Chapter 95: Charles’s Strength

Though the mine tunnel was deep and shrouded in darkness, Mulan and his companions were far from ordinary folk. Even without lighting, they could see reasonably well, but, having brought the oil lamp from the carriage, the passages appeared quite clear to their eyes.

As they followed the winding descent of the tunnel, the underground space unexpectedly broadened in many places, becoming much larger than they had imagined. These ample chambers were linked by relatively narrow passages, likely once separate ore storage areas. Only the central path was being used by the group, but many branching tunnels appeared within minutes of entering, all likely interconnected somewhere in the depths—an intricacy impossible to discern from the old two-dimensional map they'd seen before.

Mulan kept an eye on the occasional wooden pillars, some fashioned from joined pieces rather than single trunks, betraying traces of mortise-and-tenon construction—giant beams fitted together for strength.

As they ventured deeper, every member of the group—Mulan included—found their brows furrowing. The air grew thick and foul, the stench worsening with every step. The mine had ceased operations long ago, and the steam-powered ventilation system had been defunct for decades. Now, air moved only by the whim of nature, and though the passages were spacious, the sheer depth and the squalor left behind by countless werewolves made the smell unbearable.

Howls and growls soon echoed through the darkness, growing ever more frequent and agitated. After passing through another connecting passage, the tunnel suddenly opened up into a colossal chamber, spanning several hundred square meters, its ceiling soaring more than ten meters overhead. This was no hollow carved by miners, but rather a natural cavity in the rock, a hundred meters beneath the earth. It once served as the miners’ underground hub—a place for rest and storage. Even now, remnants of old structures stood about.

But the most striking feature of this forsaken space was not its history but the werewolves that filled it. Dozens upon dozens of green eyes glimmered in the gloom—some prone, some standing—easily a hundred werewolves in sight within the stone hall.

From the most intact wooden hut at the center, a tall werewolf with silver-gray fur emerged. Even in the dim light, Mulan could make out a long scar across its cheek, one that not even fur could hide. At the sight of this beast, Mulan’s pupils dilated ever so slightly—he recognized it. Among the infected, this one was famous enough to have a name, and it was even listed on the Sanctuary’s Gray List, ranked 239th: Silvermane, Dobrich the Mad Biter.

The situation was far worse than Mulan had anticipated. Silvermane was not the largest of the werewolves here, but his presence was the most commanding, the most oppressive. The moment he stepped out, the rest fell silent.

Silvermane strode forward, his stench growing more pungent, stopping directly before Baron Charles. The latter stood rigid but forced himself to remain composed. After a deep, steadying breath, he managed to speak.

“Sandero will not be coming. There was a formidable stranger on the train—Sandero realized he could not match him, so he left before the train reached its destination to avoid a confrontation. I’m sure you expected this. He left me a letter in his coffin, instructing me to inform you.”

Silvermane snarled, the sound low and guttural, but clearly comprehending Charles’ words, even if his lupine jaws could not form human speech.

Yet Mulan knew better. The Sanctuary’s dossier on Silvermane described him succinctly: cruel, bloodthirsty, and powerful—never as docile as he seemed now.

Despite the immense pressure, Baron Charles held his ground. His heart was hammering, yet he maintained a dignified bearing. He knew that any misstep, forward or back, could mean death or damnation. Grasping at this slender chance—Mulan Jonest’s presence—was his only hope, and mere promises would not suffice.

With his left hand hidden in his pocket, Charles pinched his thigh sharply, the pain bracing his mind and lending him a touch of arrogance.

“I trust your wisdom, sir, can see the truth. Such a figure appearing on that train and clashing with us suggests the upper echelons of Dirga have grown suspicious. Sandero has ordered all werewolves outside to return at once—those already exposed should not come back, but seek out a place to die publicly, so the Dirga authorities will notice.”

Silvermane’s howl grew in volume, clearly expressing displeasure.

“That’s not my order—it’s Sandero’s decision. Or do you mean to defy him?”

Bathed in the oil lamp’s glow, Silvermane’s snout twisted in a sneer at the mention of Sandero’s authority, making it clear he held the man in contempt.

Mulan, Hendel, Fallonrich, and Charles all noticed this. Especially Charles, an adept at reading faces and moods despite his provincial roots, instantly sensed trouble and quickly improvised.

“Maybe you think Sandero can’t command you, but what about the master he serves? If the plan fails, never mind our punishments—do you think we can resist the Dirga Empire? You may be powerful, but you are alone. Will these werewolves truly be useful when the time comes?”

Silvermane leaned in, his piercing green eyes fixed on Charles, a low growl rumbling from his throat. After a long, tense moment, the beast turned to Fallonrich, sniffing at the sack he carried.

Charles let out a faint sigh of relief—the plan was back on track.

“This bag is full of explosives.”

Silvermane snapped his head to stare at Charles.

Yes, it was that simple—just state what had been brought.

“In truth, I think the mess on the train was Sandero’s own blunder. Now we risk attracting the Dirga Empire’s investigation. Calling back the werewolves is not enough. The explosives are for contingencies—if all hope is lost, the werewolves will take them and blow themselves up.”

A chorus of howls answered him.

“It’s a sound, pragmatic solution. Or do you count these werewolves as kin or brothers?”

Charles, emboldened, now argued fiercely with Silvermane, his tone so assertive that Fallonrich and Hendel glanced at him with surprise—even Mulan was secretly impressed.

Silvermane’s hostility softened. He surveyed the room—these were disposable pawns, hardly worth mourning.

“Each charge has a timer and an instant detonator. The timer can be set; the instant one will explode if bitten. Keep the bag somewhere safe, out of reach, or an accident could cost us dearly. You decide where.”

Silvermane pointed with his claw towards a hut near his own. Charles signaled Fallonrich.

“Put it there.”

“Yes, Baron!”

Fallonrich’s grim face betrayed a flicker of emotion. He hurried over, deposited the sack, and left briskly.

“Move quickly. I saw several werewolves in the woods on our way here—tell them not to wander, at least for a week. Starting tomorrow, I’ll send over twenty pigs and five cows each day. See that my people come to no harm—good, trustworthy servants are hard to find.”

Silvermane’s answering growl was far more agreeable than before.

After a few more words from Charles, Silvermane leapt away in a blur. Mulan and the others hurried after, but the werewolf was already gone. By the time they reached the tunnel’s mouth, Silvermane stood outside, howling at the moon.

His cry was long and echoing, reverberating through the mountains—perhaps even reaching Charles’ own town.

When the howl ended, Silvermane glanced at Charles, who quickly called out, “I’ll stay here to oversee the werewolves’ return—it’s for both our safety. Besides the livestock, I’ll find two special people for you—one man, one woman. Do with them as you wish.”

Silvermane’s snout curled back, revealing sharp fangs—not in threat, but in a sign of newfound favor for Charles.

Within minutes, several werewolves returned at a run; then another batch, and another, until, over half an hour, six groups had returned. After that, none came back.

Silvermane howled once more, then growled at Charles and slowly retreated into the mine. Charles called after him, “Keep them under control for at least a week.”

A growl echoed back from the depths; then all was still.

Mulan and his companions stood outside, gazing at the tunnel. After a while, Mulan turned to Charles, studying him intently and offering genuine admiration.

“Baron, you are truly impressive!”

“Mr. Jonest, how much time do we have?”

Mulan checked his pocket watch.

“We allowed extra time—two hours remain, but I don’t foresee any problems.”

Indeed—the explosives and timers were real, and some had already been set, including those lining the passage from the entrance deep into the mine…

Two hours later, having retreated to a distant hill, Mulan and his group felt a tremor beneath their feet, followed by a thunderous explosion from the direction of the mine.

“Boom—boom—boom—”

Leaning on his cane, Mulan watched the rising smoke and smiled.

“Art is explosion!”