"Hmm, these wounds were inflicted by a sharp object. Sharp... interesting," Zelin muttered, crouching beside the carcass of a dead wolf.

  It had been five days since the attack the village elder described. So far, all Zelin had discovered in the forest were a few cattle bones marked with gnawing teeth.

  Upon inspection, he determined the tooth marks came from a pack of wild wolves and dogs, yielding no useful clues.

  Drawing on his years of experience with monsters, Zelin knew that, aside from ghouls lured by the smell of decay, most monsters didn't stray far from their lairs.

  Even without the primary physical evidence, he believed he could identify the creature if he found other signs of the attack in the forest.

  On the ground, all the wolves except one—devoured by something—had a single fatal wound on their necks.

  The attacker was clearly a seasoned hunter, severing the wolves' arteries in one swift motion and making no extraneous moves afterward. It was a clean, efficient kill.

  Zelin closed his eyes, sifting through his memories of formidable killers.

  But wyverns, ghouls, and werewolves didn't fit the profile of this precise, almost artful attack.

  He examined the teeth and claws of each dead wolf; there was no trace of blood, indicating they hadn't even managed to scratch their assailant.

  Then, he gently parted the blood - soaked fur of one wolf, revealing its fine orange - and - black underfur.

  This indicated that the slain wolf wasn't an ordinary one but a dire wolf, a subspecies only slightly less ferocious than the white wolves of Skellige's wild highlands.

  Even a well - trained soldier couldn't guarantee victory in a one - on - one battle against a dire wolf, let alone against a pack led by one.

  The fact that a pack of wolves, which even professional soldiers would avoid, had been so easily dispatched raised Zelin's estimation of the enemy's threat level.

  Although dire wolves had edible meat and Zelin had once taken a commission to hunt them, the griffin emblem around his neck remained still, signaling no magical presence.

  This ruled out another monster hunter as the killer, since they wouldn't hunt wolves for food.

  Zelin's gaze shifted to an incomplete wolf body among the carcasses.

  The edible parts had been neatly cut away, making the body look like it had been used by an inexperienced butcher for practice.

  It stood in stark contrast to the clean, precise wounds on the other wolves. Even to Zelin, who rarely cooked his own meals, the attacker's actions seemed more like a ravenous frenzy to obtain meat rather than a methodical hunt.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Next to the body, Zelin spotted human - like footprints among the animal tracks. "Just a human hunter... No, it can't be," he thought, looking up.

  The footprints led deeper into the forest. They didn't sink deeply into the muddy ground.

  Using his fingers to measure, he estimated the creature's height to be no more than 1.8 meters and its weight much less than that of an average adult.

  It had recently rained north of the Pontar River, leaving the ground soft and wet.

  Zelin's own footprints were deeper, suggesting the attacker was a lightweight humanoid.

  Typically, those who ventured into the forest to hunt were strong, adult men.

  Since the Conjunction of the Spheres 1500 years ago, the full moon brought increased activity of demons and otherworldly energies to the continent.

  The Wild Hunt could even be seen in the sky during these times. No sane human would choose to go hunting under such circumstances.

  Zelin stood up and closed his eyes, piecing together the clues in his mind: a tool - user, humanoid, lightweight, swift in attack, and a consumer of carrion.

  Could it be a foglet?

  Foglets had powerful arms and sharp claws, capable of slicing through prey as effectively as a human sword.

  They hid in the mist, striking their victims with lightning speed and retreating into the fog if the initial attack failed, waiting for another chance.

  All the evidence at the scene pointed to a foglet. If there had been more chaotic claw marks, Zelin would have suspected a werewolf instead.

  "Anyway, I'd better prepare some sword oil first," Zelin said, untying the potion bag at his waist.

  The bag was crammed with various decoctions, potions, and sword oils.

  Amid the clinking of glass bottles, he pulled out a small vial filled with dark green, viscous liquid. There was barely any potion left in the bottle.

  Recently, ghouls and nekkers harassing the countryside had become unusually active. Farmers in the fields had stopped Zelin several times, asking him to clear the monsters from their rice paddies.

  In return, he usually asked for a filled water bottle or a loaf of bread, knowing they couldn't afford to pay in coin.

  His mind wandered back to a month ago in Ard Carraigh, the capital of Kaedwen.

  Zelin had just completed his Northern Realms Gwent deck and was deeply immersed in the game when a mage named Yang dragged him out of a tavern, subjected him to an electric shock treatment, and then sent him south to the Mahakam Mountains to solve a problem.

  A sense of foreboding settled in his stomach.

  "Sigh, I'll find a herbalist nearby tomorrow to restock my sword oil," Zelin murmured. With a pop, he removed the cork and carefully smeared the sword oil over his silver sword.

  Monster hunters typically carried two weapons: a silver sword for dispatching demons and a steel sword for dealing with humans whose hearts were as dark as any monster's.

  As for smaller weapons like daggers and crossbows, their use varied from hunter to hunter.

  Once the dark green potion fully coated the silver blade, the bottle was nearly empty. Zelin regarded it with regret, then poured the last drops back onto the sword.

  Sword oil could be remade, but if he lost his life in this hunt, not even the five powerful mages of the Council of Wizards on Thanedd Island could bring him back. He knew which was more valuable.

  After applying the sword oil and stowing the empty vial, Zelin took out a bottle of pale purple potion—the Tawny Owl potion.

  Made from a mixture of verbena, arachas venom, and dwarf spirits, this potion could keep a monster hunter energized and strong during battles.

  Monster hunters often faced long, drawn - out fights or spent entire days tracking their prey, yet history recorded no hunter who had succumbed to exhaustion.

  The grandmaster of the Griffin School, a respected elder, had told young apprentices countless times: "To succeed in hunting, you must seize the moment and run like a rabbit."

  While Zelin had never tested whether he could actually outrun a rabbit after taking the potion, he was confident he could turn one into a roasted meal before it knew what hit it.

  He quickly gulped down the potion, swallowing it before his taste buds could register the bitterness, then rinsed his mouth with water.

  After discarding the empty bottle, Zelin smacked his lips.

  The bitterness lingered, but he paid it no mind.

  "Come on, let's see what you really are..."