BOOM!
The gunshot was deafening.
A swarm of buckshot obliterated the werewolf's skull, turning bone and brain into red mist.
"Lost lamb, return to the Lord's embrace."
Rod slowly extended his hand.
Sacrifice!
A flash of light, and the headless corpse vanished instantly.
He felt the familiar surge of power, but it was noticeably weaker than before.
The Law of Diminishing Returns. As his base power increased, the energy required to level up grew exponentially. Sacrificing the same tier of creature yielded less feedback each time.
Rod holstered the sawed-off shotgun smoothly.
God might forgive all sins, but Rod's job was simple.
He was just arranging the meeting.
The militia stood frozen, their faces a kaleidoscope of shock, terror, and disbelief.
They had just witnessed the impossible.
A fully transformed, feral werewolf—an apex predator that usually required a blood sacrifice to stop—had been deleted from existence in seconds.
It felt less like reality and more like a fever dream.
"Can I come in now?"
Rod looked at the awe and fanaticism burning in their eyes. He wasn't surprised.
This world operated on the law of the jungle. Strength was the only currency.
In a peaceful society, a man like him would be feared as a monster.
But to these villagers, living under the constant shadow of death, he wasn't a monster. He was a messiah.
"Please! Come in!"
The squad leader snapped out of his trance. He frantically ordered his men to clear the barricade.
They looked at Rod with reverence as he stepped through the gate.
Finally, the leader couldn't hold back his curiosity.
"Are you... could you be the legendary Demon Hunter, Constantine?"
Constantine?
Rod paused, surprised by the name drop.
He didn't know the lore of this specific world, but having a pre-established identity would make things infinitely easier. Why waste time explaining himself when they were handing him a legend on a silver platter?
He didn't confirm it. But he didn't deny it, either.
Taking his silence as confirmation, the militia exchanged excited glances.
Constantine! The Demon Hunter whose name echoed across the Southern Continent! The man who hunted nightmares for sport!
If this man really was him, their village might actually survive the winter.
"Where is it?!"
"Where's the wolf?!"
"Kill the beast! Don't let it breach the wall!"
A cacophony of shouts erupted from the town square.
A mob of villagers, armed with pitchforks, torches, and rusty blades, came charging toward the gate.
They arrived ready for war, only to find a calm stranger and a few stunned guards.
"The bell rang! Where is the enemy?"
A man in his fifties pushed through the crowd. His face was stern, his authority palpable. The Village Chief.
"Chief! A werewolf attacked, but it's already dead!" the squad leader reported, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Dead?"
The Chief froze.
He didn't say anything, but his eyes narrowed with profound skepticism.
Dead? By who? You lot?
He looked at the ragtag militia. Expecting them to kill a werewolf was like expecting a toddler to strangle a bear.
"Chief, this is the famous Demon Hunter, Constantine."
"He killed the beast single-handedly! I saw it with my own eyes!"
The squad leader gestured dramatically to Rod.
"Constantine?"
"The Legendary Constantine?"
A ripple went through the crowd. Whispers turned into shouts. Skepticism turned into hope.
Living in this village was a slow death sentence. The wolves were getting bolder, hungrier. Every few weeks, someone disappeared. It was only a matter of time before the walls failed.
But if a legendary hunter was here...
As the militia recounted the battle—embellishing Rod's one-shot kill into an epic duel—the villagers began to believe.
"Mr. Constantine! Please, you have to save us!"
"We'll pay you! We'll give you everything we have!"
Rod found himself surrounded by a desperate, adoring mob. He smiled politely, but his eyes were scanning the room.
His gaze landed on the Village Chief.
Unlike the others, the Chief didn't look relieved. He looked... annoyed. Disturbed, even. Like Rod was an unwanted variable in a carefully calculated equation.
Interesting.
"Seems like this village has more skeletons in its closet than just wolves," Rod muttered under his breath.
Escorted by the crowd, Rod was led to the village's only inn.
"Mr. Constantine, it's late. Please, rest here tonight."
"We can discuss the wolf problem in the morning."
The innkeeper, a bustling middle-aged man, was practically bowing as he spoke.
"This is our finest suite. I'll have a hot meal sent up immediately."
"I don't have any local currency," Rod said flatly.
"Sir, you killed a werewolf. You saved our lives. Your money is no good here."
The innkeeper looked offended at the very idea of charging him.
"Everything is on the house. We only ask that you help us clear the forest."
Then, the innkeeper leaned in closer, a knowing, conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.
"You must be exhausted, Mr. Constantine. Please, relax and enjoy this... wonderful night."