LXXV
The morning was crisp, and the air smelled of damp earth as I stood in the front yard, hose in hand, tending to the plants. The spray of water glistened in the early sunlight, and for a moment, everything felt… peaceful.
Living in Goodwell had been easy, at least on the surface. Monetary burdens weren’t burdens to us at all. We had a big house with a backyard, a whole garden out front, and we could even afford to throw a birthday party for Leon, our only son.
But the peace was always short-lived.
The first thing I heard every morning wasn’t the chirping of birds or the rustling of leaves—it was the incessant gossiping of the neighborhood no-gooders. Joggers, bystanders, and the occasional dog walker all seemed to take turns stopping near our house to trade humiliating rumors.
“Is it that guy?”
“He keeps two women in his house?”
“A mistress and a wife?”
“Is that even legal?”
“Maybe because he’s handsome—that’s why he gets away with this.”
“But he surrounds himself with such beautiful girls.”
“I saw last night a girl in a maid outfit enter his house.”
“Maybe he’s some drug lord or pimp?”
It had been nearly two years since we moved to Goodwell, and yet, we still felt unwelcome. We tried to accommodate, to blend in, but it seemed like no amount of neighborly smiles or casual greetings could quell their suspicions.
Not everyone was a Karen, but the Karens in this town were a special breed—persistent, loud, and determined to make sure I heard them.
For the record, the girl in the maid outfit was my sister.
As if summoned by their incessant muttering, Leora stepped outside, dragging a trash bag behind her. She glared at me with the kind of frustration only a sibling could muster.
“Reynard,” she snapped, “what did I tell you about these damn things? I told you to take care of it!”
The moment Leora appeared, the gossipers clammed up. Of course they would.
The last time Leora overheard them talking trash, she didn’t hesitate to throw hands. That was back when we’d just moved here, and the memory still lingered like a dark cloud over the neighborhood.
Leora didn’t bother glancing at them this time. Instead, she tossed the trash bag into the bin with a force that made it rattle and stomped back toward the house.
I sighed, turning back to the garden.
Peace in Goodwell was a fragile thing, but at least we had each other. That, and the satisfaction of knowing the Karens didn’t dare step onto our property anymore.
The gossip returned the moment Leora disappeared back inside.
“They just threw a lavish party last night, right?”
“Must be nice to be rich.”
“They came from the city, right?”
“So, they are rich?”
“More like they became poor, so they had to find some secluded town?”
“Or maybe they are on the run?”
I sighed and shook my head. It was like these people lived to piece together half-truths into some warped fantasy about us.
The chatter was abruptly cut short as Selena walked out of the house. She dragged a recliner chair behind her with one hand, a tanning reflector tucked under her arm, and a confident smirk on her face. Wearing a bikini that screamed unbothered, she planted the recliner squarely in the front yard and lounged under the morning sun like she was on the French Riviera.
The effect was instantaneous. The group of nosy neighbors scattered like startled pigeons.
Selena adjusted her sunglasses, her every movement exaggerated, and sprawled across the recliner. It was hard not to admire the artistry of her intimidation tactics. While Leora wasn’t above throwing hands when provoked, Selena preferred the nuclear option. She had, on more than one occasion, leaned into her reputation as a gun-toting wildcard, scaring off busybodies with thinly veiled threats and her fake IAO credentials.
For the uninitiated, Selena’s ID claimed she was part of the Intelligence Affairs Office—this world’s answer to MI6, the CIA, and maybe the FBI, rolled into one shadowy organization. Was it real? Not in the slightest. Did it work? Absolutely.
I set down the hose and glanced over at her. “You don’t have work today?”
She adjusted her glasses, giving me a smug look from behind the lenses. “That’s what’s so good about being a hunter. You can set your own hours.”
“That’s a dangerous amount of freedom for someone like you,” I muttered.
She grinned. “You say that like I’m not responsible.”
I raised an eyebrow but chose not to engage. Arguing with Selena about her work ethic was like trying to reason with the weather—it was pointless, and you’d end up wet or burnt.
The sun glinted off her reflector as she angled it toward her face. “So,” she began, her tone casual, “are we gonna talk about how Atropos showed up last night looking like she’d just discovered the meaning of life?”
I sighed, already regretting this conversation. “She wanted to recruit me.”
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Selena sat up slightly, her curiosity piqued. “Recruit you for what? Some new Association project?”
“Something about preventing bloodshed,” I replied vaguely.
She snorted. “That’s rich, coming from Bob. The guy’s practically the king of calculated collateral damage.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Selena leaned back, tilting her head toward the sun. “You’re not gonna do it, right? You’ve got too much going on here.”
“Of course not,” I said, though my mind wandered to Atropos’s determined expression.
Selena tilted her sunglasses down, giving me a sharp look. “I was there last night. I know what I heard. But knowing you, I can’t help but think there’s some conspiracy brewing that we don’t know about.”
I kept my focus on the plants, but her tone made me pause.
She leaned back on the recliner, angling the reflector for maximum sunlight. “Leora might be your archetype of a submissive wife—though she’d never admit it. But here’s the thing, I’m her overbearing sister who cares about her way too much. If you cause her any more trouble, I swear, you’ll have problems with me.”
“Loud and clear,” I said, not even bothering to argue.
For a moment, there was silence between us, the kind that was almost comfortable but carried the weight of an unfinished conversation. Then, Selena broke it.
“Look at this. I think it’s entertaining.” She reached into her bag and tossed me a magazine folded open to a specific page.
I caught it and glanced at the cover. My stomach dropped.
It was The Ranking Magazines, a well-known outlet in the hunter world. It was essentially the love child of an intelligence agency and a gossip column, founded by a network of information brokers who thrived on stirring up drama. Back when I was active as the Author, I had a pretty contentious relationship with them. We competed over intel, and I often came out on top, which made them all the more determined to write hit pieces about me.
I unfolded the page Selena wanted me to see. Bold letters stared back at me:
“The 10 Kings.”
I cringed. The title alone was enough to make me groan.
“I already have a bad feeling about this,” I muttered, glancing down the list. And there it was, as expected: my name at the top.
“What the hell are they thinking?” I said, tossing the magazine onto the patio table. “I’ve been inactive for three years straight, and they’re still talking about me?”
Selena smirked. “I have no proof, but my money’s on the Cult. They probably pushed for this just to keep you relevant enough to screw with you.”
“That tracks,” I muttered darkly. My mind immediately went to the Prophet. That smug bastard always seemed two steps ahead, and it was infuriating. “If I ever find a way to counter that damn Prophet’s precognition, I swear I’ll slaughter him so thoroughly in his visions he’ll beg me to kill him for real.”
A sharp intake of breath caught my attention. I turned my head slowly, realizing I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
Jeff, one of our neighbors, was standing on the other side of the fence, watering his lawn. His jaw was slack, his face pale. He had definitely heard me.
I cleared my throat, plastering on a nervous smile. “Morning, Jeff!”
He blinked, mumbled something unintelligible, and quickly turned back to his lawn.
Note to self: Less murder talk when in public.
Selena stretched out lazily on her recliner, tilting her sunglasses just enough to give me a smug look. “No wonder our neighbors think you’re some kind of crime lord.”
“Not helping,” I grumbled, tossing a glance at the fence where Jeff had been moments ago. “If that’s the case, then you’re my gun-toting enforcer.”
Selena smirked. “That’s actually what they think, you know?” She pointed to the magazine I’d tossed aside earlier. “Anyway, keep reading. I told you, it’s interesting.”
I sighed, picking up the magazine again. The glossy pages felt heavier with every flip as I skimmed the list of names. My eyes widened slightly as familiar ones began to pop up. Some were old acquaintances; others, infamous names I wished I could forget.
I scanned the list of the so-called 10 Kings, starting from the top:
1. King of Favors: Reynard Bright AKA The Author. Debuted in the Hunter World as an information broker, later revealed to be secretly a powerhouse and married to the sensational hunter Leora of Guiding Light. Known for his ruthless disregard for competition. Earned his kingly status for the favors he hoarded.
I rolled my eyes. “Ruthless disregard for competition? Really?”
Selena snorted but didn’t say anything.
2. King of Terror: Loki O. Loki AKA The God of Mischief. A seemingly harmless nerd with the ability to trick even the sharpest minds and control the undead. A certified bastard. Earned his kingly status for his terrorist incidents.
I grimaced. Loki was trouble, no matter how much he looked like he belonged in a library instead of a battlefield.
3. King of Evil: Diamond Black. Known as Jacob to some. A mysterious figure with the ability to tame cryptids called “devils.” Always seen wearing sunglasses and a hat, with black diamonds embedded in his cheeks. Earned his status for atrocities committed in the Forbidden Region.
4. King of Greed: Geoffrey the Beggar. Despite a failing career, Geoffrey survived every ordeal like a cockroach. Infamous for “stealing a city because he could.”
5. King of Food: A culinary genius and the bane of hunters everywhere, Fatima was infamous for stealing food from any establishment she fancied. Most infamous for stealing a golden apple from powerful hunter sects.
6. King of Sky: Joe Joey Joel. The Sky Captain of the only airship in existence, continuing his decades-long piracy unchallenged. Rumored to have ties to a powerful figure from the Big Three.
7. King of Poison: Rory Christen. A genius poison-maker and pharmacist. Recently infamous for a gala massacre allegedly in collaboration with the King of Favors.
I froze. “What the hell is this? Rory? And me? At a gala?”
That was like three years ago.
Selena’s grin widened. “Ooh, delicious gossip. What’s the story there, Reynard?”
I glared at her but continued reading, though my irritation was mounting.
8. King of Duels: Shen AKA The Spear God. Son of the legendary Extreme Fighter Ranas. A prodigious duelist with an ego to match.
9. King of Disguise: Selena Fair. The King of Favors’ “other bitch,” though no one would dare admit it. Believed to be his eyes and ears in the hunter world during his seclusion.
“Other bitch?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Selena shrugged, unapologetic. “Could be worse.”
10. King of Nothing: Leora the Bright. Described as “not so bright at all” and a “cockquean” for tolerating her husband’s antics.
I slammed the magazine shut, unable to read any further.
Selena let out a low whistle. “Touchy, are we?”
I rubbed my temples. “This isn’t just stupid gossip. The King of Poison connection could be a problem if Rory’s being manipulated or if someone’s using my name to stir up trouble. And those remarks about you and Leora? That’s just unnecessary.”
Selena smirked. “Unnecessary, but not entirely inaccurate.”
“Selena.”
“Fine, fine.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “But you know what they say: if they’re talking about you, it means you’re still relevant.”
I groaned, tossing the magazine back onto the table. Relevant wasn’t exactly what I wanted to be right now.
~075