The moonlight draped the ancient forest in silver, casting shifting patterns over gnarled branches as a gentle breeze wove through the tangled limbs. It whispered over the tender buds pushing up from the damp earth, carrying the scent of moss and damp bark. The night was hushed, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of dry leaves as unseen creatures slithered through the undergrowth.

Then, as the moon slipped behind a ragged shroud of clouds, the hush was shattered. A sudden explosion of wings tore through the stillness, and a piercing screech echoed through the woods.

A girl—no older than sixteen—crashed to the ground, her clothes streaked with mud. Gasping, she scrambled backward, her entire body trembling, slick with sweat.

A pair of glowing red eyes locked onto her, freezing her in place with sheer menace. She clawed at the earth, fingers digging into the damp soil. A sharp pain tore through her hand as one of her nails ripped away completely. Blood welled up, dripping onto a porous rock beneath her, but the terror swallowing her whole left no room for pain.

Then, from the depths of the shadows, a hulking figure emerged—a werewolf, its powerful form moving with unnerving slowness, savoring the moment.

[This is it... I'm done for.]

The thought barely formed before sheer survival instinct took over. With a desperate lurch, she forced herself up, stumbling as she tried to flee.

"Run all you want…" The creature's voice was deep, guttural, laced with dark amusement. "this forest is my hunting ground."

She froze for a heartbeat. It can speak? Monsters weren't supposed to speak—they were mindless, savage, relentless.

The night air felt thick, suffocating. Every ragged breath burned her lungs as she crashed through the undergrowth, her feet slipping on damp leaves. Twigs snapped beneath her weight, each sharp crack echoing like a death knell in the oppressive quiet.

"Oh my God… Why? Why is this happening to me?"

Panic blinded her. She stumbled through the darkness, crashing into tree trunks. Like a fly in a spider's web, every struggle only pulled her deeper into despair.

The werewolf watched, unhurried. Its glowing eyes followed her every stumble. Steady breath, endless patience—it was savoring the hunt.

"You shouldn't run… not until—"

Before it could finish, her scream tore through the night. The girl stumbled and fell, swallowed by the darkness below."

The werewolf stiffened. Then, without warning, it threw back its head and let out a thunderous howl. Its posture shifted in an instant, muscles coiling as it dropped onto all fours and charged after her.

---

Three Days Earlier,

Villagers distrusted outsiders, especially hooded ones. Hidden faces meant trouble—they could sense it. And if a stranger was armed, danger was certain.

So, naturally, they kept their distance.

From a rugged trail that barely passed for a road, a lone rider emerged. He had all the makings of a troublemaker: a hidden face, an arsenal fit for a small warband. An axe, a bow, and even a wizard's staff hung from his saddle, while a sword rested across his back.

Yet it wasn't the weapons that puzzled the villagers most—it was the polished wooden instrument he carried.

Beneath the folds of his hood, only a white beard was visible, swaying gently in the breeze. His face remained unseen, but there was no mistaking it—this was a man who had traveled far.

He moved through the village at an unhurried pace, sharp eyes catching the wary, astonished glances thrown his way. The villagers wanted no more trouble than they already had.

"These people never know when to fear and when to smile," the rider mused, casting one last glance at them. Without a word, he continued on, leaving them behind—just as they had silently wished.

Before long, the towers of a small fortress rose on the horizon, yellow banners fluttering in the distance. Several wooden barricades, fashioned from sharpened logs, obstructed his path. He maneuvered past them with practiced ease.

"Halt! Dismount and state your name, stranger!"

The command came from a group of young guards, their inexperience clear in the way they gripped their spears—tight, but uncertain.

The rider hesitated briefly, his gaze sweeping over them. His horse snorted loudly, its powerful frame shifting beneath him. The sudden noise made the guards flinch.

"Easy, my friend. No need to startle them," he murmured, stroking the horse's neck before raising his voice.

"I am Harold Golden Shrine! Open the gate!"

[Harold Golden Shrine?]

The name alone sent a ripple of shock through the guards. They exchanged disbelieving glances. The legendary knight—here, in this forgotten village, standing at the gates of a minor baron's fortress? It seemed absurd.

[This old man?]

One of the guards stifled a laugh.

"No way. Who in their right mind pretends to be that Harold Golden Shrine?"

They sized him up once more—the weathered cloak, the jumble of weapons, the travel-worn horse. He looked like a man who had seen battle, yes. But the Harold Golden Shrine? Impossible.

The guard stepped forward, shaking his head.

"Look, old man," he said, barely suppressing his amusement. "I get it. We all have dreams. Maybe once, you wanted to be a hero like Harold. But take a good look at yourself—you're dragging around a heap of scrap metal on that poor horse, and now you're here, wasting our time. Maybe you didn't make it as a knight, but you really shouldn't go around pretending to be someone you're not. Impersonation's a serious crime, you know."

Another soldier joined in, grinning. "He's right, old man. No need for fairy tales. Me? I've got simple dreams—like not standing in this heat all day. But you don't see me claiming to be the Emperor!"

The others erupted into laughter.

"Exactly! Know your limits, old man. The ones who overreach always sink the fastest."

Harold stayed silent, letting their mockery pass. His amber eyes were calm but heavy—cold, unreadable. The soldiers were too amused to notice.

After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"Are you finished?"

One of the guards groaned inwardly: Ugh, why won't this old fool just drop it? Guard duty's miserable enough without dealing with lunatics. Maybe if I let him in to see the baron, he'll shut 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 inside, Sir Knight. Leave them on your horse. You can take the horse with you, but stay clear of the armory."

Harold raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Not worried I might be dangerous?"

The soldier laughed. "With all these guards around? You wouldn't stand a chance unarmed. Besides, if a baron got killed by some crazy old man, that'd make one hell of a story."

The others chuckled. "Yeah, and who'd assassinate our baron anyway? He's not rich or important enough to be worth the trouble!"

Harold merely shrugged and complied, unstrapping his sword and securing it to his horse's saddle. The soldiers barely gave it a passing glance, missing the sacred emblem etched into the hilt—an unmistakable mark of the Order of Light, carried only by holy knights.

A faint smirk ghosted across Harold's lips.

No wonder this place is in shambles if these fools are the best they've got.

Inside the Castle,

The baron hunched over his desk, surrounded by a chaotic pile of reports—floods, crop failures, military expenses, outbreaks of disease. His pen scratched furiously across the parchment, his muttering growing harsher with every word. Frustration boiled over, and he slammed the pen against the desk repeatedly, splattering ink across the page.

A steward stepped in cautiously. "Milord, someone requests an audience."

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

The steward hesitated before extending a letter. The baron snatched it with a groan, his irritation fading the moment he saw the wax seal—the Order of Light.

His face paled.

Hands trembling, he broke the seal and scanned the letter. His breath quickened. Beads of sweat gathered at his brow. By the time he reached the end, he staggered to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair.

"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, frantically rifling through his wardrobe. He tore off his coat and scrambled to put on something finer, hastily powdering his wig. A silk handkerchief passed over his face again and again as he wiped away the sweat. Under his breath, he cursed.

The baron hurried to the guest room, his heart pounding. But the moment he stepped inside, he froze.

His soldiers—his soldiers—stood around Harold, prodding at his weapons, laughing, calling him a madman.

The baron's jaw nearly hit the floor. Harold sat in the center of it all, unmoving, his presence like a blade poised at the throat of the room. He radiated a quiet, unshakable authority, one that sent a cold shiver down the baron's spine.

Then, rage flared in his chest.

"You fools!" he bellowed, his face burning red. "Do you not recognize the insignia on his sword? Did you not even glance at the letter? This is not a barnyard! Have you all lost your minds?"

The soldiers recoiled as if struck, their laughter dying instantly. They stammered apologies, their expressions shifting from smug amusement to outright terror.

The baron barely spared them a glance as he strode forward. Then, to the utter shock of every soldier in the room, he dropped to one knee.

"Lord," he said, his voice unsteady, "please forgive their insolence. They didn't know—"

Harold lifted a hand, silencing him with a single motion.

"No need for theatrics, Baron," he said, his tone edged with dry amusement. "I'm too old to care for formalities." His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable—patience, or perhaps irritation. "This mission is hardly worth my time, but I needed a change of pace. Let's get to the matter at hand."

Silence engulfed the room.

The soldiers stared, jaws slack, eyes wide with dawning realization.

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