LIX

On the top floor of a high-rise building overlooking the city, an elderly gentleman leaned back in his leather armchair, a crystal tumbler of amber liquor in his hand. The muted glow of the television bathed the dimly lit office, casting shadows across shelves lined with rare artifacts and trophies of his success.

Sebastian Moore, the Prophet of the Elsewhere Cult, watched the live broadcast of this year’s Hunter Exam’s final stage with a calm exterior, though his mind was anything but at ease.

On the screen, Reynard Bright stood triumphant, his voice clear and commanding.

“The Elsewhere Cult has offended me, and for that, they shall pay. The bounty I offer is three divine favors. No matter how difficult, I shall fulfill them to my dying breath. The target of subjugation is the leadership of the Elsewhere Cult. Lying before me is one of their three leader figures, the Hero Karl Arman. Now, only two remain: their Saint and their Prophet.”

Sebastian’s fingers tightened around the glass. Dangerous.

“Of the two remaining leaders, I know the name of one of them... The Prophet. His name is Sebastian Moore, and he works in the entertainment industry as a powerful business mogul. Aren’t I nice?”

His jaw clenched as he set the tumbler down on the table. Bastard.

“Know this. The favor I offer shouldn’t be taken lightly. I possess knowledge of the location of Excalibur, secret treasures scattered around the world, details of cryptids, insight into advanced aura theories, and so much more. I may not know everything, but I know enough. Fellow hunters, I wish you luck.”

Sebastian’s lips pressed into a thin line. Arrogant.

He reached for his drink again, taking a slow, deliberate sip. The future he had so meticulously charted fractured before his eyes. Multiple realities, carefully crafted probabilities, collapsed and shifted into something unknown.

Reynard Bright had just declared war.

Sebastian exhaled deeply, swirling the liquor in his glass. As the Prophet of the Elsewhere Cult, he was many things: a mastermind, a visionary, and a weaver of fates. He wielded influence like a weapon, his power built on wealth, connections, and foresight. Combat, however, was not his forte. He detested it. Problems, in his mind, were best solved with clever words and subtle manipulation.

He glanced at the television, where Reynard’s confident smirk lingered, even as the broadcast cut to a commercial. The King of Favors was an upstart, but he was not to be underestimated. His bold declaration had painted a target not just on himself, but on the entire Cult.

Foolish hunters will come for us now, Sebastian mused, taking another sip. They’ll chase our gifts of immortality, our treasures, and our knowledge.

The Cult was not a mere organization. It was an ancient existence, a shadowy remnant of a time Before the World Ended. Their history intertwined with the Old Nobility, their secrets older than the ruins many sought to uncover.

Setting the glass down, Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing.

“After a very long dark age,” he muttered to himself, “it looks like the people have forgotten to fear the dark.”

Reaching for the phone on his desk, he dialed a number, his fingers steady and deliberate.

The line rang twice before someone answered, their voice sharp and businesslike.

“It is time,” Sebastian said, his tone as calm as it was commanding, “to remind the world why some existences must remain in the shadows.”

There was silence on the other end, followed by a single, low acknowledgment.

“Pull in favors from two of the Seven Extremes,” Sebastian continued, his voice colder now. “Ensure they understand the gravity of the situation. Reynard Bright will regret ever learning my name.”

He ended the call, leaning back once more. The Prophet’s gaze turned toward the skyline, his expression unreadable.

The King of Favors had declared war, but Sebastian Moore had lived through countless battles. The shadows he commanded were vast and deep, and they would not fall so easily.

***

Bob leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders. The Capital Headquarters of the Hunter Association was quieter than usual, though the tension in the air was palpable. The live broadcast of the Hunter Exam’s final stage had stirred up more than excitement—it had brought questions, whispers, and unease.

In front of him sat Reynard Bright, his posture relaxed yet purposeful, as if he were perfectly at home in the grand office. Behind Reynard stood Atropos, her presence a stark reminder of the unusual dynamics at play.

Bob sighed, breaking the silence. “So, you don’t want to be a Hunting Dog anymore?” His gaze flicked briefly to Atropos before returning to Reynard.

Reynard met his eyes without hesitation. “I changed my mind.”

Bob leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “So how do you plan to fight the Elsewhere Cult? I’ll be frank with you. The Association doesn’t have any idea that such a Cult even exists. I suspect they must have connections to the Old Nobility. And just so you know, people like me—people in this business—won’t act so impulsively against them. After all, we owe the world to them.”

Reynard’s expression didn’t waver. “My original intention was to join the Dogs with my full awareness intact, in exchange for raising my position in the organization. My goal is to reach at least the level of a Director.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could see where this was going. “You plan to use your position as a Director to issue a Hunt Order.”

Reynard nodded. “Yes.”

Atropos stepped forward, her voice calm yet firm. “But since he has me, I can issue it instead.”

Reynard turned slightly, acknowledging her before returning his focus to Bob. “Atropos told me that you planned to use me as bait for the Elsewhere Cult. Elaborate.”

Bob hesitated for a moment, weighing his words. “Well, I figured someone here would try to kill you. And if the Cult is as big a deal as Atropos made them out to be, they’d probably succeed…”

“Probably?” Reynard’s tone carried a subtle edge.

Bob shrugged, his confidence returning. “I planned to save you from imminent death while subjugating the assassin. It’s a calculated risk.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Reynard’s expression remained unreadable.

Bob sighed, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t expect you to overwhelm that guy… Karl, is it? To confess, even I would be hard-pressed against someone like that. It’s bizarre in many ways how you defeated him the way you did.”

Reynard allowed himself a small smirk. “Preparedness… and cheating.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ah, yeah… You buried your doll in the arena. It’s a mystery how you pulled that off. We had stealth drones patrolling the area, you know?”

“Selena helped me sneak the doll in and bury it somehow,” Reynard admitted. “It worked.”

Bob chuckled, shaking his head. “So, what now? You know the top three get a special reward, right? In your case, as the reigning champ of this Tournament of Fighting, you get one wish from me. Think of it as something like a divine favor.”

Reynard leaned back in his chair, considering. “I’d like to not use it for now. I’ll cash it in someday, but not now.”

Bob studied him for a moment before nodding. “As expected of the King of Favors.” He allowed himself a small grin. “Or maybe more like a hoarder of favors.”

Reynard’s lips curled into a faint smile, but he didn’t respond.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the tension momentarily easing. Bob couldn’t help but marvel at the man before him. Reynard Bright was more than just a strategist—he was a force of nature, someone who bent circumstances to his will.

And though Bob wouldn’t admit it out loud, he was curious to see how far Reynard’s plans would take him.

***

Selena Fair stormed into the HAHQ parking lot, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. Her piercing glare zeroed in on the valet, who looked as though he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Where is my fucking car!?” she demanded, her voice slicing through the air like a whip.

The valet, a wiry young man who couldn’t have been older than twenty, stammered, his hands trembling. “I… I’m sorry, ma’am… someone took it…”

Selena’s eyes narrowed, her aura flaring slightly. “And you did nothing!?”

The valet flinched, his voice quivering. “T-they… Uuuhh…”

Selena took a deep breath, reigning in her temper. She could see the kid was scared out of his mind, and yelling at him wasn’t going to solve anything. It wasn’t his fault. No ordinary thief could’ve pulled this off—not in the HAHQ parking lot. This had to be the work of a hunter.

But still, how the hell does this place have such shitty security?

“Let me see the CCTV,” she ordered, her tone sharp but controlled.

The valet nodded quickly, leading her to a control room. Inside, several monitors displayed live feeds and recordings from around the headquarters. The guards stationed there were an imposing bunch, their stances and the faint aura around them hinting at military backgrounds.

One of them stepped forward, a tall man with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek. “The name’s Johnson,” he introduced himself, his voice calm and professional.

Selena crossed her arms. “What happened to my car?”

Johnson didn’t flinch under her glare. “Someone stole it.”

Selena’s eyebrow twitched. “And you did nothing?”

Without a word, Johnson gestured to one of the screens. The feed rewound, and Selena watched as a petite woman smashed the window of her yellow car. In the next moment, the woman was behind the wheel, zooming out of the lot like a bat out of hell.

Selena’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell is that?”

Johnson shrugged. “No idea. But whoever she is, she’s fast, efficient, and clearly knew what she was doing.”

He glanced at another screen and sighed. “At the same time your car was being jacked, someone set the east wing on fire, multiple robberies were happening across the city-state, and—get this—a kidnapping occurred right outside HQ’s main door.”

Selena blinked, her retort dying on her lips.

Johnson continued, his tone tinged with exasperation. “So, yeah, sorry if your car wasn’t at the top of our priority list.”

Selena’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, feeling a flicker of guilt. She wasn’t about to apologize—not yet—but the enormity of the situation was enough to silence her. She crossed her arms and glared at the grainy CCTV footage, her sharp eyes tracking every detail. “Replay it. Zoom in.”

The guard, Johnson, complied without hesitation. On the screen, the culprit became clearer: a petite woman with dark brown hair and striking red eyes. She moved with alarming precision, smashing the car window and slipping inside. Moments later, Selena’s prized yellow car screeched out of the parking lot, vanishing into the city streets.

Selena’s jaw tightened. “I know who that is.”

Johnson glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “You do?”

“Marah Maldave,” Selena growled. “She’s one of the Hunter Exam contenders. Made it all the way to the eighth stage before forfeiting.”

Johnson nodded slowly, pulling up a file on his tablet. “We’ve got her on record. She’s… quite the troublemaker.”

Selena threw up her hands. “I swear!”

Johnson’s lips twitched in an almost-smile, but he quickly composed himself. “We’ll do our best to track it down, Ms. Fair. We’ll coordinate with the police and set up checkpoints.”

Selena rolled her eyes. “You might as well not bother.”

Johnson frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Because my car has stealth technology,” Selena replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. “By the time you find it, she’ll have disabled the tracker and wiped the system clean.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

“But how the hell did she steal it?” Selena muttered to herself, pacing the small control room. “The car requires my key—one that’s saturated with my aura. No one else should be able to use it.”

Her fingers instinctively went to her jacket pocket, feeling for the key. When she pulled it out, her blood ran cold.

It wasn’t her key.

Selena stared at the object in her hand. It was a near-perfect replica of her unique key, down to the intricate design and weight. But the aura? It was wrong.

“Motherfucker!” she hissed, her voice cutting through the tense silence.

Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“She didn’t just steal my car,” Selena snapped. “She swapped my key with this fake!”

Somewhere, sometime during the chaos of the Hunter Exam, Marah had managed to get close enough to pull off the switch. Selena clenched her fists, her mind racing. “How long has she been planning this?”

Johnson crossed his arms, his face grim. “Looks like this Marah Maldave isn’t just some random thief. She’s been watching you.”

Selena’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to regret it.”

“Any idea where she might be headed?” Johnson asked.

Selena smirked, her tone dripping with menace. “Oh, I’ll find her. And when I do, she’s going to wish she’d never touched my car.”

***

Marah Maldave’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel, her crimson eyes flicking between the road and the mirror. The city-state she had just left blurred into the distance, its sprawling skyline reduced to a smear of light and shadow in the rearview.

“Such an ugly car,” she muttered, her lip curling in disdain.

The yellow vehicle beneath her hands purred with a satisfying hum, its advanced stealth systems working seamlessly. The car's exterior shimmered as she activated its camo feature, shifting the garish yellow paint to a muted slate gray.

“But yellow, seriously?” Marah grumbled. “Such an ugly-ass color.”

The memory of spotting the car in the HAHQ parking lot still irritated her. It wasn’t just the obnoxious color; it was the audacity of its owner. Selena Fair. A Hunter who thought she owned the world.

“Middle of the parking lot, hogging two spaces,” Marah sneered to herself. “Classic.”

Her hand brushed over the dashboard, activating a few more features. The car’s controls were sophisticated but not beyond her ability to figure out. After all, she had come prepared. The key swap had gone smoother than expected, and the aura-saturated fake had fooled Selena long enough for Marah to make her move.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number. The line clicked, and a familiar voice answered.

“I have it,” Marah said, her tone steady.

“Well done, Marah,” came Sebastian Moore’s smooth reply. “With the Hunting Dogs Initiative in our hands, we’ll have more pieces to move. You’ve done excellent work.”

Marah’s lips twitched into a smirk. Praise from the Prophet himself was rare. But before she could respond, his voice continued, calm yet commanding.

“High Priestess, lie low for now. I’ll call you when I need you.”

“Wait,” Marah blurted, gripping the phone tightly.

A pause. Then Sebastian’s voice, laced with mild curiosity. “What is it? Is there a problem?”

Marah hesitated, her usual confidence faltering. She glanced at the shimmering road ahead, her thoughts churning. Finally, she asked, “Does our God have a name?”

The silence that followed was heavy, like the calm before a storm.

Sebastian’s voice turned cold. “Do you have doubts about our faith, Marah?”

“N-no,” she stammered, gripping the steering wheel with one hand as her other clutched the phone. “It’s just… I was curious.”

A low chuckle came through the line, chilling her to the bone. “I see all, far and wide. Have faith, Marah. Salvation will… arrive.”

The line went dead.

Marah let out a shaky breath, lowering the phone to her lap. The Prophet’s words lingered in her mind, both a comfort and a threat.

She pressed down on the accelerator, the car surging forward. Whatever doubts she had, there was no turning back now. The Elsewhere Cult had plans, and she was a key piece on their board.

But deep down, Marah couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at her. What if salvation wasn’t what she thought it would be?

“Reynard… yes, he must be lying…”

~059