Ethan dug through the thick stack of documents on the desk and pulled out a popular science booklet titled Getting to Know 100 Types of Dark Creatures.
It was said the author, Augustus, had been an experienced demon hunter—someone who lived in the Fourth Epoch, when evil gods were most active, and was revered as a walking encyclopedia.
Mr. Encyclopedia had died at forty-three, tragically, while searching for information on the one hundred and first dark creature.
As for werewolves—low-level trash among dark creatures—the book offered a detailed explanation.
Ethan quickly found the page.
"Werewolves are followers of Cynthia, the Goddess of the Hunt," Ethan read. "Cynthia is one of the Seven Intermediate Gods."
"Half good, half evil," Ivy replied without looking up. "Though the Hunting Temple is basically a shell now. The dark creatures that follow her just keep increasing."
"That's because of how her believers cultivate."
Ethan had read every book in town that mentioned gods.
No one had ever truly seen a god's form, but all evidence suggested that gods were real—and they were the key to opening the path of transcendence.
Most scholars believed divine power lay far beyond human imagination. Debating a god's "stance" was meaningless; the only practical way to classify them was by judging the good or evil of their followers.
"Intermediate god" didn't refer to strength. It referred to the nature of the faith: followers of the Goddess of the Hunt could become righteous demon hunters… or they could degenerate into dark creatures like werewolves, feeding on humans.
Ethan skipped the book's anecdotes and research notes, distilling the theory into something simple.
"Followers of the Goddess of the Hunt believe humans can gain power from beasts—even monsters. That led them to a technique called imitation. By imitating a beast's way of living, they obtain certain abilities. But along the way, they argued about one critical question—how far should imitation go?"
In theory, the more complete the imitation, the faster one stepped into the transcendent realm. That was common agreement among demon hunters.
But on one key point, the two schools split violently.
"Like whether they should eat humans the way beasts and monsters do."
In the occult world, nearly every system had reached a strange, unspoken consensus about cannibalism—
Once you ate a human, your body and soul underwent irreversible changes.
Only the definition of "change" differed.
Some called it retribution and curse.
Others called it growth and evolution.
"So a werewolf is a believer who ate humans," Ivy concluded.
"To be precise, that's the earliest type of werewolf." Ethan added, "Academic research suggests werewolves can reproduce. They can give birth to werewolf pups."
Ivy's eyes flickered thoughtfully. She unfastened the collar and held it against her pale throat, as if measuring it, while casually asking, "Do you think it looks nice?"
Above her head, that tuft of blond hair was practically throwing a tantrum at Ethan, flailing wildly as if sending him a desperate message—
Can you confiscate that damn collar already?!
Ethan understood loud and clear and continued, "If you judge purely by strength, werewolves are indeed far stronger than demon hunters of the same tier. The downside is that they gradually lose human thought and become driven by instinct."
Ivy stiffened. She tossed the collar aside like she'd been shocked.
"…You mean," she said carefully, "werewolves get stupid?"
"More accurately," Ethan said, "they completely lose the ability to think."
He had hit the weak point of a believer of the God of Truth.
They'd rather die than lose their intelligence.
The tuft of blond hair nodded vigorously, then gave Ethan an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Ethan steered the topic back to the point. "From the perspective of imitation studies, werewolves can't be 'trained.' Even if you force a collar on them, they won't become obedient—they'll just become huskies."
"Huskies?"
"A creature mentioned in ancient texts. A dog with tremendous destructive power. In the Second Epoch, they were even used as siege engines because they could tear houses apart."
"I have heard the saying that dogs are wolves domesticated by humans."
"If you suspect someone captured a werewolf and raised it in the mountains as a monster…" Ethan shook his head. "Then that person lacks basic theory. Once a werewolf wears a collar, it's already betrayed the path of imitation. It can almost never grow again."
Ivy, however, stole a glance at the collar, acting out the phrase still not giving up with her entire being.
"My guess," she said, "is that this collar can turn a person into a dark creature."
Ethan's heart jolted.
If the werewolf in the mountains had been transformed by a cursed object, then that meant it had never had a family in the first place.
But at least…
He had sent it off with a warm Fireball.
He had let it "see grandma" in its final moment.
And now Ivy looked ready—eager, even—to test the collar's effects.
Sheriff Ivy, a pure believer of the God of Truth.
The kind of woman who saw a red button on a wall and couldn't stop herself from pressing it just to see what it did.
"This is a cursed object," Ethan said sharply. "It twists the body, damages the soul. Estimated tier—three or above…"
Tier three?
No wonder Ivy was so excited. Something like this wasn't common in a backwater town like Creekwood.
Ethan glanced at the collar, disassembled on the table.
Something so small and unassuming… yet rated higher than Ivy herself.
Ivy exhaled slowly. "I'll write to the Containment Bureau. If all goes well, a containment team will arrive in three days."
Then she looked at Ethan. "But until then, I still need your help."
Ethan recalled details from a parchment book he'd once read, Encyclopedia of Cursed Items, written by the former director of the Cursed Item Containment Bureau. A young prodigy who'd become director in his early thirties, handling over a hundred cursed objects—
He had died at thirty-three, in a containment failure.
The director's book stated that most curses required a user to fully manifest their threat. Thus, a cursed object's tier was evaluated by a comprehensive assessment of its maker and its danger level.
When Ivy said "tier three or above," she likely meant the maker's level.
Ethan silently reviewed the book's warnings.
Once a tier-three cursed object activated, it could cause immense harm to a town—often leading to dozens of casualties.
Ivy suddenly said, "Go get pen and paper."
Ethan understood. They were beginning the evaluation record. To ensure safe transport and containment, they had to document the object's properties as thoroughly as possible.
Ivy wrote at the top:
Werewolf Collar (Pending Name)
Estimated Curse Tier: Three or Above
Then she explained details of how it was brought back.
"The three hunters didn't notice anything strange on the return trip. But after they met you, the urge to put it on weakened."
She looked at Ethan, voice turning serious.
"From now on, every answer you give matters. Ethan—when you first saw the collar, were you also drawn to it?"
"Not at all."
Not only that… Ethan suspected that from the moment Ivy obtained the collar, the tuft of blond hair on her head had been cursing her nonstop.
He even began to wonder if that tuft itself might be some kind of cursed object.
Ivy nodded and wrote quickly.
"Influence appears linked to number of companions. Correlation with transcendence tier not obvious. Recommended transport: no fewer than two persons."
"Next," she murmured, "we need the curse's actual effect."
She bit the pen, then her eyes lit up.
"Ethan," she said brightly, "why don't you try putting it on?"
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