Werewolf hunting rules

Clayton was not able to work long during the day, however.

At eleven o'clock, the army came.

"Sir, please come with me."

The little messenger stood loosely outside the door. After Clayton opened the door, he subconsciously stood up straight, otherwise he would look even shorter.

Clayton asked the messenger a few questions before he knew the reason.

Although he asked Marietta to conceal their pursuit of Faslag, Faslag was dead after all. His headless body was found that evening, and the nearest Becky Hospital was notified. He was identified by the epaulettes and paraphernalia he wore.

The strange behavior of Clayton and Mary in the military hospital that day is still remembered by many people.

The autopsy results on the death of Lieutenant Charles are confusing, and the role played by the General Sheriff's Department is suspected to be unfair.

Therefore everyone who left the notary's office that day needed to be summoned for questioning.

Creighton was not afraid. He was familiar with military affairs and was confident enough to escape.

Soon, he was led by the messenger to a room in the Santaros Parish military camp. Before entering, he saw the old coroner Achiel coming out of the room with his guard Green, and was led to another room by a soldier. Go to a room.

The expressions on their faces were all calm, and they did not look like they were being questioned.

Marietta was sitting on a bench in the corridor outside, her feet crossed. Two soldiers stood guard next to her, one on the left and one on the right. Their eyes would glance at her from time to time, with a look of resolute vigilance on their faces.

But apart from them, Clayton didn't see Barbara, Julius, and Volentin.

"Next," the room called.

Marietta stood up and went in, Clayton took her place, and the soldiers no longer looked around with alarm.

After the door to the room was closed, Clayton began to pay attention to the sounds in the room, but because the sound insulation effect here was very good, he didn't hear anything.

The door soon opened again and Mary came out.

"Next one." shouted another voice from inside the room.

Clayton saw that no one around him might be willing to go in, so he went in himself.

The situation inside made him feel slightly relaxed.

An officer with a higher military rank than Faslag, a bishop-level cleric, and someone who may be a government official.

No one can be alone.

But he also noticed that the curtains in the room were closed and there was a strange lamp on the table.

The lampshade is made of something like ivory, with many fine carvings on it. The light from the electric lamp shines through the lampshade, showing a warm pink light, making the atmosphere in the room slightly ambiguous.

Under the light, Clayton's exposed parts felt itchy - including his eyeballs.

He raised his hand to cover his eyes, but saw that his palm looked very dark under the light, instead of the thinner flesh and blood transmitting light like it would under normal light.

Clayton saw black flocs in his flesh, some twisted bones and the like, which were proof of a werewolf body.

He had felt them before, but never knew what they looked like, and this lamp gave him some insight.

This lamp seems to be a strange object, but since it is these three companies, it is not surprising that they can come up with such magical objects.

Clayton tensed slightly, but then settled down.

The benefits provided by the Presbyterian Church can only be achieved by contacting the authorities. His identity as a werewolf may not be a secret in the eyes of these people.

"Are you a member of the Presbyterian Church? They seem to have mentioned you, but that was last month." The man who looked like a government official asked. "We are currently investigating Charles's matter. Yesterday's incident was so sudden that we haven't had time to transfer your files. However, we will still search again after the conversation. You should answer carefully."

He emphasized the word "member", obviously not referring to ordinary members of the organization.

"I am."

Clayton paid attention to their expressions, and the clergy he was most worried about didn't react at all.

But it is true that devout believers may be transformed into dark descendants when the dark moon returns. Most of the church's clergy are not heartless religious fanatics.

If it weren't for some of his past thoughts and experiences, Clayton would even have the intention of joining them.

"Of course he is."

The officer put one hand on the armrest, turned to the officer and said coldly: "Everyone knows that the Presbyterian Church is expanding. This has nothing to do with your lazy politics. If these freaks make an appointment to go together one day, I wouldn’t be surprised if you go out on the street and eat children, so who can you expect?”

He didn't even mean to avoid Clayton when he said these words.

"Their behavior is reasonable and purely commercial. We cannot reject legal business practices. We also support limited autonomy for the parish council. It is their own idea to choose who is responsible for public safety." The official said lightly: "If any of this makes you uncomfortable, please write to Her Majesty the Queen and I'm sure she will give a fair verdict."

"You can say whatever you want, but the Queen will know that no matter how many people like you are good at writing official documents, they can't be as powerful as a bullet."

Creighton didn't know how much the officer cared about his country and his people, but his attitude did represent a large part of the army.

It can be seen that Clayton is the first dark descendant they met today, otherwise such a simple topic would have been over before he entered the door.

"Gentlemen, don't forget you are at work."

The Bishop of Santaros reminded them that he was holding a scepter, so Creighton could guess his identity.

The other two restrained themselves a little.

The clergy are still relatively respected, and with their mediation, most people are willing to put an end to the matter for the time being.

"Name?" the officer asked.

"Clayton Bello."

"Occupation?" the official asked. He turned out a new page and prepared to record it. The other two remained motionless and had no intention of writing.

“I make a living selling corny stuff,” Clayton said.

"That's the scrap dealer."

The official was about to put pen to paper as he spoke, but the werewolf had to give up his simple sense of humor and said, "It's very similar, but those old-fashioned things still have a lot of value, and they are all luxuries."

This time the official understood: "That's the antique dealer."

The officer sneered. His face was as calm as usual, and his writing was still in beautiful cursive calligraphy.

"In the case of Lieutenant Charles's murder, what task will the elders give you?"

"Escort body to Becky Hospital."

Clayton told the truth, but the officer clearly didn't believe him, and his tone was poor, befitting his rank.

"Only this one thing? If you can't remember clearly, I can help you again."

Clayton has long been familiar with threats of this level. He didn't feel angry, but rather missed it. There were many officers in the colony who were like this.

There is no direct connection between military rank and intelligence.

"If you check again, you will know that I belong to St. Alvin Parish on the roster of the Sheriff's Department. If I hadn't happened to be familiar with work at the General Sheriff's Department that day and was seen by the clerk responsible for arranging tasks, I might not even have this assignment. , this has nothing to do with my identity."

"Then did you encounter anything special?" the diocese bishop asked him, and then added: "Aqil has already told us that Faslag and the military doctor are suspected of hiding the flesh and blood of Lieutenant Charles' body. , it was he who instructed you and Miss Mary to chase Faslag, so you don’t have to worry about taking responsibility.”

"We haven't caught up with them. How can a man's legs catch up with a horse?"

Clayton insisted.

This is something that must never be admitted. Although the bishop's attitude is sincere, he actually has no power to decide Clayton's treatment.

The people who can really determine the direction of Clayton's future life are the two people next to him.

Now that he has admitted that he has caught up with Faslag, he will probably have to bear a lot of undue responsibility for his death, receive unjust injustice and hatred, and deal with all the red tape on his own.

Clayton didn't need rational thinking to think this way. This was the experience he gained during his time in the army.

"A man has two legs, but you should have more," the officer sneered.

His malice toward the Darkin seemed a little too strong, and the latter couldn't help but wonder if his life had been unsatisfactory recently.

"I'm not crazy enough to show my identity in public."

The officer glanced at the bishop and then continued to ask: "This doesn't prove anything. We lost four horses and a groom was attacked. It's best that you really don't know anything."

"I really don't know anything."