The charred scent of burnt wood mingled with the pungent smell of blood, forming a sharp, acrid blade that cut through the cold night wind.

In these ruins, a severely wounded Alpha warrior trudged forward with a young girl in his arms. The silver-edged wound in his chest exposed bone, blood soaking half his body. Yet he felt nothing, his legs moving mechanically as he stumbled onward.

Under a broken, charred beam, Singer found Elsa. The woman he had silently loved—her gentle eyes now forever closed. Her body was cold, yet even in death she maintained a protective embrace, her flesh forming a shield around the child in her arms. And the man who should have protected them—that coward had been reduced to ash.

Singer crashed to his knees, his heart crushed by invisible claws. He should have taken Elsa away! What right did that coward have to claim her, only to fail when she needed him most...

Regret, jealousy, and self-blame coiled around his heart like poisonous vines.

Singer's broad back trembled violently until finally, a beast-like wail tore from the depths of his throat.

A scalding tear slid from his jaw onto the girl's cold cheek. The child's eyelashes quivered, and she let out a weak, hoarse cry.

Singer's massive frame stiffened. He lowered his head, his gaze falling upon that small face—so similar to Elsa's—now scrunched with crying.

He hated himself for failing to protect Elsa, and hated even more that she died for this small creature. But this child was Elsa's legacy. His resentment gradually gave way to resignation—he had to find her a proper home.

When the elaborate wrought iron gates of the werewolf orphanage finally appeared at the edge of his vision, the warrior stopped in his tracks.

He bypassed the cartoon wolf-shaped doorbell and quietly placed the child on the soft doormat that read "Welcome Home." He took one last, long look at her little face—smudged with soot and blood, yet still bearing her mother's features.

Then he turned and vanished into the dark forest without a backward glance.

Shortly after, a muffled gunshot echoed from deep within the forest, startling a flock of ravens into flight.

Light spilled from the orphanage as hurried footsteps approached the door.

The director, a middle-aged Omega, froze when she saw the child at the door and the dissipating gunsmoke in the distance.

The unconscious little girl was about four or five years old, curled into a ball, her pale delicate skin marred with alarming scratches and stains.

Angela rushed forward, checking the child's breathing, and only sighed with relief when she found it weak but stable.

Then Angela detected a faint Omega pheromone with notes of jasmine, causing her breath to catch.

"Pure-blood Omega..." the director's rough fingertips trembled, her eyes showing not joy, but deep, unfathomable sorrow.

She thought of her own sister; behind glory lies disaster. For a child who knows nothing of the world, this bloodline was no blessing, but the cruelest of shackles.

The headmistress stared into the darkness that had swallowed a life, her gaze hardening with resolve. History would not repeat itself, at least not with this child who hadn't yet learned how to protect herself.

She scooped up the unconscious Amy and turned to the werewolf doctor who had rushed over. "Tell everyone she's just an ordinary cub who got frightened."

Angela walked through the long corridor and entered a door in the deepest part of the orphanage. Her voice emerged tired and solemn: "...I need your help. There's a child whose scent needs to be 'changed'."

A year later, the iron gates of the orphanage opened once again for another survivor of the Hunting Association.

When nine-year-old Sean was brought in, his demeanor resembled that of a cornered wolf cub. More terrifying than his mental state were his eyes. Those weren't eyes a child should have—they held no fear, no sadness, only a deathly stillness, a coldness that seemed to freeze everything they beheld.

To the orphanage director and teachers, he was just another poor orphan who had lost everything to the Hunting Association's atrocities. None suspected that beneath that small, scarred frame lay a meticulously forged soul—a future blade belonging to the Hunting Association itself.

"Look at all that blood... Hunters' work?" an older child whispered.

"His eyes are terrifying, like that wolf we trapped behind the mountain," another girl added, nervously tugging at her companion's sleeve.

They huddled closer, whispering among themselves, their sympathy laced with fear.

Sean remained indifferent, his empty gaze sweeping over one unfamiliar face after another, until he saw Amy.

The girl sat on a swing in the yard, quietly looking at a picture book. Sunlight cascaded over her. Though just an ordinary girl in an ordinary scene, something dormant in the deepest part of his bloodline—something ancient and powerful—suddenly awakened.

His heart, long trained to be cold and hard, unexpectedly jolted with an electric current that made it tremble violently.

Sean was still too young to understand what love at first sight meant.

Though Hunter's blood flowed coldly through his veins, though they were destined to be natural enemies, fate's invisible hand forcefully tied their futures together.

The opposition of bloodlines, in that moment, seemed pale and powerless.

Opposition of bloodlines?

Sean closed the book, the words he'd just read still lingering in his mind.

"Sean, what are you reading?" Amy peeked her head out from behind the large rock, smiling mischievously.

"Amy, get down from there right now. It's dangerous." Sean frowned.

He watched her slender figure struggling to reach the highest point of the artificial mountain, his heart clenching with worry.

This werewolf orphanage was decent enough with beds and food, but when it came to supervision, there were always blind spots, Sean thought irritably.

Of course, this wasn't entirely due to understaffing. Most werewolf cubs were energetic and untamed. Even with the staff's careful attention, fights inevitably broke out over toys or food.

Strength and dominance were the unspoken rules here. And Amy, due to her innate Omega status, no matter how hard she fought against it, was always seen as the weakest, making her an easy target for bullying.

Whenever this happened, Sean transformed into a silent guardian beast, unhesitatingly placing himself between her and danger.

"Hey! Let her go!"

"Make me. What are you gonna do about it?"

"Oww! Sean hit me! I'm telling the Director!"

"Sean, are you okay?" *sob* "It's my fault for not being strong enough."

"I'm fine. See? Not even a scratch."

Such situations happened frequently, but one incident was particularly intense.

Sean rushed over after hearing the commotion; several older children had surrounded Amy because she'd accidentally damaged their toys.

Sean fought off those bigger kids with savage intensity, trading blow for blow. He paid the price—his face covered in bruises, the corner of his mouth split and bleeding, his knees scraped raw against the rough sand.

Amy looked at him, tears streaming down her face like unstrung beads.

She gently touched the bruise on his face, her voice full of heartache and guilt. "Sean, does it hurt?"

Sean looked at her reddened, tear-filled eyes, feeling as if something soft had pierced his heart.

He endured the stinging pain throughout his body, forced the corners of his mouth up, and squeezed out a gentle smile. "It doesn't hurt. Not at all."

This commotion, of course, didn't escape the director's notice.

That evening, the troublemakers and Sean, whose face had just been treated with medicine, were all punished in the detention room. They had to copy the orphanage rules ten times—a punishment just severe enough to teach a lesson without crushing their spirits.

Amy waited for a long time before Sean finally came. The two children curled up on the small single bed, sleeping in each other's arms. This was their unspoken secret—whenever night fell, Sean would sneak into Amy's room, a silent knight guarding his princess.

Amy and Sean talked for a long time before drifting off.

But her sleep wasn't peaceful. In her dreams, she murmured: "Sean doesn't hurt... doesn't hurt..."

The moonlight hid behind dark clouds, concealing the miraculous sight: Sean's bloody, mangled wound healing at an unnaturally rapid pace, torn flesh closing, new skin growing in the darkness.

The next morning, Sean woke to find his injury completely healed, his knee as smooth as before.

Everyone at the orphanage assumed it was his werewolf lineage granting superior recovery abilities, but only Sean felt something strange stirring within.

He clearly remembered that every time he got injured after coming to the orphanage, his wounds would heal at an astonishing speed, while Amy remained completely unaware of her healing ability.

Sean kept quiet; his intuition, far sharper than others his age, told him this was a secret that must be protected.

Hunter's Forbidden Love — Chapter 1

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