I had pulled a lot more favors than I liked for this operation, all in an attempt to distract the Elsewhere Cult. The item in my hand was one of those favors. I secured the replica of Mariah Morey in my briefcase. It was a cursed statue, and I planned to use it as bait for this operation. I already knew beforehand that the Elsewhere Cult’s priests would be gathering here, and this statue was just the way to provoke more of them into attending the gala.

After the security frisked me, they let me in.

The guards seemed more interested in keeping an eye on the crowd than thoroughly checking the guests. I slipped through easily. My clothing was also from one of the favors owed to me. The suit and tie looked clean and sharp, fitting me perfectly. Moreover, they were responsive to aura and durable too, a nice little touch to keep me safe amidst the deaths I was about to unleash.

I moved through the crowd, the music pulsing around me, and the mingling chatter blending into a low hum. Everyone here was oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface. I kept my gaze steady, scanning the room for any sign of the cultists. I had to remain focused; the plan depended on it.

Rory’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “In position, had the right poison ready.”

Grue chimed in, “On standby.”

Henry added, “I detected two others not from the list, probably part of the gala too.”

Carlyle’s voice came next, “Still waiting on the line…”

Just then, a pudgy man approached me. I recognized him as one of the followers of the Elsewhere Cult, their source of funds. It was Eric Lannister. “I am glad you made it, Mr. Wells,” he said, his voice smooth but lacking sincerity. He was bald and big, with a demeanor that screamed self-importance.

Mr. Wells was an alias I had just prepared for this meeting, a face to hide behind as I navigated this treacherous game.

“The package is here. Is there any way I can meet the clients?” I asked with a casual tone.

“I apologize, but that can’t do. I will pay you now; how much?” he replied, his eyes darting around as if he feared being overheard.

“I want to meet them.” I kept my expression steady, unwilling to let him sense any hesitation.

Eric’s eyes narrowed, assessing me. “That’s not how this works, Mr. Wells. I assure you, you’ll be compensated handsomely without any face-to-face interaction.”

"That’s unfortunate," I remarked with a hint of a smirk. "You don’t mind me staying a bit longer to enjoy the gala, do you?"

Eric’s face twisted into a forced smile. "Of course! You are a valued guest," he replied, though his eyes betrayed the faintest glimmer of suspicion.

I handed him the briefcase, letting my fingers linger on it for just a moment longer than necessary.

Mariah Morey. The name echoed in my mind as the weight of the briefcase shifted into Eric’s hands. It wasn’t just some cursed statue; it was much more than that. The story of Mariah Morey was whispered among the dark corners of the Hunter world. An old member of the Elsewhere Cult, she had vanished into the Forbidden Region and returned, only to be turned into stone. What Eric didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that the real Mariah Morey was no longer just a statue. That replica had cost me a favor or two, but it was worth it.

"Two hundred million credits," I said, my voice calm, steady. "That’s how much I want."

Eric’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, his confident facade cracked. He blinked rapidly, taken aback by the sheer audacity of my demand. "Two... two hundred million?" he stammered, his smile faltering.

I nodded, keeping my face impassive. "That’s right. This isn't just a transaction for a piece of art. You and I both know the significance of what's inside that briefcase. A relic of your Cult. A symbol of your history, and perhaps... your future."

He shifted uneasily, glancing around before leaning in closer. "Mr. Wells, I hope you're not trying to extort us. That would be... unwise." His voice dropped to a low growl, trying to mask the fear behind his words.

I leaned back slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "Not extortion, Eric. Just good business."

His gaze flicked to the briefcase, then back to me, weighing his options. But we both knew he had no choice. Not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders—and the Cult off his back.

"I will send you the money right away," Eric muttered, clearly rattled by the unexpected price tag. He pulled out his phone, glancing at the piece of paper I handed him, my Hunter bank account number scrawled on it.

I watched him with a casual indifference as he fumbled to enter the details, his fingers trembling slightly. The Hunter bank was one of the most secure systems in existence—strictly off the grid by mundane standards. Transactions there left no trail for mundanes or even most hunters. Perfect for jobs like this.

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A small buzz from my own phone confirmed the transfer. Two hundred million credits, just like that.

"Pleasure doing business," I said with a smirk, pocketing my phone.

Eric gave a weak smile in return, though his face remained pale. "I... hope we can do more business in the future, Mr. Wells."

"Perhaps," I replied, already thinking of my next move. But this wasn't the time for more small talk. The gala was still in full swing, and I had other plans for the evening. Plans that didn’t involve smiling for the Cult’s wallets.

As Eric walked off, likely to report to his superiors about the transaction, I sent a quick message to Rory.

“Money secured. Proceed.”

Her reply came swiftly: "Understood. Lacing the rest of the food. Give me ten minutes."

I scanned the crowd, spotting some of the more prominent figures mingling among the guests, their auras quietly humming beneath the surface. There were at least three hunters here I hadn’t expected, all of them likely hired by the Cult as extra security. Not a problem though—just more pieces to the puzzle.

“Grue, keep an eye on the security team. There are a few extras. Rory’s finishing the prep now. We move soon.”

His response was a single word: “Got it.”

"Carlyle, are you in position yet?" I asked through the comms, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden spike in tension.

"Just landed... tell me when you need the walls," came his calm reply.

Henry’s voice followed almost immediately after. "Five more... and... thirteen more… that’s a lot of hunters. I don’t think they recognized me. I’ll be hiding from a distance for the meantime."

I couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief at that. Henry’s detection abilities, while not on par with a true Tracker-type, were still invaluable. Picking him up for this job had already paid off.

"Good. Stay hidden," I muttered, my mind racing. The situation had escalated faster than I anticipated. Thirteen additional hunters. That wasn’t just a small bump; that was enough to turn this gala into a bloodbath if things went sideways.

Then Rory chimed in. "My poison can be remotely activated when I want. Just give me the word."

I already knew that, but it didn’t hurt for the rest of the team to hear it. This was no longer just about me pulling strings; they had to feel like they had some control in the chaos that was about to unfold. It was good for morale.

"Understood, Rory. Hold for now." I glanced around, keeping my posture relaxed, like I was just another attendee enjoying the event. But inside, I was recalculating. With the extra hunters on site, this wasn’t just about causing a distraction anymore—this was about survival.

"Everyone stay sharp. We move in ten."

Ten.

People continued eating, drinking, and chatting, oblivious to what was about to unfold.

Nine.

I moved through the crowd, playing the part of a guest, shaking hands, exchanging meaningless pleasantries.

Eight.

More people arrived, and my suspicions grew with each new face—hunters, clearly, blending into the gathering. They were members of the priesthood.

Seven.

I positioned myself in a dim corner, far from the center of attention. Patience.

Six.

They continued with their meals, drinks, and conversations, completely unaware.

Five.

Eric kept up his role as the gracious host, mingling and laughing with the new arrivals.

Four.

Then I spotted him. One of the main targets—the right-hand of the Prophet. His eyes met mine, and I think he recognized me.

Three.

Rory’s voice crackled through the comms. “Everyone in the gala has fed on my aura.”

Two.

I gave the word, my voice steady. “Do it.”

One.

Grue entered the room, as planned, helmet on, leather jacket blending with the evening’s attire.

Carlyle’s invisible force walls went up, silently sealing off all exits. No one would be leaving.

Zero.

One by one, the guests at the gala began to collapse, their bodies hitting the floor in a slow, synchronized cascade. The poisoned food had worked perfectly—hunters, priests, and followers alike, falling into unconsciousness, completely vulnerable.

The real work was about to begin.

Henry’s voice flared over the comms. “Two managed to get away… I killed one of them. The other managed to run. Do I pursue?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “Stay where you are and kill anyone else who tries to escape.”

I let out a slow breath. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t catastrophic either. One getting away was acceptable—it would spread the word, make the Elsewhere Cult more paranoid. A controlled leak, in a way.

If anything, I wanted them to feel hunted. Dragging the Elsewhere Cult out of the shadows and into the light was the secondary goal, and a survivor would help stir the pot. I just needed to handle the rest of this cleanly.

Grue handed me the knife without a word, and I took it. The cold weight in my hand felt like the culmination of everything I had planned. I kneeled beside one of the mundanes who had collapsed and pried open his lower lip. Sure enough, the serial numbers were there. A mark of the Elsewhere Cult.

Without hesitation, I slit his throat.

Grue stood over me, watching. “You didn’t say anything about killing ordinary people,” he commented, with his normally flat voice.

“They aren’t ordinary,” I replied, wiping the blade. “They might not have aura, but they’re monsters in their own way. The only reason they’re in the positions they are now is because of the human sacrifices they’ve offered to the cult. Some of these people are probably older than us, sustained by dark rituals.”

I stood, handing him the knife back. “Go on, help me finish this. But leave the hunters to me. Just remember, check for the serial numbers on the lower lips before you kill.”

I walked over to the unconscious hunter, my eyes drawn to the dagger sheathed at her hip. I picked it up, admiring the craftsmanship. Its balance was perfect, its edge sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest touch. But it wasn’t the weapon that intrigued me—it was the woman lying beneath it.

She was playing dead. I knew because of my Soul Link. The Soul Link only connected with those who were aware of my presence, meaning she was awake if I could perceive and temporarily steal her illusion attribute. The clever thing was, I had hidden the link behind her own aura, a trick most hunters would never notice all thanks to the Soul Link.

I felt her aura pulse faintly as I took it, returning it just as quickly. But I wasn’t done. Using her own aura against her, I amplified her pain. The illusion attribute was perfect for this—turning even a slight wound into an excruciating experience. I stabbed her just above the heart, not deep enough to kill, but enough to send searing pain through her body.

My Soul Link told me just how deep I should stab. The illusion attribute was giving me some sort of spatial awareness of her insides. Convenient.

“Aaagh~!” she cried, her body tensing as she tried to fight back, but I was already on her. One knee pinning her leg, one hand holding her arm down.

“Be careful,” I said, leaning close. “An inch deeper, and I’ll hit your arteries. Your illusion attribute, though… what a waste. Tricksters with half your ability would be doing far more creative things.”

I twisted the blade slightly, watching her writhe in pain. “Now, tell me—where is the Prophet?”