XIII
The weight of the concealed handgun against my belt was a cold reminder of what I was walking into. Hunters were human, just like me. A bullet to the head would kill them as easily as anyone else. I adjusted my hood, pulling it lower to hide my face as I moved through the dimly lit streets.
The Elsewhere Cult wasn't a massive organization, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in influence and power. They thrived in the shadows, stepping into the light only when it suited them. In the novel, they had been designed as recurring villains, with their enigmatic leader, the Prophet, at the center of several arcs.
Taking down the Prophet was a long-term goal, but for now, I needed to focus on creating distractions, sowing chaos, and throwing them off my trail. Despite my meta-knowledge, information about their inner workings was frustratingly scarce.
The cult's structure, as I remembered, was split into three tiers: leadership, priesthood, and followers. The followers were mostly wealthy elites—people who had bought their way in without undergoing the full initiation. Pawns, essentially. The priesthood, however, was another matter entirely. These were survivors of alternate nightmare realities, returned with powers that defied reason. Each priest was a living weapon, their aura honed by unimaginable horrors.
I navigated a series of narrow alleys, the damp chill biting through my jacket. After a few twists and turns, I reached a steel door marked only by faint scratches around the frame. This was the place.
Knocking twice, I waited. A small peephole slid open, and glowing, aura-infused eyes peered out at me.
"Come in," a gravelly voice said from behind the door.
I stepped inside, immediately struck by the shift in atmosphere. The alley outside had been grim, reeking of decay, but this place buzzed with life and danger. It was a Hunter-affiliated club, hidden behind layers of secrecy and urban decay.
The room was dimly lit, alive with quiet energy. Hunters clustered in groups, their voices low as they exchanged intel, negotiated jobs, or shared drinks. The walls were lined with weapons—blades, firearms, and strange artifacts whose functions I could only guess at. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat, a reminder that this was a place for killers, not civilians.
I made my way to the bar, keeping my movements calm and deliberate. The bartender, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, glanced up as I approached.
"I'm here to meet people," I said, my voice low. "Room 2022. Password: Never been a better time to cash in favors."
He gave me a slow once-over before nodding. "Straight ahead, turn left, and you'll see your room."
"How many are they?" I asked, sliding a small ruby across the counter. In the hunter world, cash was too easy to trace. Transactions were usually done in hunter-approved gold coins or gemstones.
The bartender pocketed the gem without hesitation. "Four," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Four. That was good. It meant every single person I'd contacted had shown up. I nodded and headed toward the hallway, my mind already racing.
The Meeting
The hallway was dimly lit, the hum of distant conversations fading behind me. My footsteps were steady, measured, but my pulse quickened with every step. This wasn't just a meeting—it was the first step in taking the fight to the Elsewhere Cult.
I turned left, as instructed, and stopped in front of a reinforced door. Knocking twice, I waited. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a single table at the center. Four figures sat around it, their faces partially obscured by the dim light. But I recognized them all—names, reputations, and skills burned into my memory.
These weren't just ordinary hunters. Each of them had carved out a place in the hunter world, for better or worse. And each of them owed me.
"Good to see you all," I said, closing the door behind me.
Their eyes were on me, some curious, others guarded. They knew I wouldn't have called them here without good reason.
"It is of my utmost pleasure to see all of you gathered here," I said, taking a stock at the four people sitting around the table. "My name is Reynard. The Author. Please call me Rey."
The room was dim, the air thick with a tension that only hunters could exude. I studied the four figures seated around the round table. Each one carried an air of confidence, a sharp edge that came from living life on the brink. These weren't just hunters—they were my creations. Characters I had written long before this world became real, now flesh and blood, sitting in front of me.
Rory Christen was the first I recognized. Petite, with brown hair and a smattering of freckles, she wore a simple one-piece dress that belied her lethal nature. Rory was a Seeker-type and Herb Hunter, her Special Ability, Poison Cook, allowing her to craft deadly toxins disguised as harmless meals. She owed me two favors, and I intended to collect both tonight.
Next was Grue, a figure as intimidating as his reputation. His helm obscured most of his face, and his leather jacket clung to his lean frame. A Trickster-type and Bounty Hunter, Grue was a Torturer sub-type with the Special Ability Predation. Once he marked a target, he became invisible to them, stalking them relentlessly. When he killed, he absorbed their aura, healing and growing stronger. Grue owed me five favors—the highest debt of anyone here.
Carlyle Ferns sat straight-backed, his crisp blue suit and polished demeanor more fitting for a boardroom than a hunter's den. With blonde hair and green eyes, he looked like a picture of elegance. But beneath the charm lay a deadly Caster-type with the Special Ability Force Wall, capable of summoning nearly immovable barriers. Carlyle was a Treasure Hunter, a man who used his charisma to outmaneuver enemies and claim rewards. He owed me one favor, but I knew it would count.
Finally, there was Henry O. Notch. Tall and lanky, his bald head gleamed under the faint light, the scar along his chin a testament to a hard life. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, looking more like a jogger than a hunter. A Speedster sub-type and Maker-type, his Special Ability Super Boots allowed him to move at incredible speeds, run up walls, and ricochet off surfaces like a human pinball. He owed me one favor, and I had a feeling his agility would be critical.
I moved to the table, the only unoccupied seat waiting for me. As I sat, their eyes locked on me, assessing, calculating. They weren't here because they liked me—they were here because they owed me. And that was enough.
"Well," I said, leaning forward, my hands clasped together. "Let's get started."
The room was silent except for the faint hum of an overhead light. My gaze swept over them, lingering briefly on each face. These were my tools, my weapons, and my gamble against the Elsewhere Cult.
Rory was the first to break the silence. Her green eyes glinted as she leaned back, arms crossed. "Didn't expect the Author to look like this," she said with a smirk. "Handsome fella."
I tugged my hood down, revealing my face fully. "Call me Rey," I replied flatly, brushing off her teasing. "We don't have time for flattery. We've got a job to do."
Her grin widened, but she said nothing more.
I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. "You all know why you're here. I'm calling in your favors. The Elsewhere Cult has gone too far, and it's time we took them down a notch. Each of you has a skill set I need, and together, we can make this work."
Grue's voice was low and gravelly as he spoke. "You want us to go after a cult?" There was a hint of disbelief in his tone. "Seriously?"
"I know," I said. "It's personal."
Carlyle raised an eyebrow, his fingers tapping against the head of his cane. "Personal enough to call in all our debts? You've been careful about those favors until now."
I nodded. "This isn't just about me. The Elsewhere Cult is after my son."
The room fell silent. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Rory let out a low whistle.
"Well, shit," she said. "That's a hell of a reason."
Henry who had been quiet until now spoke up. "What's the plan?"
I pulled a folded map from my jacket and spread it out on the table. "This is their next known meeting point. It's heavily guarded, but it's not impenetrable. Rory, I'll need your poisons to deal with the guards discreetly. Grue, you'll mark the Prophet and make sure he doesn't see you coming. Carlyle, I'll need barriers to block their reinforcements. And Henry—your speed will be key for delivering intel and disrupting their defenses."
I looked at each of them, meeting their eyes. "This isn't going to be easy, but if we pull it off, we can cripple their operations and send a message they won't forget."
Grue chuckled darkly. "Sounds like fun."
Carlyle leaned back in his chair, the soft tap-tap of his cane against the floor was irritating. His green eyes narrowed, appraising me with that calculating look I'd grown accustomed to. "So," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "what's the job about? Details?"
I took a deep breath, meeting each of their gazes in turn. Rory's playful smirk, Grue's predatory stillness, Carlyle's detached interest, and Henry's quiet intensity—they were all watching, waiting.
"There's a gala tonight," I began, my voice steady. "It starts at 8 PM. It'll be crawling with high-profile individuals, including members of the Elsewhere Cult. My goal is simple: I'm going to kill them all."
The room fell silent. Rory's smirk vanished, replaced by a serious expression as she leaned forward slightly. Grue's posture shifted, the tension in his frame unmistakable. Carlyle's fingers drummed a soft rhythm on the table, and Henry tilted his head, his face unreadable.
"You're free to back out," I continued, letting the weight of my words settle over them. "But if you do, know this: your reputation will be tarnished. In our world, a favor left unpaid is worse than any enemy. It marks you as unreliable, and that's a death sentence for people like us."
Rory glanced at the others, gauging their reactions before speaking. "So, we're talking a full-scale massacre, or are we targeting specific individuals?"
"Specific targets," I clarified. "But it's going to get messy. Once we start, there's no turning back. The goal is to force the Elsewhere Cult's attention onto me, make them see me as their biggest threat. I'll go in first and draw the fire. You support as needed, but no one leaves until the job is done."
Grue cracked his knuckles, his voice low and almost eager. "Sounds like my kind of fun. Who's the first to die?"
I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the table. "The Prophet's right-hand priest is rumored to be attending. He's the priority. After that, we'll take down any other cult members present. They'll be disguised among the guests, but we'll know them."
Carlyle raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "And how exactly do we pick them out in a room full of elites?"
I allowed myself a small, grim smile. "I've already set a trap. The gala's organizer received a gift—a cursed artifact I slipped into their hands through a mutual contact. The cult won't be able to resist inspecting it. That's our marker."
Rory nodded, leaning back in her chair. "Alright, Rey. I'm in. Just tell me where to stand when the poison starts flowing."
Grue chuckled, his gloved hands flexing. "I'll handle the ones that try to run."
Carlyle sighed, shaking his head but not hiding the faint amusement in his voice. "Guess there's no turning back now. I'll handle crowd control."
Henry adjusted his boots, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn't say a word, but the gleam in his eyes told me he was ready.
I stood, pulling my hood back over my head. "Good. Meet me at the west entrance of the gala at seven. We'll go over the final details then. Remember: once we start, we don't stop. This isn't just about survival—it's about sending a message."
The room remained silent as I turned and walked toward the door.
~013