Chapter One
The Echoes of the Bloodshroud Pact-Part1
Section 1.1: Shadows Under the Nightfall
The cold wind of the winter night swept through the narrow streets of the Imperial Capital, slicing through the clothes of pedestrians like a blade, stealing the remnants of warmth. Neon lights spread across the damp pavement, casting vibrant reflections, while street vendors huddled behind their scarves, puffing out warm breaths as they waited for the last few customers.
Kael stood at the mouth of an alley, pulling his hood lower to let the night swallow his silhouette. His frame was tall, with broad shoulders, and beneath his worn coat, his muscles were as hard as steel. His skin was paler than most, bearing the sickly pallor of someone who had not seen the sun in years. But what was most unforgettable were his golden-brown eyes.
They glowed faintly in the darkness, like a beast lurking in the forest, always ready to catch its prey.
His fingertips curled slightly, and a faint sting spread through his palms—the cold of the winter night had crept deep into his bones. He glanced at his nails, slightly longer and sharper than those of an ordinary person, a trace of his wolfish heritage that even with his daily efforts to file them down, could never be erased. He licked his slightly cracked lips, a dryness settling in his throat.
In the distance, a stray dog poked its head out from the shadows, curling its tail and eyeing him warily. Kael’s gaze met the dog’s briefly, and he could hear its faint, hurried heartbeat, sensing the rush of blood through its veins.
A primal impulse stirred deep within his chest, and he instinctively clenched his fists, suppressing the wildness within him. Hunger was not merely a physical need, but a bone-deep instinct.
But he couldn’t indulge.
The streets grew quieter as the night wore on, people hurried into warm houses, while Kael took a step toward the direction of the port.
The morning dock was thick with the smell of dampness. Workers stood in small groups, smoking and chatting, while Kael silently sat beside a pile of crates, tying his shoes.
“Hey, big guy!” The foreman called out from afar, waving a list filled with cargo numbers. “Are you working today?”
Kael said nothing, simply nodding. He stood, walked over to the truck, and single-handedly lifted a sack larger than his own frame, carrying it steadily on his shoulder.
The foreman clicked his tongue and muttered to his assistant, “He’s got insane strength. I really don’t know what he eats.”
Kael heard the comment but showed no reaction.
“Hey! Lend a hand!” A fellow temp complained, trying to lift a heavy iron box. Kael didn’t say a word. He walked over, effortlessly lifting the box with one hand and placing it on the shelf.
The man slapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “You’re a freak.”
Kael didn’t respond, simply giving a polite nod before resuming his work.
He knew he couldn’t stand out too much, nor could he afford to appear cold or distant. He had to live on the edge of human society, remembered but not suspected.
That was his survival rule in this age.
Nearby, a young worker whispered, “He comes to the docks every day, works without saying much. I hear he stays in an old warehouse in the East District at night, alone.”
Another worker chuckled dismissively. “Guys like him are either being hunted by their past, or waiting for the right opportunity.”
Kael ignored the gossip. His hearing was sharper than most, able to discern whispers even in the noise. But those words were irrelevant to him. He only cared about the pay for the day, and whether he could return safely to his world once the night fell.
He stood quietly in the corner of the dock, the damp air of the harbor growing thick in the night. His gaze swept over the tired human workers, watching them sit on crates, smoking cheap cigarettes, talking about mundane home matters. To them, the day’s toil was ending, and they could return home to await the next ordinary morning.
But Kael had no home. His life was far longer than those fleeting humans, and what he awaited was not another calm morning.
He had lived for three hundred and fifty years.
For a werewolf, this was not long. He was still at the peak of his life, his body and will unyielding. Yet, compared to these mortals whose lives burned out like candles, his time had long surpassed their comprehension. He had seen generations of humans age and die, witnessed the rise and fall of countless dynasties. And to them, his face would never change. He could live for thousands of years, but human memory only lasted a few decades.
His fingers brushed against the edge of his coat, as if touching a past devoured by time. He had once had a home, once had kin, once had faith. Back then, he was young, only a hundred and twenty years old, the blood of the wolf burning within him. He had once naively believed that the future of the wolf clan still held hope.
But in a single night, everything had been crushed under fire and the butcher’s blade.
He had once thought time would dull his hatred, but the massacre had never faded from his memory. Even after more than two hundred years, the figures falling in pools of blood were still clearly imprinted in his nightmares. Werewolves were a long-lived species, their lives long enough to endure pain that would outlast human lifespans.
Kael slowly closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The damp night wind passed through his fingers, and his form disappeared into the shadows, as he had always hidden within the shadows of this world.
Night fell, and the temperature in the city dropped sharply. A faint haze filled the streets. The bustling harbor, which had been crowded with people during the day, was now quiet. Kael walked along the narrow alley, avoiding the bright streetlights, heading toward a corner of the Imperial Capital.
His destination was the ancient library hidden in the steel jungle.
The library stood quietly in a corner of the city, its red brick walls covered with vines. The copper plaque at the entrance had rusted and faded, its inscriptions nearly illegible. It seemed like a forgotten relic of the world, waiting for a true seeker to uncover its secrets.
Kael gently pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the musty smell of paper and old wood filled the air. The cold, damp air lingered in the room. He walked between familiar bookshelves, his footsteps silent against the thick carpet.
“It’s you again.”
The librarian, an elderly woman with reading glasses, looked up from behind the counter. She didn’t say much but simply nodded.
Kael gave a slight nod in return, acknowledging her. He knew that conversations here were always brief.
He walked down to the lower level, passing through rows of bookshelves, arriving at a seemingly ordinary wooden wall. His fingers felt along the seams of the wall, eventually finding a slightly raised mechanism. With a gentle push, the wall slid open, revealing a hidden stone staircase.
Descending the staircase, he entered a low-ceilinged chamber, the walls adorned with ancient oil lamps, their faint glow illuminating dust-covered bookshelves. Here, in this hidden space, was the true treasure trove of the wolf clan’s knowledge.
Kael skillfully pulled out a yellowed leather-bound tome, his fingers tracing the rough pages. He flipped through the pages, his gaze lingering on the ancient words.
His eyes paused on one word—“Blood Pact.”
Kael whispered it softly, his heartbeat quickening in rhythm with the words.
His fingers slid slowly over the pages, as though touching a long-buried secret. The key his father had given him before his death was the token that led him here. The downfall of the Bloodshroud Pact, the exile of the wolf clan, the lost oaths... everything was tied to this library.
But the real question was—did this world still believe in contracts?
Kael gently closed the book and looked up at the dim oil lamp.
The night wind blew through the window on the floor, bringing a chill. He stood slowly, tightened his coat, and pushed open the door leading into the night.
He stepped into the darkness, his silhouette silent and unseen.
No one would notice the lonely wanderer as he walked toward the intersection of fate.
Section 1.2: The Forgotten Pact
The cold wind gently brushed against the library’s windows, as if it were the whispers of the night. The candlelight on the floor cast flickering shadows, and Kael’s fingers slowly glided over the leather cover of the ancient manuscript, brushing away the dust accumulated over the years. He turned the yellowed pages, his eyes moving across the ancient text line by line.
“When the earth sleeps, the night wolves hum in the snow.”
“When the fire ignites, the blood pact is sworn.”
Kael frowned slightly. He had read countless similar texts, but the origin of the wolf clan seemed to always be shrouded in mystery. There was no concrete evidence, no clear beginning—everything seemed intentionally hidden, leaving only vague legends that had been passed down through the ages.
Long ago, before the earth was divided into kingdoms, the northern forests stretched endlessly, and the cold winds blew across the primal world. In a forgotten era, a hunter entered the territory of the wolf clan. His name had faded into the dust of time, but his story became the starting point of the intertwined fate between the wolves and humans.
That winter was particularly harsh. The hunting grounds were covered in ice and snow, food was scarce, wild beasts roamed looking for prey, even attacking human villages. The hunter ventured deep into the icy plains. He had originally been hunting for game but found a she-wolf lying in the snow by a frozen lake.
Her fur was soaked in blood, and the snow around her was torn with streaks of blood. Her golden eyes still burned with wildness but were filled with deep pain.
The hunter should have ended her life—that was the instinct of a hunter. But instead, he lowered his bow, took out dried meat, and fed the nearly lifeless she-wolf.
The campfire burned in the snowstorm, and the hunter built the simplest shelter to shield from the cold, while the she-wolf curled up opposite the fire. Her golden eyes flickered in the night. The hunter watched her quietly, wondering if she would survive, but his body had stiffened from exhaustion and the cold, and his consciousness blurred. Just as the firelight was about to extinguish, he finally couldn’t bear the invasion of the cold night and fell into unconsciousness.
In the darkness, he felt a warm breath draw near, a strange, soothing sensation wrapping around his body. In the firelight, the she-wolf slowly moved closer, lowering her head to lick the hunter’s frostbitten skin. Her body warmth seeped through the rough animal skin and into his flesh. She bent over, her golden eyes reflecting a strange light in the night.
When the hunter opened his eyes again, his gaze froze—where the she-wolf had been, there was now a woman.
Her skin was like snow under the moonlight, smooth and radiant with life. Her long, black hair cascaded down her shoulders, highlighting her high collarbones and delicate frame. Her curves resembled the mountains gently touched by the evening breeze, perfectly formed. Her waist was slender, yet carried immense strength. Her long legs were resilient, as if made for running and hunting.
What kept the hunter’s gaze fixed was her eyes—still those golden wolf-like eyes, sharp and mysterious, yet tinged with an unusual tenderness.
She gently raised her hand, her fingertips caressing the hunter’s cheek, cool to the touch, yet giving him an inexplicable warmth.
“You saved me,” she whispered, her voice like the murmurs of the forest—soft and seductive.
The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but her fingertip gently pressed against his lips. Her movements were gentle, but carried an irresistible force. She bent down, her warm breath brushing against the hunter’s neck. The hunter could feel her hot breath, smell the wildness in her scent—a strange mix of snow, pine, and blood.
Her lips slowly pressed against his skin. The hunter shuddered. His mind hadn’t fully awakened, but his reason was slipping away. He instinctively reached out and touched her smooth back, feeling the strength hidden beneath her skin.
Her arms wrapped around him, pressing against his body, radiating primal warmth. Her kiss fell on his throat, shoulders, and chest, tender yet firm, like an invisible brand being imprinted on him. Her palm slid down his arm, guiding him, drawing him deeper into the warmth of the cold night.
The firelight illuminated their intertwined figures. The hunter was enveloped in her warmth, his consciousness dissolving completely in the heat of the moment.
That night, the she-wolf saved the life of the kind-hearted, brave hunter with her body.
When dawn arrived, the hunter awoke from his heavy dreams to find himself still lying by the campfire, the woman gone. Only a faint paw print in the snow remained, proof that their meeting was not a dream.
The hunter silently looked at the mark, raised his hand, and felt his pulse—something new seemed to be flowing in his veins.
From that night onward, the bloodlines of the wolf clan and humans merged, giving birth to the first werewolf.
But the true meaning of this pact went far beyond that.
Kael slowly closed the book, remaining silent for a long time.
This was the most widely spread legend about the origin of the wolf clan, passed down for hundreds of years. Yet, even so, it was still just a legend, lacking solid proof, and many descendants of the wolf clan no longer believed in this story.
But Kael knew, this was not just a legend.
Before the fall of the Bloodshroud Pact, he had once overheard the elders whispering in the dead of night, speaking with almost reverent tones about the existence of the “blood pact.” And his father—the man he had hardly ever known—had given him the key to this library on his deathbed, saying only one thing:
“We were once their shadows.”
Kael’s gaze darkened. That was the wolf clan’s catastrophe, the beginning of their ultimate loss of their place.
Kael’s fingertips lightly slid across the ancient parchment, the pages etched with thousands of years of the wolf clan’s history. His eyes paused on a passage about the life cycle of the wolves. The writing was strong, like a warning left through time.
“The bloodline of the wolf clan flows like a river, their years longer than humans. From the moment a wolf awakens its wisdom, it begins an endless journey.”
Werewolves were different from humans. Their lives were measured in centuries, not decades. The growth of the wolf clan was divided into several stages, each with its own unique mission:
Before the age of twenty, their growth was similar to that of humans—strong bones, awakening consciousness, but they had yet to reveal their true power. From twenty to a hundred years, their blood burned hot, their bodies began to exhibit extraordinary abilities—speed, strength, and perception, all surpassing humans by several times. They learned survival and combat within the clan, undergoing harsh training. From a hundred to three hundred years, the wolf clan entered its golden age. Warriors’ bones became as hard as steel, and their muscles and nerves coordinated to perfection. They were the backbone of the clan, controlling the battlefield, fulfilling the blood pact, and defending the honor of the wolf clan. From three hundred to five hundred years, while their bodies remained strong, their minds grew deeper. They no longer fought purely by instinct but used strategy. They became the leaders of the clan, influencing the survival of the wolf clan.
Few wolves lived beyond five hundred years. Their wisdom was like an abyss, and their blood carried a thousand years of memories. Anyone who underestimated these aging wolves would make their final mistake.
Kael’s fingertips traced the pages. His gaze was deep. This was the cycle of the wolf clan, but in this long life, they also endured more pain. The brevity of human lives made it easier for them to forget past grudges, but the wolves had to bear the pain and hatred that could not be relieved for centuries.
He himself was the best example.
