My Werewolf System

Chapter 1585: Slough’s Gate

With every blow Marcus delivered, a powerful, concentrated lightning strike followed it. The combination was devastating; the electricity not only surged through the target with a concussive shock but also amplified the raw, crushing force of his punches.

He hit the monstrous Werewolf multiple times, a relentless barrage of electrified fists that sent its body smashing repeatedly into the alley wall. The brickwork groaned and buckled under the sustained assault, falling apart in dusty chunks.

The destruction was so thorough that the structural integrity of the wall began to fail, crumbling to the point where the interior of the building behind it, which appeared to be the cavernous, debris-filled space of an abandoned shop, was fully visible. The impact reverberated through the very foundations of the block.

He pressed his advantage, knowing that any moment he paused would be a mistake. Finally, Marcus delivered a decisive blow from above, a lightning-charged overhead slam, hitting the Werewolf directly in the head.

The impact sent a massive, shuddering shock straight through its body, driving it hard into the pavement with a sickening crack. Now that the creature was finally stationary and stunned, its movements reduced to pathetic twitches, Marcus didn’t pause for breath. He stepped over the ruined wall of the shop and mounted the creature where it lay.

Both of his fists were glowing with incredible intensity, covered in the condensed Lightning Qi, and he began ruthlessly raining them down on the downed Werewolf. He was in a frenzy, channeling every ounce of his energy and rage into the attacks.

Loud, thunderous shocks echoed through the alley, sounding like a constant, localized storm. The bright blue and white sparks from the continuous electrical discharge constantly illuminated the dark, greasy, graffiti-scarred walls, flashing and momentarily blinding in the gloom. The air itself smelled of ozone and scorched flesh.

The sound was so violent, so unnaturally loud, and so undeniably destructive that no ordinary person in the nearby streets dared to approach the alley. Most who heard it assumed it was a chemical explosion or some catastrophic industrial accident, anything but a man fighting a monster.

The sheer noise suggested immediate, life-ending danger, causing anyone who might have been curious to quickly move away from the scene, choosing the safety of ignorance over the certainty of peril.

Marcus continued the assault, raising his fists and summoning more lightning from his core, pouring it into the devastating, rapid-fire strikes.

But the exertion was catching up to him quickly. Sweat plastered his hair to his temples, his breath came in ragged, painful gasps, and his body, recently healed, was clearly pushing past its limits. The Qi flowing through him felt heavy, almost liquid with exhaustion, but he forced himself to continue the barrage until, finally, he felt the creature’s body go completely limp, and he could strike no more. He slumped over, his arms trembling, until he eventually stopped.

When he did, he stood panting over the broken, steaming mess on the ground. The creature was a mangled ruin, no longer moving, no longer even twitching.

There’s a good chance I went a little overboard with this. But better safe than shredded, Marcus thought, shaking out his tingling, aching hands. He was trying to rationalize the immense use of energy. He had planned to just stun it and take the cash, but the monster’s resilience had forced him to escalate.

He stood up straight, noting a crucial detail about the scene. The body didn’t shrink back into a human form, a process he knew was common for werewolves upon death. Even in death, it remained fixed as that grotesque, patched-up monster. It looked exactly like a creature that had been dragged, screaming, out of a nightmare.

“I know Werewolves are sturdy creatures,” he muttered, his voice raw and hoarse as he looked at the pulverized corpse. “But that was something else entirely. My skills were superior to it, and in a simple fight, a straight one-on-one, it would have been easy to beat. But ‘easy to beat’ and ‘easy to kill’ are two very different things. That thing was incredibly difficult to kill.” The effort it took worried him. If one isolated, feral creature was this tough, what did that say about the threats he was running from?

A cold wave of analytical thought washed over the adrenaline. A part of Marcus wondered if he should have tried to restrain it and somehow extract information from the creature, though he wasn’t sure how.

He still didn’t understand how a Werewolf could look and act like that, like something diseased, twisted, and inherently wrong. But he quickly dismissed the idea. Despite all the taunts Marcus had thrown at it and the immense pain it must have been in, the creature had only responded with wild growls, frantic snarls, and pathetic squeals, like a purely feral beast. It clearly possessed no higher intelligence, no ability to speak or relay information.

With the immediate threat eliminated, Marcus forced himself to address the other problem. He turned his attention to the bodies scattered in the alley. Although what he was about to do was distasteful, a kind of robbery of the dead, he knew he had no choice but to go through them, searching for any money he could use. In the current age, very few people carried large amounts of cash, and using a stolen credit card would be impossible without risking his identity. The sheer number of victims in the alley, horrifically murdered by the monster, was, ironically, a grim convenience, increasing his chances of finding enough loose cash to purchase his ticket to freedom.

As he sifted through the wreckage, his mind was racing. He finally managed to gather enough small bills and change to cover his transportation costs. While he was kneeling among the corpses, the thought about his mission returned. Why had the NIRV founder insisted he go to the Howlers?

Was it purely because they represented the only safe place left in this rapidly dissolving world? He mentally reviewed the founder’s parting words. He was asked not just to hide, but to help them as much as possible. It sounded less like a suggestion of refuge and more like a plea for a mutual exchange, you save me, I help you fight the thing that’s coming.

I wonder, is this strange, hyper-resilient monster a new threat that Lupus and the Howlers have no idea about? Marcus thought, finally rising to his feet, tucking the stolen cash securely into his pocket. I guess it’s something I need to find out for myself. I wouldn’t want the next place I head to to fall down as well, leaving me nowhere to run.

He stood up straight, his gaze sweeping over the silent, dead bodies around him. He paused, giving a quick, solemn bow in a moment of genuine respect, a silent apology for his actions, wishing them well in the afterlife. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but with powerful enemies on his tail, enemies who could freeze his entire financial network, he had no other option but to take what he needed and keep moving. His life depended on it.

Using public transport was his safest bet to keep his scent masked. Marcus boarded a busy local bus heading toward Slough, ensuring he stayed pressed into the most crowded areas of the vehicle, letting the sheer noise and humanity mask his unique scent.

The rhythmic rumble of the bus and the comforting proximity of normal, oblivious people finally allowed his vigilance to drop slightly. Since no immediate trouble found him on the journey, he managed to drift off into a light, desperately needed sleep.

Eventually, the bus reached the outer limits of the town, and Marcus disembarked, feeling slightly less drained. He was certain that even here, in the Howlers’ territory, there would be a few red-eyed watchers keeping tabs on the city.

However, their job would be far more difficult here; the sheer number of Werewolves in the area would be able to smell their presence from a mile away. But now that Marcus had arrived, he knew exactly what he needed to do to find his contact.

He walked around for a short time, observing the town’s atmosphere. It felt different, safer, than the chaotic urban centers he had fled. Finally, his eyes landed on a figure wearing a distinct uniform: black and gold, the unmistakable colors of the Howlers.

He approached the person calmly, his face a mask of determination, his identity ready to be revealed to the people who were supposed to be his enemy.

“I’m from the Dark Guild,” he stated, his voice low and serious. “I need to see your leader, Gary Dem... Can you take me to him?”

****

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