The Last Werewolf in History

Chapter19

The iron grate was heavily rusted. When he rested his fingers upon it, his fingertips came away coated in a layer of reddish-brown powder.

Qin Lie heaved it open with force. The hinges let out a dry, grating screech that carried far through the silent night. He paused for two seconds, pressing his ear against the ground to listen. There was only the sound of flowing water. The sewage in the drain gleamed with an oily sheen, brushing against his feet with a viscous, clammy touch.

He clutched the pulse generator in his palm—a black, square device with a visible c***k across its surface. Su Hongxiu had told him this thing could be used only three times.

Around the corner ahead, a surveillance camera was mounted. Its red indicator light blinked with steady, rhythmic precision. Qin Lie pressed the switch with his thumb. The pulse generator vibrated once and grew warm; the camera's red light immediately went dark.

He continued forward.

The tunnel gradually narrowed. The moss that had coated the walls vanished, replaced by white ceramic tiles. Black grime was embedded deep within the grout lines—a color resembling dried, caked bloodstains. The stench in the air shifted. The putrid odor of the sewer receded, giving way to the acrid sting of disinfectant, mingled with an indescribable, raw scent of fresh meat.

He softened his tread. His soles made no sound as they stepped across the tiles.

Ahead, an alloy door came into view. It had no handle—only a numeric keypad and a fingerprint scanner mounted on the side panel. The keypad was smudged with several faint fingerprints that had already turned black with grime.

Qin Lie did not touch the keypad. Instead, he pressed the pulse generator against the side of the access control sensor. He pressed the button once more.

A sizzling sound filled the air. The sensor sparked once, then died. The hydraulic lock hissed as its pressure bled away, and a gap—barely the width of a finger—sprang open along the edge of the door.

Reaching out, he gripped the door's edge and pulled it open with all his might. The hinges, starved of lubricant, let out a piercing shriek. Qin Lie slipped sideways through the opening, then reached back to grasp the inner handle, slowly pulling the door shut behind him. He did not release his grip until he heard a distinct *click* as the latch engaged.

Inside lay a large hall. The lighting was dim, illuminated only by the faint green glow of emergency lights.

The walls were constructed of alloy, their surfaces crisscrossed with countless scratches. In the deeper gouges, the bare metal beneath was exposed; in the shallower ones, dark-brown shreds of flesh still clung to the surface. Some of the claw marks were massive—the spacing between the digits far exceeding that of any human hand. Clipboards lay scattered across the floor. A screen, half-shattered, continued to flicker. Qin Lie picked one up. A red warning box pulsed across the display: "Gene sequence forced expression... Stability failure... Subject 07: Deceased."

Another clipboard bore the inscription: "Tolerance increased by 30%; Sanity: Zero."

Sounds drifted in from the distance.

It was not the roar of machinery. It was screaming. A stifled sound—a whimper squeezed from the very depths of a throat—interspersed with intermittent, heart-rending howls that sounded as if they were tearing the vocal cords apart.

Qin Lie followed the sound. At the end of the corridor stood an observation window. The glass was one-way, and a stark white light glowed from within.

He pressed himself against the glass.

Below lay an isolation zone. Four metal cages were arranged in a cruciform pattern. Inside each cage was—or had been—a living thing.

They were werewolves. But their forms were grotesquely wrong.

Their muscles had swelled, bursting through their skin; blood vessels snaked across their bodies like earthworms. Some had their limbs twisted into unnatural, reverse-jointed angles, suspended in mid-air by iron chains. Others were impaled with tubes—transparent hoses carrying green fluid that fed directly into their spinal columns.

Figures clad in white hazmat suits stood beside the cages, injection guns in hand.

A needle plunged into the neck of one of the test subjects. The plunger depressed. The green fluid was injected.

The thing inside the cage began to convulse violently. The iron chains clattered and rattled. It opened its maw, attempting to roar, but produced only a sound like a leaking bellows. Its eyeballs rolled upward, revealing whites completely engorged with blood.

The figures in the hazmat suits lowered their heads to record data. Their movements were practiced and mechanical—like someone simply refueling a machine.

Qin Lie pressed his hand against the glass. His knuckles turned white. His fingernails elongated, piercing the skin at his fingertips; beads of blood welled up and smeared across the glass pane.

The figures below remained oblivious. They wore industrial earmuffs, effectively sealing out all external sound.

His gaze swept across the control console. A terminal screen glowed to life. A document interface was open; the title bar was encrypted, but a preview snippet visible below revealed a single line of text: "Protocol for Extraction of Progenitor Gene Samples." Beneath it lay a small-print footnote: "Sample Source: Captured Subject No. 107 (Suspected Direct Kin)."

Qin Lie's breathing hitched for a moment.

Subject No. 107. That was the clan uncle who had gone missing three months ago.

He reached for his pocket. He wanted to storm inside—wanted to s*******r every single person within those walls. His hand slid down to his waist, gripping the hilt of his short sword. The blade felt terrifyingly hot to the touch.

Hold back.

If he charged down there now, he could only save these few individuals—people who were already doomed to die. Only by securing the evidence could he hope to unearth the entire "Ark" operation.

He withdrew his hand. From his backpack, he retrieved a miniature camera. He aimed the lens at the cages and the control console below. The shutter sound was silenced, and the flash disabled.

*Click. Click.*

The images were captured.

Just as he snapped the final photograph, three meters directly above him—tucked behind the fire-sprinkler piping—a black, hemispherical object gave a subtle rotation. Its lens aperture contracted, locking onto its target.

Qin Lie's figure was captured in crystal-clear detail.

The signal was transmitted via an encrypted channel. It traversed half the city, penetrating deep into the underground chambers of a Gothic-style building in the city center.

The chamber was unlit; only the massive screen mounted on the wall glowed with light.

The Archbishop of the Silver Cross Society sat in a high-backed chair, cradling a glass of red wine in his hand. The wine clung to the sides of the glass, looking exactly like blood.

The screen displayed a live feed from the laboratory's surveillance system. In the footage, Qin Lie stood staring intently at the control console, his profile appearing stark and rigid.

The Archbishop swirled his wineglass.

"He's here."

His voice was soft, yet it echoed through the cavernous chamber.

A figure emerged from the shadows behind him. Clad in the black vestments of a deacon, the man held a tablet in his hands. "Shall I initiate the purge protocol? Sector B-7 has already been sealed off."

"No rush." ​​The Archbishop took a sip of his wine. The corners of his mouth curved upward slightly—a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Let him look. Let him take his pictures."

"But..."

"A hunted beast reveals its most fatal vulnerability only when it believes it has a chance to escape," the Archbishop said, setting his wineglass down. The glass clinked against the tabletop with a crisp, resonant sound. "Notify the strike team. Wait until he carries the package out. Then close the net."

The Deacon bowed his head. "Understood. And as for Su Hongxiu..."

"Keep an eye on her, too. Fish tend to swim in schools."

The Archbishop waved his hand. The Deacon retreated into the shadows.

The secret chamber plunged back into darkness. Only the glow of the monitor screen illuminated the Archbishop's face, casting it in shifting light and shadow.

Inside the laboratory...

Qin Lie stowed his camera. His gaze settled on the encrypted file. He pulled out a data cable and plugged it into the terminal port.

The progress bar flickered: 10%... 50%... 90%...

Copy complete.

He unplugged the cable and turned around.

His movements were crisp and decisive, devoid of even a trace of lingering attachment. The werewolves confined in the cages were still twitching, their eyes vacant and unfocused. Qin Lie cast a brief glance at them, imprinting the scene into his memory.

One day, he would make them pay for this—twice over.

He walked toward the door through which he had entered. His footsteps were even steadier now than when he had arrived.

In his pocket, the data cable pressed hard against his thigh—evidence, yes, but also a death warrant.

The alloy door slid open. The acrid scent of disinfectant from the hallway rushed in once more.

Qin Lie's figure vanished behind the door.

Overhead, the hemispherical surveillance camera swiveled back to its default position. Its red indicator light blinked once, then settled back into a steady glow.

Within the containment zone, one of the test subjects suddenly ceased its twitching. With great difficulty, it turned its head to look toward the observation window. Reflected in its clouded, rheumy eyes was nothing but empty glass.

It parted its jaws and mouthed a silent word.

It seemed to be saying: *Run.*

No one heard.

Only the exhaust fans hummed on, drawing the scent of blood into the ventilation ducts and expelling it into the unseen depths beneath the city.