The moonlight bathed the branches of ancient trees in the forest, while a gentle breeze wove its way through the tangled branches, finding a path to the newly sprouted buds emerging from the soil. The forest was engulfed in silence, broken only by the faint rustle of dry leaves under the bellies of wandering snakes.

However, as the moon slipped behind a torn black cloud, a sudden flurry of bird wings erupted from the branch of an old tree, and a deafening screech shattered the tranquility of the woods.

A girl, barely sixteen years old, collapsed onto the ground, her clothes smeared with mud. Struggling to push herself backward, her body was drenched in sweat, trembling like a leaf.

Two glowing red eyes emerged from the darkness, fixing on her with a paralyzing, menacing aura. The girl, frantic and shaken, clawed at the ground, her nails digging into the soil. One of her nails tore off completely, but her overwhelming terror made her forget the pain. Blood dripped from her fingertip, landing on a porous rock.

Suddenly, from the depths of the shadows, a werewolf appeared, advancing toward her with slow, deliberate steps.

[Th-this is it... I'm done for!]

The girl's mind screamed with despair, but the looming threat of death jolted her into action. She somehow managed to stand, limping as she tried to escape.

"You can't run far. This entire forest is my domain," growled the werewolf in a deep, guttural voice.

Shock overtook her. Monsters weren't supposed to speak—they were bloodthirsty creatures that attacked humans indiscriminately.

The sound of dry branches cracking beneath her feet pierced the quiet forest, the humid air making it twice as hard to breathe.

"Oh, my God! Why... why is this happening to me?"

She stumbled through the forest, crashing into tree trunks, her movements like that of a trapped insect caught in a spider's web.

The werewolf watched her struggle with its glowing red eyes, its calm breaths betraying its confidence. It was waiting, savoring the despair of its prey, in no hurry to finish her off.

"You shouldn't run... not until..."

But the werewolf's words were cut short by the girl's terrified scream. She twisted her ankle and tumbled down a slope.

Suddenly, as though its demeanor had changed completely, the werewolf let out a thunderous howl and dropped to all fours, charging toward her.

---

Three Days Earlier,

The villagers were not accustomed to outsiders, especially those who arrived with their faces concealed by hoods. Strangers who hid their identities often carried trouble, and the villagers could sense it. To them, such people smelled of danger—especially if they were armed.

Naturally, they avoided such individuals.

From a rugged path hardly a road, a man rode into the village on horseback. He had all the makings of a troublemaker: a hidden face and enough weapons for a small army; An axe, a bow, and even a small wizard's staff hung from his saddle, while a sword was strapped to his back.

But what truly puzzled the villagers wasn't the array of weapons—it was the polished wooden instrument he carried.

From beneath his long hood, only a white beard was visible, swaying slightly in the breeze. No one could see his face, but they could tell he was a man of the world.

He passed through the village slowly, his sharp eyes catching the wary, astonished glances of the villagers. They didn't want any more trouble than they already had.

"These people never understand when to be afraid and when to smile," the man thought, taking one last look at the villagers. Without a word, he continued on his way, leaving them behind just as they had silently wished.

The stranger pressed forward, and soon, the towers of a small fortress came into view, its yellow banners fluttering in the distance. Several wooden barricades made of sharpened logs blocked his path, but he maneuvered around them with ease.

"Halt! Dismount and identify yourself, stranger!"

The man hesitated briefly, his gaze falling on the young, inexperienced guards aiming their long spears at him.

His horse neighed loudly, startling the guards into stepping back.

"Easy now, my friend. There's no danger," he murmured, stroking the horse's neck before calling out loudly, "I am Harold Golden Shrine! Open the gate!"

[Harold Golden Shrine? This old man is the legendary knight?]

The soldiers exchanged astonished glances. Harold Golden Shrine wasn't someone you expected to encounter in a remote village, standing at the gates of a small-time baron's castle. They scrutinized the elderly man with disbelief.

[Is this guy nuts? Who in their right mind pretends to be that Harold Golden Shrine?]

They snickered and shook their heads, deciding to humor the man for a while.

"Listen, old man," one of them said, trying to suppress his amusement. "I get it. We all dream big. You probably wanted to be a hero like Harold, right? But look at yourself! You've got a pile of scrap metal hanging off your poor horse, and here you are wasting our time. Maybe you didn't make it as a knight, but you can't go around pretending to be someone you're not. Impersonation's a serious crime, you know."

Another soldier joined in. "He's right, gramps. You don't have to make up stories to feel better about yourself. I'm just a simple soldier, and trust me, I've got dreams too. Like not having to stand here in this blazing sun all day. But you don't see me putting on a golden cape and shouting, I'm the Emperor!"

The others burst into laughter. "Exactly! Know your limits, old man. The ones who overreach usually sink the fastest."

Harold stood silently, listening to their mockery. His amber eyes remained calm, though there was an icy weight to his gaze that the soldiers failed to notice. After a long pause, he spoke.

"Are you finished?"

One soldier groaned inwardly. [Ugh, why won't this old fool drop it? Guard duty's bad enough without dealing with lunatics. Maybe if I let him in to see the baron, he'll give up. But first, I need to disarm him—don't want trouble later.]

"Alright, fine," the soldier grumbled. "But you're not bringing any weapons in, Sir Knight. Leave them on your horse. You can take the horse with you, but keep away from the armory."

Harold raised an eyebrow. "You're not worried I might be dangerous?" he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

"With all these soldiers here? You wouldn't stand a chance unarmed," the soldier replied, laughing. "Besides, if a baron got killed by an old madman, it'd make for one hell of a story."

The others chuckled. "Yeah, and who'd assassinate a baron anyway? He's not rich or important enough to bother!"

Harold shrugged and complied, removing his sword and hanging it from his horse's saddle. The soldiers didn't even glance at the hilt, missing the sacred emblem engraved there—an unmistakable mark of the Order of Light, which only holy knights bore. Harold's lips twitched into a faint smirk as he watched their Ignorance.

[It's no wonder this place is in shambles if these idiots are the best they've got.]

Inside the castle, the baron was hunched over a desk piled with reports—floods, crop failures, military expenses, and disease outbreaks. His pen moved furiously as he muttered under his breath, frustrated as he slammed the pen repeatedly on the desk. The steward entered cautiously.

"Milord, someone is here to see you."

The baron didn't even look up. "Do I look like I have time for peasants?" he snapped.

The steward hesitated, holding out a letter. The baron groaned and snatched it, his annoyance fading as he saw the seal of the Order of Light. His face paled, and his hands trembled as he broke the seal. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he read the contents. When he reached the end, he staggered to his feet, shouting, "W-where is he? Where is the envoy?"

"In the guest room, milord."

"Prepare refreshments! The finest wine we have!"

"Milord…"

"Shut up and move!" the baron roared, hurrying to dress himself in his finest coat and wig. He wiped his face repeatedly with a silk handkerchief, cursing under his breath.

[What could have made the Order send Harold Golden Shrine for something like this? Werewolves? In my pitiful territory? Dear gods, he's going to think I'm incompetent.]

When the baron reached the guest room, he froze. His jaw dropped at the sight of the soldiers crowding around Harold, inspecting his gear and calling him a madman. Harold sat in silence, radiating a cold authority that made the baron's skin crawl.

"You fools!" the baron bellowed, his face red with fury. "Do you not recognize the insignia on his sword? Did you not even glance at the letter? This isn't a barnyard! Have you lost your minds?"

The soldiers recoiled, stammering apologies as the baron stormed past them. He dropped to one knee before Harold, his voice trembling.

"Lord, please forgive their insolence. They didn't know—"

Harold waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. "No need for theatrics, baron. I'm too old to care about formalities." His voice was calm, yet carried an unyielding authority. "This mission is hardly worth my time, but I needed a change of pace. Let's get to the matter at hand."

The soldiers stared in shock, their jaws hanging open, eyes wide with disbelief.

[Wait… did he just say mission? He's really Harold Golden Shrine?!]