"Old Wolf King"? Sounds like the head of some werewolf pack.
What she's saying—does this so‑called Wolf King forbid me from selling pork?
That bossy?
Glen's thoughts wandered, and he forgot to speak for a second, just staring blankly.
Miss "Not‑Normal" noticed his distraction and smiled lightly, pulling his attention back to her.
"Well? Mister Werewolf, any fear yet? You're not thinking you've gained a little power and now you're invincible, are you? That Old Wolf King is terrifying—he could take ten of you without breaking a sweat."
Glen looked at her expectant, I‑can't‑wait‑to‑see‑you‑panic expression and didn't answer her question. Instead, he said impatiently, "Are you gonna buy or not?"
"Huh?" Miss Not‑Normal was stunned again, then her face twisted with annoyance. "You're mocking me?!"
Glen rolled his eyes. "Mock you? How? Hurry up—buy if you want, don't buy, then get out of the way and stop messing with my business."
Miss Not‑Normal was so mad at his brusque attitude that she actually laughed. What kind of status does this wild werewolf think he has? And what's my status? She'd only come over because it was novel to see a werewolf selling meat in a human town, thought she'd have some fun and kill time.
Otherwise, why bother with such a low‑class creature? But his repeated refusal to play by normal rules made her feel mocked.
"Filthy, low‑class creature! Do you know who I am?!" Her pupils turned from black to bright red, and a terrifying killing intent abruptly enveloped Glen.
Glen didn't flinch. Mimicking her earlier move, he braced both arms on the counter, leaned in close, and locked eyes with her crimson gaze. His voice was firm, each word deliberate. "Get. Lost."
The last word dropped into a low, demonic tone, pressing down on her hard.
"You!" Miss Not‑Normal's chest heaved with rage; one hand gripped the wooden support pole, nails piercing through her glove with a squeak.
She was furious—normally, a werewolf of this level would've had its will crushed by her killing intent, left trembling on the floor.
But this man wasn't affected at all. He even dared to talk back?
Just as Glen thought she'd attack, Miss Not‑Normal took a deep breath, swept away her anger, and smiled again. "Mister Werewolf, what's your name?"
"I thought you were gonna throw down," Glen said, rolling his eyes. "Name's Glen. Full name, Glen Nibanklu. If you've got a problem, come find me."
Miss Not‑Normal nearly boiled over again. "Fight? I'm not like your vulgar, low‑class brutes."
She softly repeated his name. "Fine, I'll remember you, Mr. Glen. We'll meet again."
With that, she turned to leave. Glen frowned and quickly called out, "Aren't you gonna tell me your name? That's downright rude!"
"Who are you calling rude?!" Miss Not‑Normal lost it again.
"So what's your name?"
"Murphy! Murphy Elton!"
Glen repeated the name. "Hm, easy to remember."
"Anything else, Mister Werewolf?" Murphy's tone turned icy.
Glen gave her a bold once‑over, looking her up and down until she was barely holding back an explosion. "You a vampire?"
He kept his voice low so the passersby wouldn't hear.
Murphy's expression stiffened. "You haven't even figured out my race yet?"
Glen nodded.
Murphy, hating the move but unable to resist, covered her face. "As a race opposed to ours, you're a total failure!"
"So you really are a vampire…" Glen mused. "…Then why are you here—here to hunt for food?"
He got ready to act; if she said yes, he'd take her down on the spot.
"Who says our kind has to drink human blood?" Murphy shot back, then glanced at the civilians nearby with disgust.
"These humans don't bathe—filthy. Even some so‑called nobles don't bathe and try to cover their stench with even fouler smells. Disgusting! I'd rather die than bite one of them!"
"A noble, elegant vampire like me only drinks from magical and clean beings. Only they're worthy of me."
Hearing that, Glen relaxed a bit. He didn't care if she was hiding her real purpose—he just kept agreeing.
"Exactly! I think we, lowly, dirty creatures, really aren't fit for your noble status. Go find those who are worthy."
Murphy's lips curled, and she gave a light sniff. "You've got some sense—and self‑awareness."
She straightened her pretty hat, lifted her chin, and walked into the crowd.
Glen watched until she disappeared, but her distinctive scent lingered. He muttered, "This town's not as peaceful as it looks…"
The flow of people thickened as evening approached.
Glen still hadn't sold all his black boars. Looking at the scattered civilians on the street, he decided to pack up.
Total earnings this time: just over a thousand copper coins—less than half of last time. He'd have to deal with the leftover meat himself.
He bundled up the trash, closed his eyes, and twitched his nose, sniffing the air for a familiar scent.
A few seconds later, he opened his eyes. "Found it."
Zeroing in on the direction, Glen headed for his target with the sled.
…
"Bonnie, come down and eat something. Really, you can't keep going like this. I'm worried."
In a plain two‑story house, a middle‑aged woman stood on the stair landing, eyes full of worry as she looked up to the second floor.
"I'm not hungry, Mom. I just want to be alone." A listless voice came from upstairs—definitely a young girl.
"But if you don't eat, your health will suffer."
"If I get hungry, I'll come down and eat. Don't worry too much, Mom. You eat first."
"But…" The woman finally lowered her head, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deeper.
She stared at the rye bread and stewed bean soup on the table and lost her own appetite, just sitting and brooding.
Knock knock.
Two knocks broke her train of thought. She quickly got up to open the door, wondering who it could be—probably her daughter's friends; they usually came to visit.
As the door creaked open, a strange young man stood outside, and the woman's guard shot up.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm a friend of Bonnie's. I heard she's been feeling down, so I came to check on her. Sorry for dropping by uninvited."
Glen spoke first, greeting her clearly.