move. As a wolf, he was different—cold, cunning, a predator's instincts honed to a razor's edge. Not the rabid monster people imagined, but a calculating hunter.
Two figures passed nearby, their oil lamps casting flickering light. Monks, by their robes. Adam's ears caught their words.
"Finally gonna catch that evil bastard?" one asked.
"Yeah, let's move. Can't let him slip away."
They were hunting something—or someone. Another "heretic," probably. Adam stayed still, his breathing shallow, until they were gone. He didn't care who they were after, as long as it wasn't the Bokku house.
With a flicker of movement, he vaulted over a high wall, landing in a courtyard. Two massive guard dogs perked up but didn't bark. Instead, they wagged their tails, trotting over like old friends. Adam's knack with animals had won them over during earlier scouting trips. He scratched their heads, sent them back to their posts, and scaled the ivy-covered wall, claws sinking into stone. The vines hid his tracks.
At a second-floor window, he peered inside, nose twitching as he sorted through scents. His werewolf senses were sharp, though he rarely leaned on his nose—most places in this world reeked too much to bother. The house was still lit, lamps glowing brightly.
"Not asleep yet," he muttered, settling in to watch. He wasn't here to confront the baron tonight. This was reconnaissance. Every sound, every scent, every detail could tip the scales later.
He waited until three in the morning, when the house finally went dark. Slipping inside, he ghosted through the rooms, memorizing layouts and smells, then left as quietly as he'd come. He took a different route back to the Bokku house, slipping through the skylight just as faint chaos—shouts, maybe—echoed in the distance. Not his problem.
At dawn, Adam hauled a bucket of water from the well, splashing his face and scrubbing his skin. His heightened senses made him picky about cleanliness; the world's grime felt like an assault. Passing a street corner, he noticed a pile of firewood stacked on a platform. Someone hadn't escaped the monks last night. By evening, there'd probably be a bonfire—and a crowd cheering it on.