"Rusty Silver Coin"
A copper-plated sign swayed in the wind on an iron pole outside the shop, creaking occasionally in the evening breeze, drawing attention.
Even so, throughout the day, very few people lingered in front of the store.
This was the daily routine of the antique shop run by Clayton Bellio.
Located at 47 Lemon Street in Sasha City, the location was neither particularly good nor bad, much like its business situation.
Antique shops are not typical stores; fixed customers are Clayton's main source of income.
The Bellio family once resided in a city further south in Dorn, but after the death of his parents, who valued family reunification, where to settle was solely his decision.
In the four years after retiring from the military, he used the £600 severance pay from the army and the portion of inheritance left by his father to take over the shop. The antique trade was fairly close to the upper class, and he had some talent for it, so compared to those peers selling goods on the black market, he was doing reasonably well.
At that moment, Clayton Bellio was in the workshop on the second floor of the store, wearing a mask and an apron, bending over with long tongs to retrieve five slightly faded medals from a murky liquid in a bucket.
These were the Honor Medals from the Lorren War, awarded by the Dorn royal family to soldiers who participated in five or more battles during the war, with over six hundred issued in total, making them highly commemorative.
Clayton had handled twenty-four of them—twenty-three were fake, and the only real one belonged to him.
In the absence of antiques, antique dealers must learn to create "antiques."
"Mr. Bellio, your guest has arrived."
After a knock on the door, his female assistant's voice came from outside.
"I know, Miss Charlotte. You can go home now."
Responding from behind the door, Clayton carefully used a sponge to absorb the corrosive liquid from the fake medals and wrapped them in silk to line up on the workbench. Then he took off his apron and put on a black jacket before heading downstairs to meet the guest.
In the display cases on the first floor, enamel and crystal ornaments sparkled under the electric lights.
On the walls hung swords and blades that looked valuable, unsheathed, as if ready to return to the battlefield at any moment.
However, the brown-haired young man waiting on the first floor showed no interest in them, instead examining the rusty exhibits in the display case with his hands behind his back until Clayton stood behind him.
"Lieutenant, long time no see."
Seeing the young man in a white suit, Clayton stepped forward to embrace him. "Joe, I didn't expect you to return. It feels like just yesterday we last met."
"Lieutenant" was his rank in the army, and only old buddies called him that after retirement.
They had fought together in the Lorren War, which lasted for 163 years, as comrades in the same company.
After leaving the service, Joe Mani inherited the Rusty Silver Coin antique shop from his parents. However, because he harbored dreams of traveling the world and didn't want to run such a fixed business, he sold the shop to Clayton.
Standing together, the differences between them became apparent. Clayton's hairstyle and beard remained unchanged—a classic side part and a thick kingly beard. His features were more rugged, and he appeared taller than Joe, with intimidating yellow-brown eyes.
Seeing his former superior still looking familiar, Joe was a bit surprised. "Me too. I'm glad to see you doing well. But I've come back this time for business."
He pulled out a small box from his coat pocket and opened it, revealing a pure silver ring lying on soft yellow velvet, its oxidation giving it a mottled black hue.
"The bishop's seal of the White Church—a top-quality item."
When it came to business, Clayton immediately grew serious, but he didn't take the box; instead, he said quietly, "This kind of treasure is indeed precious but not easy to sell."
The White Church was not just the mainstream faith in the Dorn Kingdom, but across the entire northern world. Even if its status today was not as prosperous as in the era of cold weapons, items like the bishop's seal, which symbolized power, were not casually circulated.
"Don't worry, it's completely legal, and no one will care."
Joe shoved the box into Clayton's hands without allowing him to respond. "It originally belonged to a foreign friend of mine, but he's been struggling in business lately and decided to sell off some things to cover his financial gap. Out of friendship, I bought it, but I don't have a collecting hobby, so I brought it to you."
Clayton reluctantly accepted the box. "How much did you pay for it?"
"Three hundred gold pounds."
Clayton pressed his temple; that was indeed a considerable sum, but it certainly didn't match the true value of the bishop's seal.
"Your friend wouldn't happen to be someone you met at the card table, would he?"
"Ha ha..." Joe awkwardly laughed and blinked, not continuing the conversation.
But judging by his expression, it was clear that bringing this item back to Sasha was just incidental; there was another reason for his return.
Clayton closed the box and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. "I won't say much this time. If you plan to leave Sasha City soon, I'll send the money to your old family home after I appraise the ring."
Joe had no objections to this and then made a new suggestion: "Let's go to the Tree House for a drink tomorrow at six, just like old times?"
Clayton agreed without hesitation.
After chatting a bit more, Clayton saw off his old comrade, then went upstairs to tidy up the workshop, finally pulling the power switch.
The lights of the Rusty Silver Coin dimmed. He took a lantern and stepped outside to lock the door before walking back to his cheap rented apartment.
......
Clayton Bellio never finished college.
He joined the military at eighteen, serving as cavalry in the Dorn Kingdom's Torrent Guard for eleven years.
When he enlisted, the tactic of firing squads was still the mainstream method of warfare, but by the time he retired, the tactics of skirmishing had been relatively well integrated into military doctrine.
At thirty-three, still in his prime, Clayton felt like an old man.
Nothing sparked his interest.
His parents had fallen ill and died while he was serving, and he hadn't managed to return to see them. His older brother, who had enlisted with him, was shot in the heart by a stray bullet on another battlefield, and close comrades were blown apart before his eyes...
Clayton had given the army not just eleven years of youth; time was the least valuable thing among the losses he had suffered.
He chose to become an antique dealer in hopes of changing himself through the influence of artifacts and culture.
After four years, he remained lost, but his skill in forgery had improved...
After dinner, Clayton stepped into the room that had been transformed into a study for a short rest.
Joe's gift gave him a headache; even if the White Church's item was legal, it was hard to find a buyer who would appreciate it.
The religious art of the White Church had become so widespread that people were starting to feel aesthetic fatigue.
Many didn't actually care whether the antiques were genuine; their purpose in collecting was merely to seek that unique feeling. Regardless of its authenticity, the simple appearance of this ring limited its price ceiling.
To sell it for a good price using its backstory, he would need to find a fanatic.
However, Clayton was not good at dealing with them.
His parents were not religious, so he didn't believe either.
The only contact the Bellio family had with the White Church was when his brother abducted a nun from a convent to marry, which made the clergy in their hometown very hostile toward their family.
With such a family atmosphere, Clayton certainly didn't enjoy interacting with the White Church, and there were also some personal reasons.
But work was work.
He took the ring out of his pocket and turned it to face himself.
Two crossed tridents surrounded the sharp-tipped bishop's crown at the top.
As weapons, they represented the possessions of the commander responsible for combat.
Clayton recognized what it signified.
The pattern on this ring belonged to the Inquisition of the White Church, which had been abolished three hundred years ago. It was said to have been used to judge heretics, witches, and dark races.
Even commoners could be killed by battle priests for showing any sign of peculiarity.
Due to too many wrongful convictions, discontent arose in various countries. The White Church ultimately abolished the Inquisition, executed a batch of priests serving there, and refused to acknowledge that those absurd and outrageous actions were ordered by the pope.
What Joe meant by "legal" was this.
The Inquisition itself was not recognized by the White Church, so this ring wouldn't be pursued by them, because even if it were genuine, it "wasn't" their property.
Clayton glanced at it and noticed that in the box holding the ring, there was a layer of square protrusions beneath the yellow velvet.
He tipped the velvet out, and a note fell onto the table, seemingly left by the ring's previous owner.
"It's rumored that the bishop's rings from the Inquisition are divinely protected. They can verify that their wearer has not been replaced by a shapeshifting monster. Anyone who wears one will reveal their true form instantly."
He glanced at the ring lying quietly on the table. Driven by a strange curiosity, Clayton picked it up, rotating it in his fingers before sliding it onto the pinky of his left hand.
Seconds passed in anticipation—ten seconds, to be exact. Nothing happened.
"Of course it's fake. I'm such an idiot!"
Frustrated, Clayton tried to take the ring off, only to find his fingers too thick for it to budge.
Standing up, he walked to the washroom, intending to use some soap and water for lubrication. But at that moment, a fierce, burning sensation erupted where his skin touched the ring, spreading through his entire body like wildfire. In less than half a second, the pain shot straight to his brain.
His body expanded, tearing through his clothes.
Steel-like black fur sprouted from his pores, covering his entire frame, while even the bare patches of skin turned a deep, dark color. Already quite broad, Clayton's body grew a quarter larger in both height and width, with exaggerated muscles emphasizing his limbs, which retained a surprising sense of grace.
His snout elongated, his ears grew pointed and pulled back, and his head transformed into that of a wolf. Amber-brown eyes glowed in the dark.
Looking down at the torn clothes scattered on the floor, werewolf Clayton scratched his head with a clawed hand, his voice deepened and rumbling from his lupine snout, carrying a hint of surprise:
"Well, well… looks like this time it's the real deal!"