Chapter One: A Good Deed Each Day

‘Your proficiency in Fireball has reached its maximum level.’

The last flicker of flame extinguished, and at last, a look of satisfaction appeared on the face of the young man with ashen hair seated at his desk.

This was Ethan’s second year in this world, and for two years, he had devoted himself to a single pursuit—mastering the Fireball spell.

Four thousand and fifteen prayers, sixteen thousand and sixty castings, and finally, his proficiency in Fireball had reached the pinnacle of perfection.

But soon, Ethan’s smile faded. Compared to others, he was now merely a little more adept at Fireball, the most rudimentary of spells.

Beyond this window lay ancient gods awakening, new deities ascending, and their formidable followers; Ethan had no wish to become entangled with those frenzied beings.

This world was fraught with peril, and the road ahead was long.

Ethan lit the gas lamp in his room. Papers were stacked upon the desk, the topmost being a notice issued by the guild a few days prior.

‘Bounty Target: Werewolf. Estimated Danger Level: Tier One.’

The commission came from Mrs. Royce of the town. A few days ago, her husband had taken a hunting rifle and gone into the woods, never to return. When the guild assembled a search party, they found his half-devoured corpse; the chest cavity had been cleaved open, and the assailant had swallowed his heart.

All evidence pointed to a werewolf—a creature born of failed ascension by worshippers of the goddess of the hunt, reduced to mindless monsters who devoured hearts.

The bounty notice had been written by Ethan himself. He was the scribe of the town’s guild, responsible for recording abnormal incidents, issuing commissions, and tracking their completion. Though the work was tedious, it allowed him to encounter cases of the uncanny without ever leaving his home; from his post, he could monitor the happenings of the town and even the borderlands.

But today, Ethan’s work had suffered a grave oversight.

The cause was the crimson moon outside his window, whose iris rotated occasionally, like the gaze of a colossal eye.

Ethan opened the ancient parchment tome on his desk, consulted the index, and found the relevant chapter.

‘The Blood Moon Ritual.’

He skipped the narrative descriptions and sought out the crucial section. The parchment noted that under the Blood Moon’s influence, the power of evil and aberrant creatures would be greatly amplified. For werewolves, this meant heightened senses, greater strength, swifter speed, and unparalleled regenerative ability.

The Blood Moon also magnified the negative emotions within the hearts of humans, causing them to lose judgment under fear, anger, or greed.

Simply put, it was a field buff that greatly strengthened the dark creatures while weakening humans.

Three seasoned hunters had accepted the commission, each awarded a tier-one badge from the guild. It should have been a fail-proof hunt, but the sudden anomaly changed everything.

In the end, it was Heaven’s wrath and mankind’s lament.

Ethan’s heart was fraught with anxiety.

It was well known that werewolves were social creatures of the dark.

So the question arose: Why was a lone wolf roaming the mountains outside the town? Why had it suddenly attacked a townsman?

Who was casting Fireball into the mountains late at night, and why did his spell proficiency occasionally leap unnaturally?

Was this a distortion of human nature, or a collapse of morality?

At this very moment, the red moon outside scrutinized the suspect Ethan beneath the gas lamp like a famed detective.

Even nature itself seemed to pity the solitary werewolf in the mountains. Ethan imagined that once, it must have been a carefree young wolf, living a secluded yet happy life among the woods, part of a vast pack where every wolf was gentle and kind.

Until one day, several fireballs streaked across the night sky and crashed onto their brows.

Ethan, a resident of the town, knew that someone had cast Fireball into the deep forest over ten thousand times in the past two years, even causing two forest fires. Each number representing proficiency was saturated with the scent of guilt.

The eerie red moon affected Ethan; whenever he closed his eyes, he could foresee the fate of the three hunters.

He heard rustling in his ears and his vision shook violently—it seemed to be one of the hunters, stumbling in panic through the forest. The hunter’s pierced right leg made every step agonizing.

The sounds of pursuit followed closely, and the rapidly moving shadow darted through the underbrush, then leapt onto a branch.

The hunter looked up and saw the shadow pass by; when the nearly three-meter-tall creature dropped from above, a severed arm was thrown before him.

It appeared to be a woman’s arm, marked with the guild’s insignia.

The hunter, terrified, fell to the ground, scrambling backwards on all fours, but the monstrous body sprang and pinned him with ease.

His screams were drowned by the sound of splintering bone; his chest was torn open by claws, revealing a still-beating heart. The monster seized the heart, and devoured it in one gulp.

“Hiss—!”

Ethan, sharing their agony, drew a sharp breath. He experienced the hunter’s terror before death, and the werewolf’s sorrow and rage.

No werewolf ever wished to become a lone wolf; it ought to have hunted with its pack, filling the valley with joy.

This could not go on!

Guilt gradually overwhelmed Ethan’s heart. Since all this had begun because of his Fireball spell, it was only fitting that Fireball should bring it to an end. He resolved to use the warmth of Fireball to soothe the wounds in the lone wolf’s soul.

In that way, they both might find peace.

With this thought, Ethan began his four thousand and sixteenth prayer.

With devout words, a meteor streaked across the distant night sky, the swirling flames igniting the blood-soaked heavens and making the town seem as bright as day.

Ethan had heard the townsfolk say that shooting stars represented hope. The celestial meteor drew ever closer, finally crashing onto the mountain peak like a fallen sun.

Sadly, his experience was still shallow; he could only transform Fireball into the semblance of a meteor. But he believed the lone wolf in the forest had surely seen it.

Then, just as in a fairy tale, the little wolf would see its grandmother in the brilliant light—so gentle, so loving. She would pick it up, hold it close, and carry it away to a world without cold, hunger, or pain.

This was the story of ‘The Little Werewolf Who Bought Fireballs.’

Ethan found solace in this, gazing up at the blood moon hanging high in the night sky. Clearly, the moon approved of his actions, closing its eye and ceasing its cold scrutiny.

Another good deed accomplished today.

‘Helping a child return home to their family.’

Ethan bowed his head, wrote this act of kindness down.

He then extinguished the gas lamp and closed his notebook.

‘The Chronicle of Good People of Creekwood.’

Such was the faintly inscribed title on its cover.