Heir of The Werewolf Blood

Chapter 3 The Old Man ( Arthur )

Harry ran.

Not a normal run, not a human run. It was an instinctive run, fast, silent, calculated. His feet hit the wet asphalt with short, light steps, his body leaning forward, ready to turn or jump at any moment. He had just gotten off an old bus that had stopped too long at the intersection, and ever since, his chest felt tight.

Too many eyes.

Too many sounds.

Too many smells.

The city assaulted him from every direction.

The shouts of vendors, the roar of engines, deafening horns, and strange smells mixed into one—hot oil, human sweat, smoke, and something foul yet sweet. All of it made his head buzz. His wolf instinct screamed that this place was wrong. Too open. Too crowded. No trees. No safe shadows.

Harry crossed the street without looking at the light. A car nearly hit him; the driver cursed loudly. Harry didn't understand the words, but the tone was clear enough. Threat.

He entered a narrow alley between two old buildings. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling. He pressed his back against the cold brick wall and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to listen.

Footsteps.

Not one. Two. Or maybe three.

Harry tensed up. His muscles hardened, his fingers curled, ready to claw if needed. He sniffed the air, trying to recognize the scent. Young humans. Smell of alcohol. Aggressive.

“Hey! He went this way!” someone’s voice sounded from the end of the alley.

Harry growled softly without realizing it. This wasn't the forest. But his body hadn't understood the difference yet.

Three young people appeared at the end of the alley. Their jackets were worn, their eyes wild. One held an empty bottle.

“You run fast, huh,” one of them said, chuckling. “Just relax. We just want to ask you something.”

Harry didn't answer. He slowly shifted, calculating the distance. The walls were too close to dodge. The alley was a dead end.

“Where are you from, huh?” another asked, his voice rising. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

The bottle was slammed against the wall. Glass cracked, a sharp sound echoing. Harry's instinct screamed. A wolf doesn't wait to be attacked.

He took a step forward.

And that's when another voice emerged from behind the shadows.

“Oi. You three.”

The voice was old. Calm. But there was something in it that made the three of them turn around.

An old man stood near a pile of trash, his body thin, wrapped in an oversized coat. His hair was white, his face full of age lines. His hands rested on an old wooden cane, but his eyes were sharp, evaluating.

“This alley isn't a playground,” he continued slowly. “And that kid isn’t your business.”

One of the young men snorted. “What business is it of yours, old man?”

The old man smiled faintly. “My business is that I've lived on this street longer than your combined ages. And I know when trouble isn't worth it.”

He stepped forward slightly. Not threatening. Not shouting. But there was a strange authority that made the air feel heavy.

The young men looked at each other. One spit on the ground.

“Crazy old man,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

They backed away, then left while muttering curses.

The alley returned to silence.

Harry still stood tense, his heart pounding. He turned to the old man, his instincts still wary.

“I wasn't running from a bear,” Harry replied, his voice low and rough, a result of his lack of practice with human words. He let his eyes narrow slightly, an aggressive posture he had learned from pack interactions. He held back the urge to immediately lunge, reminding himself that this wasn't the forest.

The figure who spoke slowly emerged from the shadows. He was an old man, perhaps in his late sixties. His face was filled with deep wrinkles, his hair thin and white, yet his eyes, the same eyes that had just evaluated him, were sharp and full of intelligence. He wore an oversized, worn coat that covered his thin frame.

“Well, you moved like you were being chased by a pack,” the old man retorted, nodding towards the busy main street. “Very fast for clothes like those.”

Harry remained silent, analyzing. This man showed no fear, which meant he was probably used to seeing strange things on these streets.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, trying to imitate the intonation he’d heard from occasional passersby.

The man smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Name? Name is a luxury in a place like this, young man. You can call me Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Harry repeated.

Night grew later. The sound of the city never truly slept, only changed tone. Honking became sparse, but sirens occasionally howled like wounded animals.

Harry curled up tighter under the thin blanket, his body shaking not just from the cold, but from the terrifying realization that he might have risked everything for nothing but confusion and fear.

Arthur was silent for a long time. He stared at the orange sky between the buildings, then lowered his gaze to Harry's half-hidden face.

“Harry,” he finally said, his voice low. “Tomorrow morning, I'm going to take you somewhere.”

Harry opened his eyes. “What place?”

Arthur didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat pocket, making sure something was still there.

“A place that can give you choices,” Arthur said softly. “But also a place that will ask a lot of questions about who you really are.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Do I have to go, if I don't want to?”

Arthur stared at him for a long time, too long for a simple answer.

“Then the city will look for you,” Arthur finally said. “And believe me… the city always finds the lost ones.”

Harry hugged his necklace tighter.

“Arthur,” he whispered, his voice almost lost to the night.

“Will they know… who I really am?”

Arthur didn't answer.

He just smiled faintly in the darkness, then said,

“Sleep first, kid. Tomorrow… we'll see if this world is ready to meet you, Human... wolf.”