Next Morning…
It was a peaceful day in the city.
The first light of morning painted the sky with soft gold, bathing the rooftops and cobblestone streets in a gentle warmth. A slight chill in the air brushed against people's skin as they stepped out of their homes. Birds chirped lazily from wooden beams and cracked window frames, while a slow, refreshing breeze swept through narrow alleys and open courtyards, causing laundry lines to sway gently.
People yawned and stretched, some still groggy from sleep as they stumbled out of bed. Others stepped outside, buckets in hand, heading toward nearby wells. Children rubbed their eyes as their mothers washed their faces, and shopkeepers began opening up their wooden storefronts—lifting shutters, unlocking iron bolts, and preparing for another day of honest trade. The air carried the mixed scents of fresh bread, soap, and horse dung, all signs that life in the city had resumed its daily rhythm.
Among those early risers was a simple merchant—an ordinary man with no connection to power, politics, or danger. He owned a modest clothing store, nestled tightly between other wooden buildings on a cobbled side street. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he took a deep breath and set about his routine—wiping the dust from the wooden shelves, folding cloaks and tunics, and dusting the few clothes he used to decorate the window displays.
He was just a regular man. His life revolved around buying, selling, and surviving. Yet yesterday, something strange had happened.
Some people had come to his shop—men dressed not like noble guards or merchants, but in unfamiliar, pristine white robes. Their faces were hard and intense, eyes sharp with purpose. He had expected trouble—extortion, threats, perhaps even a robbery. But instead, they simply bought a few cloaks and belts. And then they made him an offer.
They mentioned a name he hadn't heard before: Gray. A man they called their Big Boss. They said they weren't interested in his money or his goods—but in his loyalty.
"If you're willing," one had said, "join the gang called the Wolf Order."
Naturally, he had refused. Gangs meant blood, danger, and death. He was just a merchant. "I have no intention of joining any gang," he had told them bluntly. "I'm just a citizen trying to survive."
He braced himself for violence.
But instead of drawing weapons or raising fists, they simply gave him a strange smile.
"If you don't want to join, that's fine," one of them said. "But let me at least tell you the benefits."
Curious, he nodded. "Alright. Tell me, sir."
"If you join, you'll become a werewolf. Your power and level will rise drastically. Injuries will heal. Even broken limbs or lifelong disabilities—gone. Everything can be restored."
The merchant's heart beat faster. It sounded like a fantasy. And more and more like a scam.
So, again, he refused.
They didn't force him. They simply nodded, told him to find anyone wearing white robes like them if he ever changed his mind, and left quietly.
He had watched them walk into the neighboring store.
But today… that neighboring store hadn't opened.
The owner—someone he greeted every morning—was gone.
The wooden doors remained shut. No signs of life. A chill ran down his spine.
Were they kidnappers after all? Or worse?
He shivered but forced himself to continue his work. He dusted the shelves with trembling hands, trying to shake off the sense of unease curling in his stomach.
Then, not long after, he heard yelling from outside.
His heart thumped.
Peeking out from the window, he saw the soldiers of the Greenwold family. They were marching down the streets, dragging civilians by the arms—men, women, even young teens. Some resisted and were beaten. Others were cut down right there, their blood staining the cobblestones.
Bodies were left on the ground but the soldiers didn't care.
The merchant's hands went cold. He quickly shut and locked his shop door, heart racing, breath shallow. He crouched behind the counter, hidden among his wares, trembling.
Above his shop, standing on the rooftop, were two figures observing everything with calm detachment.
One wore golden and red robes, the fine quality of which shimmered in the light. His hair caught the breeze as he stood tall, arms folded behind his back. Beside him stood a woman in a long flowing golden dress, her long black hair fluttering behind her as she watched the chaos unfold in the streets below.
They were Gray and Bella.
Bella's brows were furrowed. Her usually confident expression was now painted with worry.
"Shouldn't we save them?" she asked, turning to Gray. "People are dying down there. The more we wait, the more innocent lives will be lost."
Gray didn't immediately answer. His eyes remained fixed on the street below, where another man was being struck down by a Greenwold soldier.
"Bella," he finally said, his voice calm and deliberate, "why do you think they gathered their army today and began killing normal citizens?"
Bella hesitated. "Maybe… maybe they're trying to find us. Because of the damage we've done these past few days. We took over their underground, turned the business owners to our side, and even embarrassed them. Maybe they want to eliminate everything that connects to us."
She sounded unsure
Gray gave a slight nod. "You're partly right. They are trying to draw us out. But have you asked yourself why they're targeting ordinary people?"
Bella blinked, then shook her head slowly.
"It's fear," Gray said flatly. "Those in power know that when people no longer fear them, they lose control. Look there."
He pointed at a scene in the street below.
A middle-aged man had just been killed—his body slumped in the dirt. Kneeling beside him were a crying woman and a small child, their sobs echoing through the alley.
"Why do you think they stopped after killing just him?" Gray asked.
Again, Bella shook her head.
"Because killing the man of the house—the father, the provider—sends a message. It shatters the family. It spreads fear to the entire neighborhood. Everyone who sees that scene will remember it. They'll whisper to each other about what happened. About how the Greenwold family punishes disobedience. Fear keeps them obedient."
Bella's fists clenched. "So… shouldn't we save them, then, Boss?"
Gray turned to her slowly.
"We're not heroes, Bella. What do you think will happen if one of our werewolves—or you or I—step in right now? We'll be spotted. Attacked. And this entire army they've gathered? They'll strike us before we're ready."
He narrowed his eyes. "They think we'll rush out like noble warriors. That we'll defend the weak out of some misplaced sense of honor. But we're not knights, Bella. We're monsters. Werewolves."
She listened, breathing slowly.
"They've planned this very poorly," Gray continued. "But their assumption is clear—they believe we're some kind of saviors. Seeing people connect to die or hurt, That we'll act out of emotion. But we won't."
He turned back to the street. "In fact… this gives me a new idea."
Bella looked surprised. "A new plan?"
"Think about it," he said. "Right now, the citizens are watching the Greenwold family slaughter their neighbors. Innocent people. Killing them. What do you think will happen tomorrow… when the entire Greenwold family is executed publicly, right here in front of the same citizens?"
Bella's eyes lit up.
"They'll cheer," Gray said. "They'll resent the Greenwolds for what they've done. And they'll look at us—our gang—as the New hope and upholder of Justice. Even if we're werewolves. Even if we're monsters. They will Support us and not only that these same people will also help us Control this city.
Bella beamed with pride. "Boss… that's brilliant. How does your mind even come up with things like this?"
Before Gray could reply, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind them.
Both turned to see Fil, reached the rooftop.
"Sir," he said quickly, "everything is ready. We've assembled everyone under your command. They're all waiting for you at the warehouse."
Gray gave a single nod. "Good. Let's go."
With that, the three of them vanished from the rooftop, their shadows flickering like wolves under the morning sun.