Rod stepped out of the secret chamber.
The young girl, who had been anxiously waiting outside, immediately looked past him into the room.
"Ah!"
The sight of the blood-soaked Priest on the floor tore a scream from her throat.
Rod frowned and casually clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing her.
"The Father was possessed by a demon," he explained smoothly, his voice flat and convincing. "The exorcism got a little messy, but I managed to drive the evil spirit out."
"Go find a doctor. He's bleeding quite a bit."
The panic in the girl's eyes was replaced by sudden realization.
So that's why the Father was acting so strange! It was a demon!
And this man... he saved me.
Gratitude washed over her face as she looked up at Rod.
"I... I'll go get the doctor right away!"
Watching her sprint off, Rod shrugged.
Whether the Priest survived the blood loss was irrelevant. He had served his purpose.
Next stop: The Village Chief.
The trail of evidence was practically glowing. The Chief was the source of the supplies, the source of the intel, and the only one immune to the wolves.
He was either the mastermind or the gatekeeper.
As Rod turned to leave the church, his gaze snagged on something behind the altar.
A massive crucifix, standing several meters tall.
It was ancient wood, heavily plated with silver that had oxidized over decades.
This church had stood here for generations. That cross wasn't just furniture; it was a consecrated antique.
"Can't leave empty-handed."
Rod raised his hand.
Sacrifice!
Shing!
A flash of light, and the giant crucifix vanished into thin air.
In its place, a heavy weight materialized in Rod's palm.
He opened his hand. Resting there was a delicate silver necklace, roughly ten centimeters long. The cross pendant pulsed with a soft, holy radiance.
As the light faded, Rod felt a sudden wave of nausea.
His skin prickled. His blood felt hot and uncomfortable.
His body was instinctively rejecting the artifact.
Right. The Lycan bloodline.
Silver was kryptonite to werewolves. A silver weapon didn't just cut; it burned, poisoned, and negated their regeneration.
Since Rod had integrated the werewolf DNA, he inherited the weakness.
However, his bloodline was a system reward—a genetically engineered hybrid—not a curse.
A normal werewolf touching this consecrated silver would be writhing on the floor in agony. Rod just felt like he had a mild flu.
"This will be useful for dealing with dark creatures," Rod muttered, stowing the necklace in his Personal Inventory.
In Western folklore, supernatural entities operated on Rock-Paper-Scissors logic.
Elves hated iron. Werewolves hated silver. Vampires hated crosses.
This item was a silver cross. It was a double-threat against the unholy.
Rod walked out of the church, adjusting his coat.
He set a course for the Chief's manor, but before he could take ten steps, a figure burst out from a side alley.
Rod side-stepped, trying to dodge.
But the figure corrected course mid-stride, practically throwing themselves into his chest.
Thump.
Rod, standing like a brick wall, didn't budge.
The collider, however, bounced off his chest and landed hard on the cobblestones.
"Ouch!"
The woman rubbed her hip, slowly looking up.
Rod's eyes widened slightly.
Sitting on the ground was a vision in red.
A crimson dress that stopped at the knees. A red velvet hooded cape draped over her shoulders.
She was about five-foot-seven (1.70m), with skin as white as fresh milk. Golden hair spilled out from under her hood, framing a face that was a lethal combination of innocence and seduction.
But it was her figure that demanded attention.
Her neckline was low, revealing a deep, abyssal cleavage that defied gravity. Rod estimated a solid 36D.
Her waist was cinched tight by a black corset, emphasizing the explosive curve of her hips.
And below the hem of her red dress...
Long, shapely legs wrapped in sheer black stockings, ending in red high heels.
Rod raised an eyebrow.
This was a peasant girl?
In a starving, medieval village?
She had the skin of a noble, the makeup of a runway model, and the outfit of a high-end cosplayer.
"I'm so sorry! I was rushing to see my sick grandmother and I didn't see you there."
The girl looked up, her eyes shimmering with practiced apology.
"Grandmother?"
Rod smirked.
Before he could even ask, she launched into her backstory.
"She lives alone in the forest. I need to get to her before dark, or it'll be too dangerous."
Rod's expression twitched.
Sick grandmother.
Helpless girl.
Dangerous forest.
If this were a normal script, this would be the part where the hero gallantly offers to escort her.
But this was too perfect. Too scripted.
He had just arrived in town, and suddenly the main plot hook throws itself at his chest?
And more importantly: What kind of village girl wears stilettos and silk stockings to hike through a werewolf-infested jungle?
It was a trap.
But Rod wasn't one to shy away from a trap.
You can't catch the tiger if you don't enter the tiger's den.
"It's too dangerous for you to go alone," Rod said, playing his part. "I'll escort you."
"By the way, I didn't catch your name."
The girl smiled, a look of sweet relief washing over her face.
"I don't really have a name," she purred.
"But everyone calls me... Little Red Riding Hood."