After some ten minutes, the old man descended the stairs, a brown set of garments draped over his arm. His voice was low and gravelly as he said, “This is the smallest size I own. Anything else would drown you.”

  “My thanks, dearest neighbor.” Glen accepted the clothes with a nod. He knew that with the old man’s towering frame it was near impossible to find anything that might fit him well; still, something was better than nothing.

  He offered a courteous bow, then slid open the door and departed.

  The old man kept his gaze fixed upon Glen’s retreating figure until it had long since vanished from sight. Only then did he exhale heavily, muttering under his breath, “Vexing brat…”

  …

  Clothes in hand, Glen half-jogged back to his dwelling. He set water to boil, then hurried into the washroom, filling the tub to the brim. Shedding the soiled garments that clung unpleasantly to his skin, he lowered himself into the warmth.

  He wondered idly where this water came from. No fees were charged, and it flowed without end. In towns such as these there ought to be some semblance of a waterworks department… yet this place was strange in every sense, so inexhaustible water hardly seemed the strangest of its secrets. The more Glen thought on it, the more his curiosity toward the town deepened.

  After a long, thorough scrub, he felt instantly renewed. Donning the clothes his neighbor had provided, he found them—as expected—a touch too large, yet serviceable.

  Tidying the washroom, he lit the kerosene lamp and seated himself in the parlor, his mind churning. The day had been one of ceaseless upheaval, rife with ill fortune. All he wished was for tomorrow to unfold with smoother tides.

  With neither phone nor diversion, the nights here offered little amusement. He retired early, hoping to rise with the dawn.

  At first, sleep eluded him—he had gone to bed too soon, and his mind remained restless. At length, however, slumber claimed him.

  Rustle… rustle…

  A sound from outside filtered into his dreams, stirring him awake. His sleep was light; he opened his eyes almost at once.

  He eased aside the quilt, slipped noiselessly from bed.

  He recalled the first night after his crossing—hadn’t there been a similar disturbance then? What prowled beyond the walls tonight?

  Could it be another monster like Abu? The former tenant had lived here unharmed for so long—it must have been sheer luck… Glen’s thoughts tangled as he crept toward the window.

  Peering through the narrow gap, he gazed upon the street below. Darkness posed no obstacle to his sharpened sight; every detail lay clear before him.

  And there it was—the source of the sound.

  A tall, gaunt figure, elongated almost unnaturally. Were it not for its limbs, it might have been mistaken for a serpent. Its flesh was pallid, its head round, and it was even now nosing through his yard with meticulous care.

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  What in the world…? Glen felt a headache pressing in. The grotesqueries of this place had nearly left him numb with disbelief.

  The creature must have lingered here for quite some time. The former tenant had remained unscathed, which meant it likely bore no malice toward the town’s residents. With a brief hesitation, Glen chose not to intervene and returned to bed.

  As expected, the night passed without incident, and he slept soundly until morning.

  …

  Today he resolved once again to hunt. Yesterday’s ordeal had left him dispirited, yet not so broken as to abandon the task.

  This time fortune favored him. With his beast at his side, he felled eleven black boars and even brought down a stag-like creature—a bountiful haul indeed.

  Selecting one for slaughter, he fashioned a crude cart of timber to haul it from the forest, leaving the rest in the snares under his beast’s watch.

  Though pulling the cart was no burden to his strength, the act itself carried an air of ignominy.

  If not for fear of frightening others with the beast, I would never… he grumbled inwardly, though his pace did not falter.

  Whether the game could be sold remained uncertain, but it was best to reach Dud Town swiftly—better to return home before nightfall.

  …

  At that same hour, Bob and his two thugs reached Dud Town. The terror of the previous night had driven them to hide in a cave rather than risk the darkened roads, and in so doing they lost track of the two girls who trailed behind.

  By dawn’s light they had hastened back, weary but alive.

  Keeping to the shadows, they stirred no commotion, drifting through alleyways until they reached a narrow, squalid lane. Here loitered beggars and petty criminals, a quarter neglected by the watch—if indeed it was policed at all.

  Such corners abounded in the town, havens where pursuit could be easily shaken.

  With practiced ease they threaded the alley, until the muffled din of revelry reached them. Ahead lay a rowdy chamber, its raucous voices spilling into the street. Two burly guards stood stiff at the door.

  They recognized the trio at once and let them pass without question.

  Inside, the air was thick with the stench of ale and sweat. Men shouted drunken boasts, spat curses, their vulgar manners a perfect match for their coarse visages.

  Bob and his companions drew little notice as they entered.

  “We have returned. Inform Lord Glas,” one of them said, addressing a wiry man with a thin mustache who lingered in a corner.

  The man’s eyes swept over them, then he gave a curt nod and vanished into the inner chamber.

  Minutes later he returned. “The master will see you.”

  At once, tension coiled within the three. Their minds scrambled to find excuses, words that might shield them from punishment.

  But inevitability would not be stayed. When they stood before the towering figure by the hearth, all rehearsed explanations fell apart.

  “So,” the deep voice rumbled, “because you glimpsed a single monster, you abandoned your prey and fled like whipped curs?”

  The words froze their tongues. Quaking, they bowed their heads in silence.

  The figure turned, revealing his dread visage—eyes burning crimson, lips stretched to bare protruding fangs. He resembled an orc torn from some fable, though no such race existed in this world, and he himself was no beast-man.

  Though they had seen him before, the sight of Glas never failed to shatter them anew.

  “Please, hear us out, Lord Glas!” one of them cried. “Never have I beheld such a creature. It was monstrous, more powerful than any lion. Had we not fled, we would all be dead!”

  “I know only this,” Glas replied, voice unnervingly calm. “You failed.” His gaze flicked toward several hulking men who stood by in silence.

  At his signal, they seized the three and dragged them away. Tradition decreed the penalty for failure was a finger lost; were manpower not scarce, the punishment would be far more severe.

  Bob and his companions pleaded, but Glas paid them no heed.

  “How much life-force do you yet lack?” he asked suddenly, his words seemingly meant for no one. For the chamber was empty save himself.

  “As much as possible, my faithful friend,” rasped a voice from nowhere. “You have tasted the essence of power, have you not? Seek out more young lives. Sacrifice them to me. When I am fully awakened, I shall raise you to the loftiest throne.”