"Rusty Silver Coin."
Outside the shop, a copper-clad sign, hung from a steel pole, got blown about by the night breeze, producing a constant creaking sound, drawing passers-by's attention.
Nevertheless, few people would halt in their steps at the door.
This was how Clayton Bello ran the antique shop on a daily basis.
It's situated at 47 Lemon Street in Sasha City, a location neither particularly good nor bad, allowing for the shop's moderate business.
It was no ordinary shop. Old-time patrons contributed to most of Clayton's revenue.
The Bellos once put down roots in a more southern city of the Kingdom of Dorne. Only after Clayton's parents, who valued family togetherness, passed away was Clayton allowed to settle on, all by himself, another city to live in.
Four years ago, after his discharge from the military, he took over the shop using the severance and his share of the inheritance from his father. An antique shop sat in an industry inextricably linked to the upper-class society. Furthermore, his talent could be considered excellent in running the store. That's why he saw his business prosper and thrive, especially compared with his peers, street vendors, in the BlackRock Street.
At the time, on the second floor of the shop, Clayton Bello donned a mask and an apron, bent over, and fished out five faded medals with long tweezers from a bucket of murky liquid.
They were the Lauren War Distinguished Service Medals that the royalty of Dorne bestowed on the military members who fought more than five battles during the Lauren War. A total of six hundred of them were minted; each bore high commemorative value.
Clayton had seen twenty-four of them; twenty-three out of those were fake, except for one that belonged to himself.
When no antique pieces flowed in, antique dealers had to make some by themselves.
"Mr. Bello, your guest has arrived."
After some knocks on the door, the voice from his female assistant rang out.
"I got it. Miss Charlotte, see you tomorrow. It's your quitting time."
Clayton replied with acknowledgment. He used a lump of sponge to meticulously soak up the corrosive liquid on the fake medals, wrapped them in pieces of silk, then lined them on the workbench.
Taking off the apron, he put on a black jacket and walked downstairs to see the guest.
On the first floor, under the lamplight, a collection of enamelware and crystal figurines glittered In the display cabinet.
Stately swords and blades were mounted on the wall, all unsheathed, seemingly ready for a battle at the next moment.
On the first floor, a brown-haired young man appeared to take no interest in these weapons. Folding his hands behind his back, he studied the rusty, spotted display items in the cabinet. He didn't turn around until Clayton showed up behind him.
"Lieutenant, I haven't seen you in so long."
At first glance of the young man with brown hair dressed in a white suit, Clayton gave him a hug, "Joe, I have no idea you've come back. The memory of our last meeting remains fresh in my mind."
The Lieutenant was Clayton's rank in the army. He went by this pet name among his old buddies even after his retirement from the army.
Both of them had fought the Lauren War in the same battalion.
Joe Mani was the very one who inherited the antique shop, Rusty Silver Coin, from his parents after returning from the battlefield. But back then, Joe entertained thoughts of traveling the world and disliked the idea of being stuck with the small business, so he sold it off to Clayton.
When the two of them stood close by, their distinction became pronounced. Clayton invariably sported a 3-7 part hairstyle and a thick, kingly beard. His facial features looked well-defined, along with a pair of piercing brown eyes, and his stature towered over Joe's.
Seeing that his onetime superior remained unchanged, Joe showed surprise on his face, "Me, too. I am glad to see that you are leading a well-off life here. But today I'm here for business."
He retrieved a small box from his coat pocket and opened it. A silver ring sat atop the goose-down yellow velvet lining. Due to oxidation, it was smeared with some black specks.
"A Bishop's Signet Ring from the White Church, a hard-to-find treasure."
Now that it's back to business, Clayton instantly turned severe. He didn't take the box but instead said, "Such a treasure is indeed precious, but not something to be traded easily."
The White Church was the most popular religion across the Northern World, in which the Kingdom of Dorne was located. Despite the Church's slump following its prime period in the age of cold weapons, a Bishop's Signet Ring stood for the majesty of the Church, which the deed of circulating it in the market defied severely.
"Rest assured, it's absolutely legal, nobody would care about it."
Before Clayton could react, Joe put the box into Clayton's hand, "It's originally a collectible piece from one of my foreign friends, but recently he's hit a rough patch in his business. He sold off these collectibles to fill the funding hole. Owing to our friendship, I bought this piece. But I share no enthusiasm for collecting, so I've brought it up to you."
With resignation, Clayton took the box from him. "How much did you spend on it?"
"Three hundred golden ponds."
Clayton pressed his temples for relief. This was a handsome sum of money, yet it definitely couldn't match the value of a Bishop's Signet Ring.
"Are this friend of yours your gaming buddy?"
"Ha ha..." Joe smiled with embarrassment and winked a couple of times but didn't reply.
Judging from his expression, Clayton surmised that he had returned the Sasha City with some hidden intentions, but definitely not to sell the ring to him.
Clayton immediately closed the box and placed it into his jacket pocket. "I don't have much to say. If you are going to leave Sasha recently, I will deliver the money to your old home after authenticating the ring."
Joe had no objections and then proposed, "Why don't we go for a drink at the Tree House at six tomorrow night, just like how we have done before?"
Clayton had no objections, either.
After some more casual talk, he saw his old comrades off. Then, he cleaned the workspace and turned off the main switch.
The 'Rusty Silver Coin' slipped into darkness. Holding an oil lamp, he went out and locked the door before heading for his rented place, a cheap apartment.
....
Clayton Bello had never finished his college.
He was recruited into the military at eighteen, serving in the cavalry 'Rushing Stream Guard' of Dorne for eleven years.
Back when he had just been enlisted, Line Tactics still predominated on the battlefields. However, as his retirement drew near, Skirmish Tactics had already grown fully refined and been chronicled in the military drill manuals.
At the age of thirty-three, he was still in his prime years, yet Clayton felt as though he were a withering old man.
Rarely did anything piqued his interest.
During his service in the military, his parents succumbed to some illnesses before he could rush home and attend their funerals. His biological brother, who joined him in serving the military, got shot in his heart by a stray bullet in another part of the battlefield, while Clayton himself had witnessed many of his close comrades being bombed into pieces with his own eyes...
What Clayton supplied the military was not only his youth. That's something the least valuable that he lost.
He decided on an antique dealer as his occupation for the promise of some self-changes as he soaked up the culture and history behind historical relics.
Yet, he remained bewildered after four years in this trade, but his skills in forging antiques did develop and grow refined...
After dinner, Clayton walked into his converted study room and took a rest.
The ring left him with some headaches. A potential buyer for the item derived from White Church was hard to come by.
The ecclesiastical artifacts were extensively seen, justifying a sweep of aesthetic fatigue.
In fact, a lot of collectors never cared whether the antique items they bought were authentic or not. They were more hooked on the feeling that they were bringing home a one-and-only thing on the earth. Regardless of its authenticity, the ring's homely look negated much of the possibility of selling it at a high price.
The only way he could manage that was to look for a fanatic of the religion before pitching it to him in flowery terms.
But Clayton was never good at interacting with a devotee.
Clayton's parents were no believers in the White Church, and neither was Clayton himself.
The Bello family had at least one connection with the Church, though. His elder brother had once won over a nun at a monastery and married her, which made the clergy members hostile towards the Bellos in the hometown.
Given his upbringing, it's hardly surprising that Clayton disliked the Church. Outside of that, some of his private issues added to it.
Nonetheless, for now, all that mattered was his business.
He retrieved the ring from his pocket and gazed intently at the signet.
A Bishop's mitre sat atop two crossing tridents, as the engraved pattern portrayed.
The two weapons gave away that it's the belongings of a Bishop who oversaw a combat organization.
Clayton knew what the symbol meant.
The pattern dated back to over three hundred years ago when the Heretic's Tribunal was in place. It's a frightful institution that adjudicated against Pagans, wizards, and Dark Races.
At the slightest sign of abnormality, even ordinary folks would also be hunted by the war priests.
The deluge of wrongful cases caused dissatisfaction among the countries. Eventually, the White Church disbanded the Heretic's Tribunal and executed a host of the priests while denying having sanctioned such ridiculous, reckless conduct.
Since it no longer admitted the tribunal, the Church naturally would not make a fuss about the ring. Even though it was authentic, it couldn't be considered their stuff.
That's what Joe meant by 'legal'.
Clayton glanced at the ring and spotted a square swelling from under the yellow velvet fabric.
He dumped the piece of fabric out from the box before a notepaper landed on the table. Seemingly, it was something left behind by its former owner.
"It's rumored that the Bishop's Signet Ring has the blessings of God and could determine whether or not its owner is replaced by a shape-shifter, who, when putting on the ring, would reveal his true form."
Clayton cast a glance at the ring on the table.
His curiosity was piqued as he picked it up and twisted it onto his left little finger.
He waited with seconds of anticipation.
Yet, nothing took place.
"Sure enough, it's fake! I'm such an idiot!"
Regrettably and irritably, Clayton attempted to pull the ring off, yet unsuccessfully. His little finger seemed too thick.
Walking into the bathroom, he was of the mind to grease his little finger with soap and water.
But right at the moment, the perimeter of where his finger met the ring flared up with a scorching pain that spread to his entire body like wildfire before shooting up to his head momentarily.
His torso puffed up and burst out from his clothes.
His whole body bristled with ebony-dark, needle-like hairs while those hairless parts turned dull black. His originally staggering size grew by another one-fourth, and his muscles bulged and rippled under his skin, but he still appeared gracefully slender.
His muzzle was lengthened, his ears became pointed and soared backward, and his brown eyes were now glinting in the darkness.
Looking down at the ragged and tattered clothes on the floor, Clayton, the werewolf, scratched his head with his sharp fingernails and let out joyful, muffled voices from his muzzle.
"Unbelievable! I've got one authentic this time!"