Somewhere in Great Britain.

An old man sauntered forward, pushing open the rusted door of a chamber, keeping a solemn frown as the metal hinges groaned.

As light entered the room, a dust-covered, circular, table was revealed. Inscribed in its surface was a fading mural of knights. At the head of each seat, there were nameplates that had long since eroded under the influence of time.

“So you received my call?” A man spoke from within the shadows, he leaned out of the darkness, exposing a scarred face full of wrinkles.

“We’re the only two left, Percival,” proclaimed the entrant. “It would be difficult not to have received it. I'm left wondering why you contacted me in the first place considering the world is full of capable people.”

Sitting down with a groan, the elderly man placed a hand on the table, revealing a ring in with a sword stamped into it.

“That does not mean our duties have ended, Galahad,” Percival gave a stern reprisal.

“You’re referring to the witches?” Galahad croaked.

“That I am, old friend.”

“Forget it, this is a new era… besides–”

“I do not mean that we should wage war against them… We are both old and tired men, are we not? The time we live in isn’t so kind as to overlook blatant prosecution without evidence and thankfully we are no longer the ignorant youths we once were.”

“So what is it you’re suggesting?”

“We need to find his sword and check if the grail is–”

“The grail was destroyed, he saw to that.”

“Yes, but even its remains carry power too great and too tempting for anyone to hold.”

“We can locate his sword, Percy, but we are not the men of our prime. Finding remnants of the grail would be far too hard. It would be like finding a grain of salt among dunes of sand.”

“That is why after I locate the sword, we will start our search for capable allies who can assist us. We need incorruptible individuals who will resist the allure of the grail and act without hesitation.”

“Bah, honor is an extremely rare trait these days. There are those older than us who have lost their way, becoming greedy and vain, content with manipulating the world from the shadows to puff up their egos.”

“So, we will wait.”

“Until?”

“Until they move first.”

“You presume to know their motives. They are not so idiotic as to throw themselves into the spotlight just because the witch did it first.”

“The old fox will leave his burrow upon knowing the witches have resurfaced.”

“You don’t mean–”

“Indeed, I managed to speak with him once and he still hasn’t abandoned his pointless crusade against the witches, his old bones carry enough hatred to set a city ablaze.”

“Then I’ll speak to him, but this time, I will not be as cordial as you were. I can force him to change his mind.”

“Galahad..." Percival sighed. "It's too late, not only has he taken measures to hide, he has been steadily raising a small army of hunters for decades. In one on one combat, you may be able to win against him while paying a heavy price, but with hundreds of huntsman at his side, you'll die a dog's death.”

Galahad let out a sigh, his shoulders bearing the weight of a life that had taken many tolls on his body and mind. The days of his youth were filled with heroics and he would've gladly tested himself against hundreds of opponents, but now, his age had caught up.

“So we have to wait,” Galahad relented.

“Cheer up, old friend. Remember, just as there are those who will move against the witches, there are those who will assist them. Besides, even if they find themselves without allies, that does not mean that those who still remain hidden do not have grievances with the huntsman's lodge.”

“If that is what you believe, then I can only accept it as truth... Now, let us search for that accursed sword.”

The room became quiet as the two old men departed, leaving the empty round table to gather more dust.

…

A tall manor stood within an eerily still forest, a plague reading ‘The Huntsman's Lodge’ rested above its entrance. The hour of dusk arrived, casting ominous shadows over its olden structure.

Inside of the lurching building, an old man walked through the halls, assisted by a cane.

Trophies of beasts with unnatural origins lined the walls of the long hallway.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The old man was by no means frail, bearing an upright stature full of muscle. His sharp eyebrows and low gaze gave him the countenance of a hawk, but as the head of his cane would indicate, he seemed to prefer foxes.

His short grey hair was neatly combed back while his lips remained pursed as if the only expression he could make was a frown. His blue eyes were hauntingly cold, a sign that the man himself was someone who saw little need of joy. He navigated the silent halls of the manor until he arrived at a staircase which he descended at a steady pace.

Eventually, he reached his destination and moved to stand atop a speaking platform. Before his eyes, there was a room of men and women that seemed to be no less than a thousand. They stood with discipline and were lined up neatly, without a hair out of place. Their clothing consisted of dark formal wear with coats that bore the symbol of a crossbow and rapier intersecting.

“I am not one to mince words,” The old man said. “There is no one here who does not know of the world outside and what has occurred, so I will be clear–”

He slammed his cane into the platform, causing it to crack.

“Witches are not the friends of humanity! There are those of you who know this, who have studied the records of our battles, who know of the bloody history the witches seek to hide from humanity. They can not be allowed to sink their claws into the veins of the modern world. If they do, a mere plague would be the least of anyone’s concerns.”

The old man nodded toward one end of the room where someone standing next to a projector began to move.

“Take note of these two targets.” He pointed his cane toward the images displayed.

“Evanora Prower–” An old portrait of Evanora wearing the prim clothes of a noble lady was shown. “And Casper Clay!”

The second image was a screenshot from the video involving Casper's fight with New Era.

“The former is the longest surviving witch that we know of, by finding her, we will find the witches she has gathered. The latter is a young man who is capable of using witch runes, he may bear some relation to them, if that turns out to be the case, then we will use him to track them down.”

The old man lowered his cane and raised his head to look at all of those gathered.

“This the only information we have at present, but we are the huntsman, we were once known as the Bloodhounds of Breton. Once we catch wind of our quarry, we do not relent. You all will find your orders and arrangements in your lodgings, let us greet these monsters in human skin with our blades and bullets.”

Upon dismissal, the room cleared out as the men and women shuffled out in an orderly manner.

…

Somewhere within the Alborz Mountains, figures wearing dark clothing that obscured their appearance sat around a man who wore black robes and an equally dark agal.

He unfurled a scroll, quickly scanning it before he began speaking.

“A request was made for the services of the Hashashin... The target for this mission is Casper Clay of the Emerian Island. At the moment, our client wishes for us to observe him with the intention of striking when necessary. The elder on the mountain has approved the commission, those who have been selected are to take on this task. How you wish to go about this is up to your discretion, but failure is not permitted.”

Several figures within the group rose, bowing toward the speaker, before melding into the shadows and vanishing.

The speaker read the scroll once more, specifically, the additional commission below the request to observe Casper Clay.

Commission: ‘Assassinate Evanora Prower by any means necessary.’

Payment: Legendary sword forged by Kaveh the Blacksmith in addition to 10 billion US dollars.

Status: Denied as per dictated by the Elder.

Billions of dollars were just a penance in the eyes of the speaker, but the weapon mentioned was valuable enough for even him to wonder what the elder had in mind when refusing it.

‘Even if those witches brought themselves to the eyes of the public, that does not mean their strength is sufficient enough to ward off our blades…’ The speaker thought, stashing the scroll away while withholding his obvious doubt.

…

In some distant city, a bustling nightclub with a flashing neon sign reading ‘Hades’ shone in the night.

Inside, there were men and women enjoying a typical night out, but a closer look revealed that their eyes were glazed over as if entranced. There were a few who seemed to stay sober-minded, however. Dressed in black and red with rather pale faces and dark gazes, these men and women were followed around by several club-goers with dazed expressions.

“Damien,” A man without any followers at his side spoke with discontent, “Have you received word from the princes below?”

The man in question, wore a lazy grin, his dark eyes full of vibrant orange hues curled in delight. His arms wrapped around men and women as he reveled in the decadent air surrounding him.

“That I have,” Damien gave a dismissive reply, he raised a cup of wine and gulped it down before playfully biting a woman at his side, she, like the rest of the people at his side, failed to react at all.

“And? Need I remind you that as one of Hades’ chosen, you are an ambassador for the princes of hell. We need direction, now more than ever. Especially since those witches have come to light. Since they have chosen to expose themselves, why is it that we remain hidden like rats?”

With an exasperated sigh, Damien rose up and the loud music instantly fell a few octaves. He reached for an empty glass and approached a man who stared wistfully into the distance.

Damien raised his hand and his fingers warped into demonic claws, his nails extending into fine points while dark red veins encapsulated his hand. With a languid swipe, he sliced open the hypnotized man’s throat, sending blood sputtering out.

Oddly enough, as the man died, he remained upright while his body trembled and his life faded.

Damien filled the empty cup with fresh blood, not out of a need or desire, but simply because he enjoyed its taste as well as the unique feeling of absorbing someone else’s vitality.

“The Emerian Island,” Damien murmured.

“What?” The man who confronted Damien frowned confusedly.

“We paid a heavy price for the information, but the demon princes are certain that a relic they desire will appear very soon. That is where we’ll make our debut if you so desperately wish to be known by the public. If the witches wish to make themselves known, we will do so in the grandest manner possible.”

The look of criticism the man showed had all but disappeared and he broke out into a smile.

“Of course, I knew that as Hades Chosen you would not disappoint.” He bowed his head.

Seeing his display of courtesy, Damien’s eyes flashed with a murderous look, but he hid it well, keeping a charming smile stationed on his face. He licked his lips that had been stained with blood before returning to his chair.

As for the man who had been killed, his body expanded, his bones snapped and constructed as he began to grow. Before long, his shape had become something that was vaguely humanoid. With horns, a spiny back, large wings, and stony skin, the corpse was turned into a gargoyle. In between its raspy breathing, saliva began dripping from its mouth as it eyed another one of the club attendees.

“Have at it,” Damien waved his hand.

At once, the Gargoyle bit into the neck of a woman who didn’t even blink. She stared out into nothing as she was devoured alive.