As to how the chandelier had changed into the spider demoness and why she would assault him, Clayton was in no mood to probe into them.
Now, a thirst for vendetta, catalyzed by his nature, bore down on his mind.
The heavy double bed spun in the air before smashing into the white wall with a boom, bursting into shards.
Before the bed landed smack on her, the spider demoness, who stated her name as Clara, with a dozen legs of hers drumming the wall, bolted out of the range of effect.
Her movements tingled Clayton's scalp, returning a pinch of sobriety to Clayton.
He asked himself, "Am I really going to eat such a disgusting thing?"
However, his nature soon flooded his mind, crowding out his reason.
"Maybe tasty without the head."
He gave no chase but squatted down, scooped up the cut-off spider legs, and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing them up. The exterior crust brought to mind a hard, unbreakable stick, yet the flesh within was tender as a lobster's.
Insufficient. He needed more.
His pupils constricting, he locked his eyes on the one and only game within sight.
The spider demoness leveled a wary stare at him before throwing back her head with a shriek.
A raging ball of fire burst out of his body. The scorching sensation sent him into a total mania.
Girded by fire, he leaped into the air and, as Clara raised her legs to fight him, thrust his hands into the ceiling before tossing himself higher in midair. His turns in direction were simply too dazzling.
Initially, he had faced the spider demoness's front, but now her unguarded back, owing to the difference in height.
That was how a three-dimensional approach to battle outclassed a two-dimensional one.
Despite losing his head, Clayton could still instinctively draw up a set of battle tactics.
"Clara will win!"
The spider demoness was left with little time to look over her shoulder. At this moment, no matter what movements she made, Clayton would catch up before a similar situation arose.
Any movement was senseless.
So she raised her numerous pointed rear legs, densely packed and diagonally directed as a pike formation, intent on countering the werewolf's attacks from behind.
But Clayton leapt off the wall using all fours, his rapidly spinning body giving those spiky legs a wide berth.
At the instant, he was level with the spider demoness.
Clayton could set his eyes on the top of her blonde-hair-spilling head.
He reached out, snatching hold of her head--a harmless body part-- then flung her away using his rotating momentum.
"Clara has become a shot!"
The spider demoness released a miserable scream and tested the hardness of her head with the floor.
And the floor outperformed.
Half her head was dented, but was regrowing at a visible speed. That speed fell short of her legs', though.
She propped herself off the ground as her body's color began fading, blending into the surroundings. Her twenty or so long legs propelled her out the door in quick, great strides, unaffected by her wounds.
Clayton followed her out the door, only to be met with an empty hallway.
Clara seemed to have become invisible.
The flames on Clayton's fur kept blazing. However, despite its stunning temperature, it had ignited nothing, not even a single wolf hair.
Obviously, it was a psychic attack of sorts.
But Clayton, in a messed-up mental state, paid it no heed.
Since it was no real fire, it would not take a toll on his muscles.
When he managed to kill the spider demoness, it would come to an end.
Nonetheless, that scarcely seemed easy at all.
Clayton swept his eyes over the surroundings yet spotted no traces.
Clara's spiky legs, pricking the floor, would only leave a negligible trail. Moreover, she could perch on the wall or the ceiling, making her even more unnoticeable.
Though she was wounded, her blood was yet transparent.
And the stockpile of dust in the old house had misled a werewolf's sense of smell.
Clayton had no intentions of slowly distinguishing her smell from other scents.
He lifted up and jerked one end of the carpet, setting the four-year accumulation of dust dancing in the air, almost manufacturing a smog in the hallway.
The trail of the viscous blood dripping from Clara had absorbed dust, emerging before Clayton's eyes.
She was sprawling on the right wall of the corridor. Her healing head had been exposed, now a grimy silhouette.
"Clara has been found! Clara wants to flee!"
The spider demoness crawled off in panic and then swerved around the corner of the hallway, disappearing from Clayton's vision.
He got down on all fours and galloped like a wild beast, the flame rising and falling like part of his fur.
He dashed all the way to the corner before a chunk of flesh fell off his shoulder and bursts of blood from his arms splattered over two invisible spider legs, dyeing them red.
Clayton had wised up to Clara's tactics halfway through his mad dash, so he had twisted his waist to the left, keeping his vital organs from harm. However, he still lost his balance, crashing into the snowy white wall and painting it bloody.
With a snicker, Clara, lying on the wall, retracted her offensive limbs.
The two legs were clear of dust-- the reason they had been perfectly invisible.
"The werewolf is strong, but Clara won't escape! Clara is the strongest!"
The triumphant ambush had made her smug.
But obviously, two things were lost on her: her disadvantageous location and Clayton's injuries being minor thanks to his evasion-- his mobility stayed unaffected, at least.
The space at the corner was so cramped, leaving her within his arm's reach after another step was taken.
At the expense of a bone fracture, the werewolf landed a left punch on the wall, throwing himself backward, then stomped the wall hard. All these accelerations launched him like a cannonball at the spider.
A mass of over five hundred pounds hurtled toward Clara.
That Clayton sped her way from such a sharp angle caught her off guard. With less than a meter in between, she had little time to react.
She could not dodge the way she had last time. Her legs, supporting her torso, succumbed to the enormous pressure, spreading flat outward as she bore a semblance to a chrysanthemum flower specimen. The next instant, all her legs collapsed and snapped apart in the aftermath.
Her head and broken-off legs hit the floor. Simultaneously, the flames all over Clayton were gone.
The head-on collision had calmed him down. He crumpled to the floor as his gaze met Clara's from inches away. "Clara isn't strong, but mammals are strong!"
Under her terror-stricken gaze, the werewolf opened his jagged maw and pounced upon the spider demoness.
In his final moments of consciousness, Clayton seemed to hear an ovation.
...
When Clayton regained consciousness, Clara, in his clutch, was still regrowing, though at a rate much slower than before.
She resembled a human-head-shaped flowerpot out of which a clump of Aloe spilled.
Her eyes shut, she seemed in a coma.
Clayton's werewolf body had recovered a lot from the injuries, and his limbs had regained mobility. But his throat ached intolerably. When he swallowed, a metallic taste arose in his mouth.
Clayton considered for a moment, figuring that it resulted from the unpeeled spider legs he had eaten while he was out of control.
"A fine battle. Since you were able to finish off a Parasitic Demon, you've already reached the benchmark of a Knight Rank warrior, both in mentality and physicality. Of that, I'm sure. That's hardly something a newborn can manage."
Clayton heard an androgynous voice speaking. When he turned around, he found a blurry figure in the hallway saying incomprehensible things.
Both his face and body looked foggy.
At this point, Clayton recalled his earlier feeling of being followed and the applause he heard before losing his consciousness. At last, he could be certain not that he was neurotic, but that there was indeed someone trailing him.
By then, he had not thought of losing his temper over the issue. Instead, he heaved a breath in relief.
Meanwhile, particles on his eyelashes made him blink, whereupon a chill crept up his spine.
"Gilead?!"
Clayton asked in utter disbelief.
The moment he blinked his eyes, his impression of the silhouette completely vanished from his mind. Even a question arose in him--- why would he look over his shoulder?
Yet, as he opened his eyes, the impression resurfaced.
His ability was exactly the same in essence as Gilead's, but more powerful. Nonetheless, he did not smell like Gilead.
"No, I'm not Gilead, but we are both phantoms." The blurry from said lightly. "We are called 'phantom', but actually just cursed people. Marvelous, isn't it?"
"Why are you here? This is a private residence."
Clayton was in no mood to take up the phantom's words, casting an alert gaze at him and dreading blinking even once.
Having just dispatched an enemy, he was hardly in good shape. He did not trust himself to tackle another unknown entity.
Even though this phantom knew Gilead, the two were not necessarily good fellows. Bottom line, Clayton was poorly informed about Sasha City's Darkin community.
Upon hearing the term 'private residence', the 'phantom' was dumbfounded for a moment before bursting into raucous laughter. "Quite a case you've made, but what place do you expect to constrain a phantom's freedom?"
"What's more, have you forgotten that it is the weekend? Gilead has already submitted your form. I am the one who has been assigned to evaluate you as a member of the Council of Elders."
Clayton counted the days and found his words true.
But this was not enough to disarm him. "You have been following me since noon, right? If you are a member of the Council, why stand by and watch all along?"
"For I am a phantom," the evaluator said, a clear conscience in his tone.
Clayton found this explanation lacking in earnestness. "What does your being a 'phantom' have to do with anything?"
"The more indiscernible a 'phantom', the more he struggles to interact with reality."
The evaluator came ambling up to him and took a hard leap. The air currents that he had kicked up seemed even lighter than Clayton's breath. Little dust, if any, had been splashed up.
When the 'phantom' stood stock-still before him, Clayton could still sense the unchecked caress of breezes.
"As you can see, I can't even pick up a pen. If I put on clothes, they would slip off. So, the so-called evaluation merely includes a few questions."
"Alright. Now I believe you."
Clayton sat back down on the floor. Now aching all over, he preferred to stay seated.
"Would you like some more rest before we get started?" the 'phantom' inquired considerately.
"No, thanks."
"By the way, aside from the work-related matters, I could offer you some special service..."
At the mention of 'special service', the evaluator's ethereal voice was tinged with traces of temptation.