May stepped out of the lavish changing room; despite the dozens of mirrors, she was eager to hear her brother’s opinion.

"What do you think?" she asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

Roach's gaze locked onto her. "No," he bluntly replied.

May confidently donned an orange dress, its daring design leaving little to the imagination. Complementing her attire were six-inch transparent stilettos. Her athletic physique effortlessly embraced the outfit.

“Is it the orange?” she asked him, pouting with uncertainty, twirling around in the mirror.

“Yeah, it’s the orange,” Roach lied.

“Oh great, I brought one in white.”

“Wait—”

It was too late. Just then, June walked out wearing a more conservative dress. Though the silk was tight against her top half, hugging her breasts, it opened out as it reached her waist and flourished outwards down to her knees. She had on a pair of low, black heels that made her stand at five feet and eight inches, stretching her height to the same as her sisters.

“Wow,” Roach mumbled, taken aback.

“Is it too much?” she asked with a hesitant look.

“No, not at all,” Roach assured. “You look great. Why are you dressing up so much?”

“Can I not dress up?” June questioned abruptly.

“It’s not that, June, it’s just that I’ve never seen you like this. Is this for the guy May mentioned?”

“I don’t want to answer that, Sol,” she said, attempting to take the heels off. “These are so uncomfortable.”

“So it is.”

“If I tell you who he is you’ll run a full background check and threaten his life or whatever,” she protested, flustered.

“I don’t mind who you date, June, I’ve said this to May. But men can do terrible things to a woman - I’ve seen it. I don’t want you ending up in a ditch. What’s his name?”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” she dismissed, still attempting to take off the high heels.

Roach took out his phone from his pocket. Finding the notes app, he began to script a message to the intelligence department. “So you work with him?”

“Don’t Sol.”

“You get no say in this,” Roach responded, his tone guarded.

June breathed deeply in through her nose as tears welled up in her eyes.

Suddenly, their argument was interrupted by May exiting the fitting room who was adorned in the same dress but in white. Her eyes landed on her sister's voluptuous figure and her arms were thrown up in the air. “Ugh! Why do you have such big tits?!” she shouted, garnering every eye in the exquisite clothes store.

June burst into tears. Quickly covering them with her hands, she stormed for the exit, causing the burly security guard to jump from his imprinted seat.

“June, wait—” he called to her, but it was no use. Through the glass windows, Roach watched her run down the street with tears falling behind her.

“I’ll pay for it!” Roach shouted to the security guard, scratching the back of his neck after, muttering after with, “Fuck sake.”

“You should be nicer to her,” May told him upon realising it wasn’t her fault her sister teared up.

“And you are?”

“We’re sisters, Sol, we fight but we always have each other's backs. She’s liked him for half a year. June’s not a slag either. If she didn’t believe he was the one then she wouldn’t.”

“You think two people are just destined to be together?” Roach questioned his sister, folding his arms.

“Yes,” she proposed, folding hers. “I believe in true love. I’m sorry we’re not all as miserable as you.”

“Love is just endorphins being released in your brain.”

Angrily strutting up to her brother, she slapped him across the face—he didn’t flinch or budge an inch. She grabbed her bags and her clothes, and headed out after her sister, leaving Roach staring blankly at the marble floors.

“And you’ll pay for that one too?” the security guard questioned meekly.

Roach exhaled, closed his eyes and nodded slowly. As he was deleting the message off his phone, it rang.

“Yes,” Roach answered immediately.

“Meet at the usual in an hour.”

Roach sighed, “Sure.”

“He’s just come back from a trip so he’s tired,” Spike informed the team as they walked through a cramped, dark alleyway. “I cashed in a favour with him so let me do the talking, alright?”

The Ill-Favoured Five were all cloaked except Spike, who adorned himself in leather trousers and a white crop top. Contrasting his many tattoos, his attire suited his slender frame.

Although the Unwanted were a myth to most, they were wearing their mist out in the open, something only done when truly needed. However, they were in the Grey Zone, a thin line between the Outers and the Underground. There was no electricity, plumbing or even people; it was the scarred, untouched remnants of London, creating a clear distinction between the Outers and the Underground.

“Where’s he been?” Goliath asked.

Spike shrugged as he lit up a cigarette pursued between his lips. “You can ask him.”

“Alright. If he’s been away he ain’t gonna know shit,” Goliath cursed.

“Don’t underestimate the Bookkeeper,” Spike countered. “I’m serious.”

“Believe it or not, I trust you,” Goliath told him.

“That’s a lie,” Roach muttered, unbuttoning the sheath for one of his knives. Goliath glanced over his shoulder, pressing a thick finger to his lips, unbeknownst to the eccentric bard.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, they emerged behind an enormous building that blocked out the sun as much as the Overground did. From a snippet view in front, they saw dozens of armoured cars parked outside the entrance, illuminated by red lights and gold lights. The faint thudding of music and hollers came within earshot.

“Here we are, the Labyrinth of Love,” Spike announced like a tour guide.

It was Battersea Power Station, a relic of a building before the Great Merge, turned into what appeared to be a casino, brothel and auction house. The team had heard about the Labyrinth of Love before but had never visited. From what they had heard, however, was that it was the discrete location for any elites in New London to live out their wildest fantasies without fear of being blackmailed about their activities.

As they approached the back of Battersea Power Station, they spotted a small figure with stretched ears waving at them from an open fire exit door. Spike immediately recognized the figure and stepped forward, opening his arms in a friendly gesture. "Hey Vrüm, great to see ya, you little green bastard!" Spike greeted enthusiastically.

A half-goblin emerged from the dim light outside the door. He wore a neatly pressed tuxedo, complete with a silver watch and matching cufflinks. With purposeful steps, his polished shoes carried him towards the quirky bard, suggesting a sense of urgency. As he came clear into view, the team noticed the tiredness evident in the bags under his eyes. However, his white, eyebrows and curly beard remained neatly trimmed.

“Shh!” the half-goblin quick-whispered.

“What?” Spike asked, offended, hand over his heart.

“The Bookkeeper isn’t meant to be seeing anyone today,” Vrüm explained to him in an eloquent and well-spoken voice. “Please, keep your voice down.”

“My deepest apologies,” Spike said, bowing his head. “I mean no offence.”

Roach raised an eyebrow under his mist, while it was clear to the rest of the team that Goliath’s jaw had dropped to the floor. The large man had never heard such sincerity come out of Spike’s mouth - he didn’t think it existed.

"Come here," Vrüm said warmly, moving toward Spike with open arms.

“There he is,” Spike whispered, embracing the little half-goblin, and giving him a tight squeeze. “You look fucked, mate.”

“It has been a busy few weeks since the Dagian has been gone,” Vrüm replied. As they broke the friendly hug, Vrüm pinched the cigarette out of Spike’s mouth and threw it into a puddle. “No luck giving up then. Is this your team?”

“Uh huh,” Spike replied, stepping aside while placing another one in his mouth. “You don’t need to know their names - they’re all boring.”

“Unfortunately, the Dagian requires the information of new people entering the Labyrinth of Love. Of course, it’s all strictly confidential. The Dagian knows the Unwanted would be quite the enemy.”

“What do you need?” Goliath asked, taking a step forward.

“Race and name. Alias will do, as I know you’re all given one.”

“Half-giant, Goliath, team leader of the Ill-Favoured Five,” he replied, folding his muscular arms.

“What sort of mercenary work does your team do?” Vrüm questioned as he whipped out his notebook.

“That information isn’t available, even for whoever your boss is,” Goliath replied bluntly.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Vrüm looked to Spike for assistance.

“Sorry, mate, he’s right. Everything you’ll be getting is at face value. But that’s Roach, Pointy and Mute—she doesn’t speak,” Spike explained.

“Where’s the Bookkeeper? We’ve come to see him. And who’s this Dagian bloke?” Goliath questioned, his enormous figure looming over the small half-goblin.

Vrüm, undeterred and unafraid, opened his notebook and scribbled down the details. “The Bookkeeper is a Dagian. We, myself and Spike and close associates, refer to him as the Dagian.”

“To think a Dagian is in New London!” Pointy exclaimed from his thoughts. “Such a rare and interesting race. They were known as the Servants of the False gods and—” He cleared his throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Vrüm snapped his notebook shut and tucked it into his blazer. “What is the matter of the meeting?”

“It’s about the Children of Discordia,” Goliath responded, becoming minutely frustrated.

“The severity?” Vrüm peppered once more.

“World ending,” Roach answered, his tone void of urgency.

“Oh, you’re being sarcastic. I must warn you, the Bookkeeper doesn’t take kindly to sarcasm, especially when he does not know you.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Roach corrected, dropping his lit cigarette onto the ground.

“Very well, my apologies. Please, follow me,” Vrüm instructed, turning on the spot and walking back down the alleyway.

“I quite like him,” Pointy whispered to Roach. “His tux could use a bit of flare though. And I can’t believe I’m going to meet a Dagian, do you know how rare they are?”

The Ill-Favoured Five followed Vrüm through the fire exit door and into a bleak corridor.

“To be honest, Pointy, I couldn’t give a shit.”

“You won’t be saying that when you meet him,” Pointy countered, clearly beaming with excitement under his mist.

“You see,” Vrüm told them as they turned a corner, “we have to use the back entrance as you will be seen by those who indulge themselves in the Labyrinth, and the Bookkeeper does not want his customers to know he is home.”

Vrüm pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a vast warehouse that sprawled before the team. Inside, they observed a bustling scene with numerous workers seated at desks, working on filing reports and stacking coins. Some workers glanced up briefly as the team passed by, their curious gazes quickly retreating to their tasks. A third of them were half-goblins and the rest were di-humans. This sort of work was common since most found their appearance displeasing.

“I didn’t realise you had such a big operation here,” Goliath mused.

“The Bookkeeper keeps all records of legal and illegal merchandise. Every meeting between politicians and however many wolf-thighs a Hunter has collected to be sold.”

“I always thought he was more of a pimp than an information dealer,” Roach told Vrüm.

“Both are right. Yes, our ladies and gentlemen of the night earn us good profit, but information is the most valuable product anyone can own. Everything you hear, see, touch, smell - it adds value to your life; it’s an investment.”

“He seems quite the philosopher,” Pointy concluded.

“After the countless years he’s lived, I’m sure he’s done enough thinking,” Vrüm countered.

Pointy was about to speak, but an elbow nudge from Roach held his tongue.

After reaching the end of the warehouse, Vrüm pushed open another set of doors, holding them open for the team. This led into a corridor adorned with red carpets and soft white lights. To the left, they found a circular staircase made of marble with gold handrails twisting upwards.

“He may be a bit - you know,” Vrüm warned Spike, stepping aside.

Spike nodded, laying a hand on Vrüm’s shoulder. “Thank you, my little green friend. It’s good to see you.”

“I share the same sentiment, Spike. Though, I do not like being called your little green friend.”

“I know, but it’s got a ring to it,” Spike corrected, tapping him on the shoulder and taking the first step up. “C’mon you sacks of shit, it’s five floors up.”

The Ill-Favoured Five arrived at a set of double doors - Goliath was breathless. Despite the lavish landing, the double doors were made out of plain wood. It was painted black except for the silver doorknobs.

Spike knocked a unique tune in a certain area of the door.

“My old friend, come in come in!” a deep but cheerful voice bellowed.

Spike laughed as he entered and opened his arms. Goliath caught the closing door behind him and entered, holding it open for the rest of his team to funnel in.

The room was painted black with silver antique lights hanging from the ceiling. Though it was clean and orderly, the room didn’t match the wealthy and powerful name of the Bookkeeper. On the further side of the wall was one-way glass overlooking a vast space down below. There were gambling tables with stripper poles between, bars bent around each pillar with elegant men and women serving.

Unfazed by the enchanting allure of the Labyrinth of Love, the Ill-Favoured Five had their attention captured by an unusual sight. Their gaze was drawn to an immensely overweight man, comfortably seated in a colossal lounge chair. His bare torso was exposed, adorned solely with stretchy silk trousers. Intriguingly, his entire body was adorned with a multitude of runes, each bearing a unique configuration. The intricate tapestry of runes turned his body into a captivating piece of art, inviting closer inspection of the skin that stretched and showcased them.

“Good to see you, my friend,” the large and fat man said, barely lifting his arms without moving the rest of his body. His accent was unique, with each word twanging and twisting.

Spike made his way around the huge man towards his head and went in for a tight squeeze of a hug. The fat man patted Spike’s back gently and the two broke away.

“Sorry for my sight,” the Bookkeeper apologized, re-arranging his fat, “I have picked up a lot of things on my trip. Do you mind?”

“Not all, big guy. Any merchandise in there?” Spike questioned with an eyebrow raised.

The Bookkeeper winked but backtracked with, “I only have workers here and cheap ladies, the rest are coming tomorrow by boat as they are all insured. Mind yourself, my friend.”

Spike took a step back and even ushered his team against the walls of the room. Perplexed, the team still followed suit.

The Bookkeeper felt up his enormous body; he patted his right side of fat a few times before his hand stopped on an extremely complicated mark, filled to the brim with carvings and forgotten language even Pointy didn’t recognise. He rubbed the centre of the mark and it glowed bright purple.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the skin. The mark began to grow, squeezing the others tightly. It was as if his skin was water and the markings were lily pads. Then, a tall, female kobold dressed in a man’s tuxedo stepped out. The team could only watch in amazement.

“Good trip, sir?” the kobold asked.

“A bit bumpy on the boat,” the Bookkeeper replied. “Could you hurry up please, Gaaran, I have some immediate business.”

“Of course, sir.” Gaaran reached into the Bookkeeper’s skin and pulled out two more individuals. They were dressed in ragged clothes, their hands bound by chains and their faces dirty. Their uneasy eyes darted around in fear. As more people emerged, the Bookkeeper shrank rapidly, losing tens of kilos by the second.

"Quickly," Gaaran ordered, guiding them towards a blank wall. With a wave of her hand, the wall disappeared, revealing a hidden hallway. Gaaran ushered everyone forward, pushing them along.

“Make sure they’re all washed and taken care of, Gaaran, and take those cuffs off them!”

“Yes, Bookkeeper.”

The Bookkeeper, now half of himself, stretched his arms above his head. His skin began to tighten until he looked like an ordinary obese man. “So, what does the Unwanted need so urgently?”

“Your speciality, sir,” Pointy replied, scrutinising the man’s body.

“This is Pointy,” Spike introduced, “Roach, Mute and our leader, Goliath.”

Each of the team, except for Mute, gave subtle nods.

“Such interesting blood,” the Bookkeeper mused to himself, seeing through their cloaks and mist. “I smell gold and death ... pure and—hm. Spike, you never told me of your rare team before.”

“I know, mate, but they’re not the socialising type,” Spike replied.

“And we ain’t for sale,” Goliath added.

The Bookkeeper rubbed his red eyes and opened them wide. “I am still in my buying mindset, apologies. What information do you require?”

Goliath reached into his cloak and pulled out a heavy pouch. He laid it down on a table and coins clattered inside. “We want info on the Children of Discordia.”

The Bookkeeper stared at the bag of coins, accurately guessing the amount by the volume alone. “That sort of information is too valuable for a lone pouch.”

Goliath smiled under his mist. “That’s exactly what our Elder said.” He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a second bag. “One-hundred and Forty-Eight pieces.”

The Bookkeeper scratched his hairless double chin. “I want your blood too.”

“Mine?” Goliath questioned. “Why would you want half-giant blood?”

Spike moved his head towards the table next to the Bookkeeper, urging his teammate to comply.

“I am more curious than ill-driven,” the Bookkeeper told him. “A drop will do.”

Roach brought out one of his daggers and handed it to Goliath.

“Just on the table,” the Bookkeeper told him.

Goliath nicked his clubby thumb and a blob of his blood splashed onto the table. The Bookkeeper pressed his finger into it and placed it on the tip of his tongue. Like a fine wine, he swashed it around his mouth. “Hmm. Interesting. You’re not quite a half-giant, are you? Strokkun born?”

“Yes,” Goliath replied with a disgruntled look on his distorted face.

“Ah, now, what sort of information do you require about them?”

“Anything,” Pointy replied. “It seems every bud has been clipped.”

“You are right about that,” the Bookkeeper told him. “They are like you; mist in the wind. At least you leave blood in your path. The Lords of the Underground have heard nothing and seen nothing. But, we have noticed very unusual amounts of goods purchased. Also a rise in Hunter Quests outside the walls.”

“Go on,” Pointy said, withholding his excitement and maintaining a professional demeanour.

“Monster incense purchases have been increasing for the past four months far past their expected rate. Intended was 6.7% for the horde coming this winter, now it’s at 15.6%. The Lords of the Underground, the politicians and the Houses have nothing to do with it. Bones too, cheap armour, swords, guns and gas masks. They are smaller in comparison to the monster incense, though.”

“How noticeable is the mark they’ve left?” Roach asked.

“Only I would notice it. To others, business would be booming even in our recent recession,” the Bookkeeper replied. “Very sly, under the radar—no mouths, no ears and no faces. Whoever is in charge of them wants no attention and no enemies as of yet. I would suggest they are professionals, not some cult from before my time.”

“What about the jobs given to Hunters?” Goliath asked.

“Hunters have been receiving a 30% rise in monster culling in certain areas outside the walls—not uncommon for the expected horde this Winter. This is not about resource gathering but eliminating competition for other monsters so they can succeed and flourish. For instance, the number of Ghrugs has been greatly diminished along the Thames.”

“Because they’re so poisonous to other monsters that eat them?” Roach questioned. “Making the stronger monsters thrive?”

“Precisely. It is complex. Whoever is doing this has experience, a large team and unlimited funding. I do not warn lightheartedly, Unwanted, but I would heavily suggest caution.”

“So the Children of Discordia are setting something up? They have no want or need for power in the Underground?” Goliath asked.

“Yes. We are not their intended target I do not think,” the Bookkeeper agreed.

“Who? The King?” Spike asked.

“No. Do you know who Discordia is?”

“I do,” Pointy answered quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Discordia, Second age Deviant, absorbed by the Black Moon in the Age of the False Gods after being killed by the First King. Order is her greatest sin, while chaos is her greatest deed. All those of brilliant madness and chaos shall reign triumph over those of order and calm.”

“Straight from a book,” the Bookkeeper mused, nodding to Pointy. “Despite his answer, Discordia has been dead for eons, before even my time as I said. I’d hate to say this, but my best guess is that it has another meaning, and the name distracts what they are trying to achieve.”

“Suppose this is better than nothing,” Goliath muttered. “Anything else?”

“This might be of use, but the same thing has been happening to other cities in Eurella and their alliances. Not too grand compared to New London but along those lines. It hasn’t happened over the Gold Sea in Urum.”

“Is that where you’ve been shopping?” Spike asked.

“Yes, but I did not find what I was looking for. As I was saying, the Children of Discordia have spread to all the allies of Eurella but not Sandrum. That is my guess—not definitive, however.”

“Thank you, mate,” Spike said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Spike. I have some very rare shipments coming in tomorrow. I think you might like some.”

Spike’s eyebrows raised under his mist. He leaned in close to his friend and whispered, “I’ll send you a text.”

The Bookkeeper smirked, tapping Spike’s hand on his shoulder. “Please leave me be now, I needed to sort out countless slaves.”

“Thank you, Bookkeeper,” Goliath told him, nodding his head.