The soldiers dropped to their knees, bowing low, and shouted in unison, "Sir Knight! We are unworthy of life..."
Harold gave a faint smile. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said. "As long as they don't cost lives and aren't repeated, they can be forgiven. Today, you've learned two important lessons. First—never judge someone by their appearance. And second..."
He raised his hand, and in an instant, his sword flew toward him, cutting through the air with breathtaking speed before settling into his grip. A radiant aura surrounded the blade, its otherworldly glow illuminating the dim hall. Harold leveled the sword at the baron.
"Never reveal your lord's weaknesses to someone whose strength is unknown."
The baron, drenched in sweat, trembled. His legs buckled, and he collapsed into a wooden chair.
"I—I'm sure your journey has been long, Sir Knight," he stammered.
Harold's gaze was steady. "No journey ever feels short, Baron."
The baron swallowed hard. "May I ask why you accepted such a simple mission? As you can see, we lack the means to properly host someone of your stature."
"I didn't come here for hospitality, Baron. Don't insult me."
"No, not at all! I only meant that we have little to offer."
Harold tilted his head slightly. "Do you have a place for me to sleep?"
"Y-Yes, of course."
"Then why claim you have nothing?"
The baron stared, trying to make sense of the knight before him.
[This man is... peculiar. A knight of his caliber should be a count by now, or at the very least a wealthy landowner. And yet here he is, speaking of hospitality and simplicity in a crumbling stone castle like mine...]
[Wait—could it be? Oh, my God!]
Recognition struck like a bolt of lightning. The baron's breath caught in his throat.
[He's Harold Golden Shrine! The legendary knight who slays demons, banishes spirits, a beacon of light in the world's darkness. Only a true knight would think this way. And after everything, he forgave us—such generosity...]
Around the room, similar thoughts raced through the minds of the soldiers and servants, all converging on the same name: Harold Golden Shrine.
The baron, regaining some composure, gestured to a plump servant. The woman scurried off to prepare refreshments, moving with surprising agility despite her size.
"Sir Knight," the baron said, his tone more measured now. "I will spare no effort to assist you. Please, tell me what you need."
Harold's expression darkened slightly. "Like any hunter, I need to understand my prey. I want a full account of the situation—nothing left out. I need to know what we're dealing with."
The baron nodded gravely. "It appears to be a werewolf, but an unusual one. It only hunts young girls. We don't know why, but no bodies have been found. That leads us to believe it's collecting..." He hesitated. "The blood of virgins."
Harold exhaled slowly. "Or perhaps," he said, voice cold as steel, "it's attempting to breed—forcing itself on them to create a new pack."
The baron blanched. "I—I don't know, Sir. But is such a thing even possible? A monster and a human...?"
Harold nodded. "There have been cases. That's why we must be extremely cautious. Has this happened before?"
The baron hesitated, as if dredging up an unpleasant memory. "Not that I recall... but—"
"what is it, Baron?"
A deep, uneasy silence stretched between them before the baron finally spoke.
"There have been instances where young girls vanished, only to return the next night—disoriented, their clothes torn. And when asked what had happened..." His voice dropped to a whisper.
"They claimed they remembered nothing."
"Don't take them seriously, Baron." Harold's voice was calm but firm. "Those girls probably spent a stormy night with their lovers and blamed it on the monster. Be honest with me—how many are truly missing? And don't count the village prostitutes; you know exactly what I mean."
The baron scratched his head with an awkward grin. Just then, the plump servant returned, carrying a large tray. Seizing the opportunity to dodge the question, the baron turned toward her.
"Set it on the table and leave," he ordered.
Harold barely acknowledged the refreshments. His eyes never left the baron.
"How many girls, Baron? The real number."
The baron closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
[There's no hiding anything from him. I was hoping for a rookie knight, someone easier to deceive. But with Harold Golden Shrine—the nightmare of all monsters—there's no choice but to lay everything bare.]
"First, have some tea, Sir," the baron finally said.
Harold looked down at the cup, its surface so smooth and polished it reflected his face.
[Strange behavior. Why is he dodging the question? This man is hiding something—and it feels tied to the disappearances. Girls vanishing and returning with torn clothes? Does he take me for a fool?]
Without a word, Harold picked up the tea and discreetly infused it with mana, scanning for any anomalies.
[Nothing unusual.]
He took a measured sip, then placed the cup back on the table with deliberate calm.
After finishing his tea, Harold stood.
"Baron, I think that will be enough for now. The journey has been long, and I am no longer young. I'd like to retire to the room you've prepared so I can rest. Tomorrow, I'll begin my work. Thank you."
A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes gleamed with a sharpness that made the baron's heart pound. Harold rose with quiet grace, his gaze lingering on the baron for just a moment—silent, but unmistakably a warning.
The baron stiffened. For the briefest instant, a flicker of light danced in Harold's pupils, and the baron's breath caught in his throat.
[What did this old man just do?!]
Harold climbed the stone staircase, eyes sharp, scanning every shadow.
At the top, a narrow hallway stretched before him—wooden doors lined along the walls.
He stopped at the second door on the right. Pushed it open.
The room was small. Simple. But enough.
The sound of hurried footsteps behind him made Harold pause. A servant, drenched in sweat, staggered into view, struggling under the weight of Harold's belongings. With trembling hands, he set them down before bowing deeply.
He left, only to return moments later, each trip draining him further. By the time he made his final delivery, his face was pale, his breaths ragged and uneven.
Harold reached into his pouch, pulled out a coin, and flicked it toward him. The servant caught it with shaky hands, his gratitude plain on his face before he quickly departed.
As the door clicked shut, Harold's demeanor shifted. Mana spread from his hands, weaving an invisible shield throughout the room. Satisfied that no threats lurked within, he placed a protective spell on the door and settled onto the bed.
His eyes traced the grain of the wooden ceiling as his mind wandered.
[This situation isn't as simple as it seems. That baron… he's hiding something. And he's terrible at it.]
A soft chuckle escaped him. "People fear me. That means they've encountered threats before—strangers who've intimidated them. The disappearances have been happening for a while. I can feel it.
"The baron is either selling those girls or using them to satisfy the depraved appetites of criminals and nobles. The villagers live in squalor while he resides in a fortress. Even stolen taxes wouldn't be enough to fund something on this scale." His tone darkened. "So why report it? What is he really trying to cover up?"
Pushing himself upright, Harold moved to his belongings, carefully checking each item.
"Everything's here. He wouldn't dare try anything against a knight of my rank."
But his thoughts lingered on the werewolf.
"Werewolves don't hunt alone. If this one is solitary, then either that fool of a baron tangled with an entire pack… or this werewolf is no ordinary beast."
His voice dropped to a low murmur, edged with cold resolve. "If the baron is lying, I'll drag him to the village square, strip him bare, and execute him in front of everyone."
His thoughts drifted back to the villagers and the stories he had heard. Young women vanishing, only to return with torn clothes and hazy memories.
[And he expects me to believe that nonsense? He's hiding something. And he's awful at it.]
Another chuckle—this one devoid of amusement.
"Clumsy. Desperate. But soon, I'll know the truth."
Rising from the bed, Harold strode to the window. Twilight had descended, draping the land in deepening shadows. His fists clenched.
A whisper escaped his lips, carrying a promise.
"When night falls, every secret will be exposed."