Fifteen Years Later in London
The night was bitter cold, lashed by a relentless downpour that drowned London in a curtain of rain. The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, snatching at the falling droplets and hurling them sideways.
A few miles beyond the city, in the suffocating darkness of the woods, two figures moved in eerie unison. Clad in long black hooded leather coats, they advanced with deliberate slowness, their bodies slightly hunched, every step measured and cautious. The occasional flash of lightning revealed their rain-soaked faces.
One of them, a broad-shouldered young man with a powerful frame, led the way. Thomas, a seasoned monster hunter, moved with the quiet precision of a predator. His sharp eyes, narrowed against the rain, never wavered from the path ahead. A crooked nose, high cheekbones, and a square jaw gave him the look of a man carved from stone. His knee-length leather coat clung tightly to his muscular frame, the open front revealing the defined ridges of his back and shoulders. His left hand swept aside the overgrown grass obstructing his path, while his right gripped the gleaming silver sword at his side—a long, triangular blade with a cruciform hilt, its edge honed for slaughter.
Behind him, matching his movements with silent efficiency, was his younger brother. Marlon had a leaner build, his oval face smooth and unreadable, with sunken lower eyes and a sharp, straight nose. Like Thomas, he wore the same black coat, but his weapon of choice was a black iron crossbow, its silver bolt loaded and ready. Beneath the drenched leather, a soaked gray shirt and dark jeans clung to his frame. A bandolier of silver-tipped bolts circled his thigh, and a heavy black pack weighed down his shoulders.
Not far ahead, a grotesque sight awaited them.
At the edge of a yawning cliff, where the forest gave way to nothingness, stood an ancient, solitary tree—massive and gnarled, its roots clawing into the earth like skeletal fingers. And beneath it, feasting on its grisly prize, was the beast.
A monstrous, wolf-like creature, towering over two meters tall, stood hunched on two legs. Its muscular arms, thick with coarse brown-black fur, ended in claws slick with blood and rainwater. A long snout bristled with jagged, bloodstained fangs, and its wide back heaved with each ravenous bite.
In its grasp was the mangled corpse of a red-haired girl, her lifeless eyes wide with terror, her skin drained of color. Blood gushed from the gaping wounds in her torso, mixing with the rain in dark rivulets. The beast tore into her flesh with savage delight, shaking her limp body like a ragdoll as it devoured her.
Yet the hunters did not falter. They moved closer, silent as shadows, their breaths steady despite the horror before them.
Ten meters away, they halted, pressing their backs against separate trees in perfect unison. Thomas raised a clenched fist—halt. Then, with two fingers, he pointed to his own eyes before gesturing toward the beast. Watch. Wait.
Marlon nodded.
Thomas dropped low, chest nearly brushing the ground, and slithered forward through the undergrowth. Marlon, meanwhile, steadied his crossbow, his aim unwavering despite the storm's fury.
The only light came from the bruised, storm-choked sky above. The stench of fresh blood and wet earth hung thick in the air—perhaps enough to mask their scent from the beast, who remained oblivious, lost in its gruesome feast.
Then—
"Now!" Thomas' voice shattered the silence.
The beast froze, its head snapping up.
Before it could react—THWACK!
A silver bolt buried itself deep into the creature's back. Sparks erupted from the wound, hissing even in the rain. The beast threw back its head and howled, a sound so deafening it seemed to shake the very trees.
Enraged, it whirled, claws raking at the bolt lodged in its flesh—
THUNK!
Another impact. This time, a gleaming silver sword erupted from its chest, the tip bursting through its ribcage in a shower of ember-like sparks. Thomas, gripping the hilt with both hands, drove the blade deeper.
With a furious roar, the beast twisted, its massive arm swinging backward—
CRACK!
The blow sent Thomas flying. He crashed through the underbrush, skidding to a stop on his back, gasping for air. Pain flared through his ribs, but he gritted his teeth, pressing a hand to his chest as if to push the agony away.
Meanwhile, the beast staggered, its movements growing sluggish. Its furious thrashing weakened, its howls turning into choked, guttural rasps. Then—the unthinkable happened.
Its fur peeled away, sloughing off like rotting flesh. Its skin split apart, not with blood, but with a grotesque, almost surgical precision—like the flaying of a butchered animal. Beneath the shedding pelt, human skin emerged—raw, red, and blistered, as if freshly scalded.
The werewolf was no more.
Only a man remained—naked, trembling, and dying in the mud.
Marlon sprinted toward the bushes where his brother had been thrown.
"Thomas!! You good!?" he shouted.
Even when raised, his voice remained soft, nearly drowned out by the relentless downpour around them.
"Here!" Thomas' voice came from behind a split thicket a few meters from the tree.
Marlon rushed over and found his older brother lying on his back, clutching his chest.
"Tom, you alright?" Marlon repeated, his tone laced with worry.
"Just bruises, I think. Lucky the claws missed," Thomas grunted in reply.
"How'd you get launched that far, chubs?" Marlon teased.
Of course, Thomas wasn't fat—but compared to Marlon's lean, wiry frame, his brother was undeniably broader.
"Shut up and help me up, princess," Thomas shot back, extending a hand.
Marlon rolled his eyes but grabbed his brother's arm, yanking him upright—only to nearly topple over himself from Thomas' sheer bulk.
"That was the biggest damn werewolf we've ever hunted," Marlon muttered, staggering slightly as he steadied himself.
"Yeah, no kidding. We're gonna need so much beer after this," Thomas said, clapping Marlon on the shoulder.
"Let's take a look," he added, brushing dirt off his clothes with his free hand.
Marlon took a deep breath and followed Thomas toward the massive tree where the bodies lay.
Once there, Marlon dropped his backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out a folding shovel. Meanwhile, Thomas crouched, examining the corpses.
Gently, Thomas pressed his fingers against the dead woman's eyelids, closing them. The furrow between his brows deepened in silent sympathy.
"She's our age, Marlon. She should've had a whole life ahead of her," he murmured, straightening her legs.
Then he moved to the male monster's body, tilting it to retrieve the silver sword still embedded in its flesh before laying it back down with care.
Marlon stood beside him, the extended shovel resting on his shoulder. His hollow eyes fixed on the dead woman. His athletic but slender frame cast a sharp silhouette against the ashen sky.
Expressions didn't come easily to Marlon. His face—smooth, handsome, yet cold—rarely betrayed emotion. Perhaps only Thomas could read him, having been by his side since their mother's death. Marlon had been too young when he witnessed her unnatural demise, a wound that never truly healed.
Thomas knew he had to fill the void in their fractured family. As the eldest, he had to be the strong one.
Their father, Roger Holter, was a high-ranking member of the International Hunters' Guild—a position that forced him to abandon his sons to their aunt's care and the London Hunters' Organization in their early teens.
Unlike other youths their age—carefree, chasing dreams—they had only ever mastered one thing: hunting.
Marlon was a reclusive genius, his potential locked behind self-imposed limits. Few things in this world held his interest, and monster hunting was one of them.
Thomas, despite his youth, was already on the verge of leading their city's hunter faction.
Marlon turned away, searching for flat ground to dig. Meanwhile, Thomas remained fixated on the bodies—until something caught his eye.
"This tattoo," Thomas said, lifting the male monster's hand toward Marlon.
A tribal design—flames shaping fangs, framed by two crossed swords—covered nearly the entire back of the hand.
Marlon stopped digging, his gaze locked on the mark.
"Royal Canine."
Thomas' expression darkened. "No wonder it was a tank. What's their deal in our city?"
The Royal Canine were an elite werewolf clan—rarely violent, more diplomatic and intelligent than other werewolves, who saw humans as mere prey.
"They never stray far from their kingdom in Germany. What made this one reckless enough to come all the way to London?" Thomas muttered, more to himself.
"Doesn't matter how 'royal' they are—we'll waste 'em if they step out of line," Marlon said casually, resuming his digging.
"It's not that simple with the Royal Canine, Marlon. We have to be careful. They hunt tactically—not just for food."
"Then what made this one so sloppy?" Thomas murmured under his breath.
Ignoring him, Marlon kept digging.
By the time the grave was ready, the rain had eased. The thick gray clouds parted, revealing a brilliant full moon.
Marlon sat beside the pit, scrolling through his phone, his hood now down. His glossy black waves nearly covered his left eye.
Thomas stood inside the grave, shovel resting on his shoulder, wiping sweat from his brow. His own wavy brown hair peeked from beneath his open hood.
"This should do it," Thomas said.
But seconds later—a long, guttural howl tore through the night.
Both brothers froze, their heads snapping toward the sound before locking eyes in silent understanding.
"Move your ass, Marlon!" Thomas barked, leaping out of the grave and snatching up his sword.
Marlon scrambled for his crossbow, reloading swiftly. He braced the weapon against the ground, slotting a silver bolt from his thigh holster before cocking it.
"Hurry, Marlon!" Thomas urged, already moving.
Marlon sprinted after him, grabbing his black backpack mid-run.
They charged back into the trees, Thomas far ahead—unburdened by gear.
"Wait up, lardass! You tryin' to die solo!?" Marlon yelled, his voice shaking as his backpack thrashed wildly against him.