The Laws of Werewolf Hunting

Chapter 596 A Worthy Opponent

It wasn't an illusion; it was just a thin ceramic slab, the same material as the private pipes, that was stuck there, and Clayton's thrown spear went through it as easily as through a layer of sand.

It was a sliding door, and like the pipes, its surface was covered in grime and poorly lit, preventing the werewolf from spotting it.

Clayton picked up another short spear, stepped forward, pushed open the movable door, and entered the space behind it.

One passage after another, and just a short while ago, I heard the dwarves talking, but now the underground is silent again. The dark and cramped passage seems to never end.

"What time is it now?" Julius asked. The werewolf's black back, with the hunting rifle hanging on it, was like a wall, always maintaining a fixed distance, which amplified his aversion to the dark space.

“Seven-thirty.” Clayton reached into his pocket with his left hand, then pulled out a sandwich he had bought earlier and handed it to the back of the room.

The wizard couldn't possibly eat in such a place, but he accepted it nonetheless:

Can you still hear any sounds?

The werewolf stopped, tilted its head, and pointed one ear upwards. The flesh-colored human ear stretched out to the tip of its hair, which grew black hair.

He's already quite skilled at localized wolf-like transformation.

“There’s someone talking up there, but it’s muffled. They…” Clayton paused, then strained his ears even more. “There are some faint footsteps. I’m not sure where they are. There’s too much noise around here.”

They moved more cautiously, and as they approached the footsteps, another group of ghouls attacked them.

There were fewer ghouls than before, and they dealt with them easily. But unusually, in addition to the skin that was about to peel off, the dead monsters also had some small stone ornaments and brightly colored bandages.

One of the ghouls even had religious inscriptions on its skin.

Now they could finally confirm that the dwarves were keeping these wild beasts.

"Have we been discovered?" Julius's hand unconsciously gripped the sandwich.

“No, if we are discovered, the number of ghouls coming for us will definitely be more than this. They should just be patrolling regularly.”

The road ahead turned into long stretches of official pipelines. To ensure proper connections, the dwarves' privately cast pipelines had to be matched to their dimensions. Clayton's back was able to straighten out again, but after making those dismissive remarks about the dwarves' organizational abilities, he didn't stride forward. Instead, he became even more cautious, stopping from time to time to listen, not letting his guard down despite the dwarves' usual carelessness.

The strange footsteps were getting closer.

The pipes privately cast by the dwarves were made of terracotta, which was not very waterproof. Moisture from the soil would seep into the pipes and form droplets on the inner walls. To the werewolves, the sound of dripping water was constant, obscuring much valuable information.

The footsteps he heard indicated a stride size that was clearly inconsistent with that of dwarves, yet they were faint enough to make it difficult to discern whether they were on this level or the level above.

Moreover, he could not hear the dwarves' conversations at all within his detection range.

Julius had no idea what Clayton was thinking; he only knew that the werewolf hadn't spoken for a long time, which was a sign that the guy was focused on his work.

About ten minutes later, the werewolf stopped in a pipe, facing what appeared to be a wall, with a solemn expression.

Julius activated his psychic powers behind him—his psychic powers weren't actually as far as Clayton and Cletia had guessed, less than five yards away in reality, but because of his special ability to sense temperature, he could actually detect a living person standing twelve yards away.

The wall would diminish his psychic awareness, but this was also a disguised doorway.

Thin ceramic plates are as powerless against his psychic knowledge as they are against water.

Behind the thin wall in front of Clayton, at least two people stood separately. They were standing there like Clayton, but they didn't seem to be a group. They might already know about the other two and were sensing them through the pipe.

A shout came from behind the wall, but it was cut off midway.

Both the werewolf and the wizard looked surprised. They felt the voice was familiar, but they never expected to run into anyone in the sewers at this moment.

One of the men behind the wall retreated silently, while the other remained, confronting Clayton Bello.

The battle began without warning.

Clayton's upper body suddenly leaned backward.

Just as Julius was feeling bewildered, a longsword pierced the pipe wall, its tip pressed tightly against the werewolf's throat. It moved faster than the werewolf retreated, nearly piercing Clayton's vitals, but ultimately had to stop due to its limited length, quickly retracting like a startled snake.

The narrow crack it left in the wall let in a little light, but not enough to make one see the person behind it.

Clayton pulled back his leaning upper body, threw his shotgun and cane on the ground, and gripped the short spear he had picked up earlier, thrusting it fiercely into the wall.

The depth to which the spear pierced the wall was comparable to the sword strike from the opposite side. Julius's psychic senses, which relied on heat to probe things outside their range, were not very clear. He did not sense that the enemy on the other side was making a wide-ranging dodge, but when Clayton withdrew his short spear, it was not stained with any blood.

He also missed.

The longsword came at him again, and Clayton dodged it. The blade slashed downwards, passing right in front of his face and covering one of his eyes.

But Julius could see clearly that the mouth was wide open in a cheerful grin, and the eyes, which were not covered, were slightly narrowed, revealing an excited yellow light, as if it were laughing silently.

This time the counterattack was even faster; as the enemy withdrew his longsword, his short spear thrust out once more.

A muffled groan came from behind the wall, but the tip of the short spear remained clean as it was retrieved.

These brief encounters ignited something indescribable, which fueled the continued operation of this dangerous activity.

Neither Clayton nor the stranger on the other side of the wall chose to back down. They fought fiercely, alternating between thrusting their short spears and longswords at each other.

The werewolf gripped the short spear tightly with his well-developed arms. At first, he thrust out in the posture of a soldier, then quickly retracted his hand. Next, he moved to the posture of a fisherman, shifting his grip on the weapon back to extend the range of the attack as much as possible, and thrusting all the way to the end so that the opponent would not have time to dodge.

In the final stage, he became a rower, stirring the spear every time he thrust it out.

The swordsman on the other side of the wall shared the same thought. From Julius's perspective alone, the angle at which the longsword thrust was becoming increasingly tricky, while Clayton's dodges were becoming more and more wide and frequent. There was almost no interval between his attacks and dodges; sometimes they even had to be done simultaneously.

Clayton was like a solo warrior dancing in a Menaa style, on the other end. The swordsman was doing the same thing.

To avoid the enemy's attack, they had to move faster, and the battle position gradually shifted to the left side of the pipe.

Even outside the vulnerable area of ​​the access gate, their longswords and short spears could still pierce through the normally thick ceramic pipe walls, leaving a series of irregular but roughly lined puncture holes.

It was like a snake growing rapidly on the wall, constantly chasing and biting the two who were fighting madly, but always one step behind them.

It's not its fault; Julius even had to run to keep up with them.

Until a certain moment, this sudden battle also suddenly ended.

Clayton's short spear pierced almost to the bottom. His hand, gripping the wooden handle, was pressed against the wall. He turned his head to the right, and the longsword that had emerged from the wall pierced his mouth. Although restrained by his fangs, it still managed to pierce his right cheek from the inside, causing him to bleed profusely.

The stalemate lasted for about ten seconds. Suddenly, the werewolf and his opponent reached a tacit understanding. He released his mouth, pulled back his longsword, and at the same time, pulled his short spear back as well.

This time, the metal spearhead was stained with a lot of blood.

After retrieving his weapon, Clayton clenched his right fist and punched the wall. His fist sank into the ceramic, passed through to the other side, and created numerous cracks around the point of impact. To his left, another fist wearing an iron glove came flying out.

Two fists of different heights slid to the left and slammed to the right, creating a window in the not-so-thin curved wall.

Behind the window is Franklin, dressed in armor.

"Father, I knew it!" Julius was so angry that he became incoherent, forgetting that he had no religious beliefs at all, and he crumpled the sandwich in his hand into a ball.

Through the window, Franklin raised his hand, pierced by a short spear, to greet Clayton.

“Impressive martial arts skills, Mr. Bello.”

Clayton also raised a hand, a smile spreading across his bleeding face: "Excellent swordsmanship, Sir Franklin."

"It's getting late. What are you doing in a place like this?" the gentleman asked curiously.

"Revenge, and finding the Book of the Earth," the werewolf answered honestly.

Julius's expression changed drastically.