CHAPTER 217: CHAPTER 217

Celena’s Perspective

This was utterly bizarre. What the hell was Jacob playing at? He came to me this morning, clammed up like a locked vault, and now he’s vanished into thin air.

Lily found me and handed me a folded note, her brow furrowed so deeply it looked like it could trap flies. "Found this at your door," she said, her tone grim. "Haven’t opened it."

Then I learned that Jacob, that idiot, had hastily sent a vague farewell to everyone through the pack link! At first, no one thought much of it—seriously, a cooped-up wolf blowing off steam after recovering from an injury is perfectly normal, right?

But then the patrol team returned with somber faces, reporting they’d seen him charge straight past the territory boundary, and... he’d unilaterally shut down the link! It was like he’d sealed himself inside an impenetrable iron box.

My heart plummeted, fingers turning icy. I unfolded the paper to see Jacob’s familiar, slightly scrawled handwriting:

Celena,

I’m heading out to find the ones who took Brett. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.

—Jacob

Just two short lines. That fool! That brainless, hormone-driven mutt! Who did he think he was? Some lone hero? Those thieves were prepared last time—cunning and ruthless. What could he possibly achieve alone? Marching to his death?

I crumpled the note into a tight ball, clutching it in my palm as a wave of furious worry churned in my chest.

Lily sighed, massaging her temples in clear frustration. "I know he’s impulsive," she said, trying for a lighter tone but failing miserably. "But look at it this way—Jacob is one of the calmest, sharpest fighters we have. He won’t charge in blindly. Maybe... he’ll actually bring back some intel we need."

She might have a point, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiling inside me. That stupid wolf!

Jacob’s Perspective

I stood at the edge of a bleak, overgrown woodland—the exact spot marked on Xavier’s map. This was where the pack’s patrol had completely lost the trail of the pickup truck that smuggled the body.

Too much time had passed. Rain and wind had scrubbed away nearly all traces. The scents hanging in the air were faint as gossamer threads, and the tire tracks had long been buried under layers of decayed leaves and fresh footprints.

But I refused to believe they’d covered their tracks perfectly. Something had to be overlooked—some hidden corner, some forgotten detail.

I combed through the area methodically, inch by inch. My nose brushed the damp earth, fingers digging through rotting foliage, searching for any unnatural depressions or foreign smells.

Perseverance paid off. Tucked far from the main path, beneath a thicket of bushes and half-buried in mud, I found them—a crushed, cheap disposable lighter and a small, empty metal spray can, equally flattened. They looked like ordinary human litter, tossed aside and disguised by fallen leaves.

But they couldn’t fool my senses.

The lighter reeked of human sweat and stale tobacco. As for the spray can... though the liquid had long evaporated, the interior and nozzle clung to a faint, unmistakable odor—the chemical tang of the remover itself, mingled with the metallic scent of werewolf blood and a whisper of gunpowder.

Hunters. Those damn hunters.

So, the ones who stole Brett’s body had to be that scum led by his father, Karl.

But why steal a werewolf’s corpse? We don’t feast on the dead, not even our enemies’. It made no sense.

The answers were mine to uncover.

I pocketed the two small "clues" and turned toward a nearby town known for its mixed human-werewolf population. The place had only one bar—a seedy, crowded spot perfect for gathering rumors.

I walked in, ordered the cheapest beer, then bought a round for a few drunks huddled in the corner who looked like they spent most days in a haze. Their minds might be foggy, but their connections spanned all walks of life, and their ears picked up every whisper of trouble.

A few drinks loosened their tongues. Sure enough, a grimy farmer slurred that around the time the body was taken, he’d seen a large truck slinking down a remote dirt road where big vehicles never went.

"Real weird, ain’t it?" he hiccupped. "This dump’s got no highways, no factories—just that sluggish old railway. What was that hulking thing doin’ here?"

My pulse quickened. I pressed for details: the truck’s color, approximate model, and most importantly, the license plate he’d vaguely glimpsed—seemed to be from the neighboring state.

Now I had a direction. I drained the last of my beer and slapped a few bills onto the sticky bar counter.

Alright, hunters. Here I come. Let’s try our luck in the neighboring state.