The table appeared before us like a conjured trick, seamlessly rising from the smooth floor of the spacious Fighting Tower. Black, Selena, and I took our seats, setting our meals down—my carbonara in front of me, Selena's burger already in her hands, and Black with what looked like a perfectly roasted duck.
I speared a forkful of pasta, savoring the creamy bite as Selena, with her mouth half-full, raised a casual question. "Any ideas what the next test is?"
I gave a nod. "It'll be tournament-style. That's the standard for the Fighting-themed exams."
Black raised an eyebrow, taking a slow, thoughtful bite of his duck. "So, I guess this is where our mutual cooperation ends."
"Yeah," I shrugged. "But hey, if we end up matched together, take it easy on me, alright?"
Selena snorted, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous challenge. "Dream on, Reynard. If we cross paths, I'll wipe the floor with you."
I smirked, but something told me she wasn't joking.
As I looked around, it became clear that most of the other hunters were watching me with cautious eyes. They'd shifted slightly, avoiding getting too close or brushing past me. I hadn't spread any new Soul Links or Soul Marks since the end of the seventh exam, and whatever connections I'd left before had long since faded or erased. But judging by their wariness, my abilities had made enough rounds in the rumor mill to leave an impression.
The cautious distance wasn't lost on me. A few hunters' gazes lingered a beat too long, as if they were gauging my every move, bracing themselves to dodge anything I might throw their way. They knew a link or a mark from me could become a liability—an unseen bond that could leave them exposed, vulnerable.
I suspected that if it came down to it, they'd avoid any kind of contact, physical or otherwise. With the knowledge circulating about what I could do, it wasn't surprising they'd want to keep their distance. Fine by me—keeping them at arm's length was something I could use to my advantage.
As I reviewed the information Geoffrey handed over, it felt surreal—the real name and public identity of the Elsewhere Cult's Prophet.
For a moment, I thought he was just baiting me, feeding me misinformation to keep me distracted. But there was a weight to his words and a meticulousness in the details that made it clear: this was real.
If I could act on this, the impact would be game-changing. The Prophet's identity was far more valuable than their hidden locations or facilities; it was the key to unraveling the cult's influence from the inside. But with that realization came the frustration of knowing my limitations. I wasn't yet powerful enough, nor did I have the influence or network in place to launch any serious action against the cult. If I made any move too soon, they'd catch on, set a trap, and that would be the end of it—and of me.
No, if I wanted to take on the Prophet and their followers, I'd need patience, allies, and to grow my own power base. For now, I'd keep this information close, preparing for the moment I'd finally be able to use it.
Selena tilted her head, her curiosity getting the better of her. "If you don't mind me asking… what was that bet about? What information did you win?"
I shook my head, smirking. "Of course, I can't tell you that. Classified. But I can tell you what Geoffrey was after."
She leaned forward, intrigued. "Alright, shoot. What did he want from you?"
I held back a laugh. "Information on Excalibur."
She raised her eyebrows and gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "No shit. I don't believe you."
Black chimed in with a more thoughtful tone. "I don't know if it's true or not, but he wagered the same thing against 'Joe' the airship captain."
"No shit," Selena cussed.
I sat back, chewing on another forkful of carbonara, digesting both the food and the new information. The Prophet, one of the Elsewhere Cult's three main leaders, was responsible for anticipating threats to the organization and scouting out new talent to bring into their fold. My mind wandered back to the cult's leader: Sebastian Moore. I didn't have a clue who he was, but I'd find out soon enough. A little digging was all it would take once I had internet access.
Selena interrupted my thoughts. "Why the gloomy face?"
I sighed, "I need the damn internet… that's why."
With a smirk, she unbuttoned her jeans—just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, and reached down to grab a miniature item tucked under the waistband. With a quick flick, she canceled the miniature ability on the item, and it expanded, forming a full-sized laptop right in her hands.
Selena grinned, "I've got Wi-Fi with me… all good."
I raised my eyebrows. "Wow… just wow."
She leaned forward, holding the laptop up with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Praise me more."
I rolled my eyes, still impressed. "You should have told me about this earlier! I could have video-called my wife!"
"Yeah, well…" she smirked, flipping the screen open. "Too bad."
"Just kidding," I added, watching her fight back a laugh. "But seriously, thanks. Wife-yI could use some… video calls. That aside, your ability is really broken."
The technology in this world felt like a strange mix.
On the surface, the place seemed to run on outdated phones, primitive internet setups, and barely modern cars and computers. But scratch the surface, and you'd find tech that felt centuries ahead: satellites capable of teleporting people and items across the globe with pinpoint accuracy.
The logical explanation? The government had to be holding back—restricting advanced technology from everyday "mundanes" while reserving it for hunters, military personnel, and the privileged elite.
I opened the laptop, typed in "Sebastian Moore," and started to dig.
The search results painted a picture of a man who held a significant grip over more than just the entertainment industry. In his late fifties, Moore was a physically imposing figure with graying hair, and his empire was nothing short of sprawling. Part of the entertainment world and a billionaire many times over, he was powerful, successful, and shrouded in an aura of unattainable privilege.
In short, Moore was a perfect candidate for leading something as ominous as the Elsewhere Cult.
After lunch, we each drifted off in different directions, heading to the rooms assigned based on our rankings from the seventh stage. Room 99 was mine, courtesy of just barely making it past that last test. Along the hallway, the walls were dotted with doors, each one glowing with a number. People lined up at them in an orderly manner. Each door was marked with some type of aura-sensing tech—it picked up on each hunter's aura as they approached, confirming their rank and flashing their room number just above the door.
When I reached mine, I felt a quick scan, and my room number lit up in a soft glow. Without hesitation, I entered, feeling that familiar post-adrenaline drowsiness starting to sink in. Inside, the room was as minimal as expected, but comfortable. I switched into some loose clothes, taking a moment to unwind. My bed looked surprisingly inviting, and I didn't hesitate. I stretched out on it, shutting my eyes against the day's chaos, letting that tug of sleep finally take over.
I was jolted awake. There was a strange sense of déjà vu hanging heavy in the air. Before I even had a chance to gather my bearings, I felt a playful, almost teasing whoosh of air in my ear. I turned, catching a flash of blonde hair and a sharp, pretty face staring down at me. But no—this wasn't Leora, my wife, nor was it Selena, my sharp-tongued bodyguard.
"Atropos," I said, blinking and trying to wrap my head around the situation. "What are you doing in my bed?"
Atropos remained as stoic as ever, her usual unreadable expression fixed in place. She was dressed, as always, in her maid outfit that somehow managed to dangerously toe the line between elegant and… a bit much. Her cleavage and prominent curves did nothing to make the situation any easier.
Her response was as deadpan as it was unexpected. "Of course, I am here to get laid."
I stared at her, baffled. What was up with these women and their weird definitions of "visits" in my bed?
My frustration hit an all-time high. My wife always swore I was handsome, but I'd never quite believed it until right now, when every other woman seemed hell-bent on making me question my own restraint.
I gave Atropos an exasperated look, sighing as I collected my thoughts. "Look, I know you can't exactly 'get laid'… I mean, 97% of your body isn't even human anymore."
"Boring," she replied flatly, standing up as though I was the one being ridiculous.
"What do you want?" I pressed, hoping to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory.
Her reply didn't help. "I can change my parts, though… Ever heard the saying 'if there is a hole, there is a goal?'"
Flirting in an emotionless tone shouldn't have been possible, and yet, here was Atropos proving me wrong. She followed it up with a subtle gesture, a lewd look in her eye that had me struggling to keep my expression neutral.
"We can start here…" she murmured, making a slow, stroking motion with her hand on her mouth. "There's a hole, you see?"
Holy. Hell.
Heat shot through me, and I could almost feel blood pooling in all the wrong places. I had to breathe in, breathe out, just to keep my composure.
Atropos paused, tilting her head. "I am joking," she said in that same flat voice.
Of course she was joking! I knew that. But damn it—why was I so flustered?
My mind was still reeling from her earlier words and gestures, but I forced myself to focus. This was a serious conversation, not some strange, lewd game Atropos seemed to be playing.
I exhaled sharply, pushing the unsettling thoughts away. Focus.
"I'll ask again. What do you want?" I demanded, trying to sound confident.
Atropos tilted her head, her usual emotionless expression never faltering. "I heard you want to join the Hunting Dogs."
I frowned. "Are you my... proctor?" I couldn't keep the suspicion out of my voice.
"Yes," she confirmed, her voice flat, "I requested the assignment."
I could feel the frustration bubbling up. What the hell was this about? "Your point of coming here?"
She stood up, her posture impeccable, and for a moment, I thought she might actually address something serious. "Please withdraw your application. You aren't fit to join the Hunting Dogs. I will fail you. You are weak and you don't have the mentality to do what we do. Please, don't even think about joining the Hunting Dogs…" Her eyes met mine with a rare glint of intensity. "And the Elsewhere Cult? I will deal with them. They've violated Hunter relations to a great degree, so the Association would deal with them."
Her words were as cold as always, but there was a clarity to them. The weight of her message settled in my chest, and I realized what she was saying. She wasn't just offering criticism. She was warning me, perhaps even trying to protect me, in her own strange way.
But I wasn't about to let her dictate my path.
I mean… what was her problem? Was she making herself suspicious for a reason?
A strange undercurrent ran through her words, almost like desperation. It was subtle, but there, beneath that detached, mechanical tone she always used. Why did she care so much about keeping me out of the Hunting Dogs? The organization was always in need of capable hunters—yet here she was, actively discouraging me, almost pleading with me to walk away.
And then, her comment about the Elsewhere Cult struck me as even stranger. Atropos didn't have the influence or political weight to take them on, not by herself. The Association might consider stepping in, but Atropos on her own? She'd have no real support, and yet she was claiming she'd "handle" them.
What was she playing at? Her words sounded like they held more personal stakes than I'd realized like she was trying to protect me from something far deeper than just a difficult exam or dangerous opponents. But Atropos, showing a personal interest in anyone's well-being—especially mine—didn't fit the woman I knew.
What was Atropos after?