"The Second Son walked upon fertile land, where bending down brought stalks heavy with grain, and reaching out plucked sweet fruit from the trees. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep filled the valleys."
"His shepherd father warned him: do not venture into the Underhollow, or you will unleash suffering upon the world above."
"But the Second Son knew not what suffering meant. Day after day, curiosity gnawed at him. At last, he descended into the Underhollow—and with him, suffering rose to the surface."
"A demon, hidden in the shadows, whispered to him: 'You have loosed suffering upon the world. And with it comes sin. The sins brought by suffering shall cling to your flesh. Only by taking on a new form can you escape them.'"
"And so, the Second Son listened to the demon. He changed his form into something grotesque, so that sin would cling to the ugliness—while his true self remained untouched."
Adam leaned against the bookshelf, chewing on a pickled flatbread as he flipped through another volume of Divine Word. Across the room, Master Alva was snoring in his chair, fast asleep.
They'd spent the whole morning exploring another part of the church, and now Adam was granted a short reprieve to read during the midday break.
He had to admit, the Church of Sacred Harmony did an admirable job with public education. Periodically, monks would visit homes across the district to teach families the scriptures and help children learn their letters.
However, perhaps due to the increasingly high entry requirements for the Seminary, fewer and fewer monks were willing to continue these household visits. For many of them, the idea of giving away the hard-won knowledge they'd paid dearly to learn felt like charity—and not the good kind.
After all, those who could afford the steep tuition of the Seminary were either wealthy merchants or nobles, and neither group was known for their compassion toward commoners. Their very nature shaped their disdain.
Adam closed the book with a quiet thud. That particular passage, he realized, was a clear allegory for the origins of the "Others"—those born different, like the werewolves.
Taking on a new form to bear sin… That was how the Others came to be viewed as inherently guilty. No matter how they looked or behaved on the outside, as soon as they were identified, the standard response from the clergy was simple: purge them. Return them to dust.
Their existence alone was considered sin.
Later that afternoon, Alva's survey of the restoration work seemed to be drawing to a close. Adam followed quietly behind him when he noticed something odd.
Because of the ongoing renovations in the main hall, worship services were temporarily being held in a side chamber. That was where Adam spotted a worshiper who stood out.
At first glance, the man performed every rite to perfection: he entered through the main door, washed his hands, face, and ears, sat quietly to purify his mind, then knelt before the idol, covering his eyes to listen devoutly to the Sacred Voice.
Afterwards, he covered his ears, recited scripture, and exited through the door beneath the idol's outstretched hand.
His worship was impeccable. And yet… Adam caught a scent—sweat, sharp and acrid, mingled with something disturbingly familiar.
"An Other, enduring pain to come here and worship?" Adam narrowed his eyes.
He knew what it meant for Others to approach a place like this. Their bodies fought it instinctively—like rebels staging an uprising from within. For an Other, stepping into a sacred space was agonizing.
But pain could be adapted to. With enough repetition, the reaction dulled. Eventually, it became just another throbbing discomfort, a sheen of sweat, nothing dramatic.
Still, that man's scent gave him away. Hidden in his sweat was the same chemical note he'd picked up from the werewolf and the witch doctor—the unmistakable stench of magical potions used to mask the unnatural.
"Driven by fear?" Adam mused.
To the Church, Others were born guilty. Their mere presence was sin.
Some, worn down by centuries of struggle, no longer resisted. They accepted their guilt. They sought redemption. A sect of these repenting Others had even earned partial recognition from certain human priests, forming what came to be known as the Church of Divine Tears.
But the mainstream churches barely tolerated them—some even labeled the sect a cult.
The man Adam saw today was not one of those truly faithful penitents. He wasn't offering himself to the divine. He was here for one reason only: fear of death.
With the witch doctor captured and the potions growing scarce, Others had grown more desperate. But unlike the werewolf who charged the execution ground with broken faith and a death wish, this one hadn't completely given up. He still clung to hope. And fear.
He still drank the potion. Still came to worship.
"People like him have no true faith. Their belief begins and ends with themselves. Their devotion is a mask, worn for survival," Adam thought coldly. "But that makes them useful."
He memorized the man's scent. "Once I find his weakness, I'll control him completely."
"And with him as my first piece, I'll build a following of my own. My own kind. My own faction."
Numbers mattered. Even if someone stronger opposed you, they'd hesitate to act if you were backed by a crowd. Power wasn't always measured in strength—it could be momentum, unity, fear.
Of course, some fools ignored such things. Brutes who relied on sheer strength to win the day.
"Which is why, at first, I need to maintain an air of mystery. Hide my true identity. Let fear and uncertainty do my work for me."
But Adam was cautious. This opportunity was too good to squander—but too risky to rush.
The Church of Sacred Harmony was ruthless toward Others, but every now and then, they made exceptions. What if this man was a trap? Another baited test?
Even if he wasn't, Adam had to ask himself: had the Church noticed him yet?
His werewolf senses had picked up on the man's unusual scent… but who was to say the Church didn't have its own ways of detecting such anomalies?
One wrong move, and he could expose himself.
"No… I can't afford to be reckless." Adam reminded himself. Time, however, was not on his side.
That evening, after Alva finished inspecting the final wall section and dismissed Adam with an offhand comment about vacation, the boy knew his window of access was closing.
Not that Alva ever truly welcomed him. Adam was acutely aware that the old man hadn't even bothered to remember his name.
"He only respects Frass," Adam thought without bitterness. "And why would he respect me? I stole this opportunity with dirty tricks."
But Adam didn't regret it. Not for a second.
That night, Adam once again shifted into his lupine form and leapt from the attic window into the dark.
He followed the trail he'd begun tracing earlier that day.
"The man arrived at the church in the afternoon. His scent carried not only potion residue, but something else—something from the Slum District. Judging by his clothes, he wasn't well-off."
"That tracks. The other werewolf I encountered wasn't wealthy either. Magic potions don't come cheap."
Adam recalled the one who'd tried to storm the execution grounds. The man worked hard, but never had much. Couldn't afford a wife. There were even rumors he gambled.
In truth, most of his earnings probably went toward buying more potion. That same pattern likely applied to today's mystery worshiper.
Which meant only one thing.
Adam sighed and turned his gaze toward the one place he despised most: the Slums.
He called it the Toxic Fog District.
A foul stench hung thick in the air, so noxious it felt like it formed a physical barrier at the entrance. Adam stood at the edge, lifting his gaze toward what he imagined—a monstrous greenish-yellow cloud hovering above the alleys, grinning down at him.
Public hygiene in this era was a tragedy.
Some people still believed water was impure and never bathed their entire lives.
The outer districts, at least, had public latrines built by the Sacred Kingdom of Harmonia.
The slums had no such luxury. Waste was dumped straight into the streets. Horse manure mixed with human filth, compacted by wagon wheels, forming a disgusting new layer of road.
No wonder Adam called it the Toxic Fog District.