Cain followed the warrior's outstretched finger, his gaze settling on a cluster of unassuming stones half-buried in the dust.
Julius had told him once, The Syndicate were built solely by men — a pact of authority and the underworld stretching back to the Bronze Age.
Nothing about its entryways would ever be obvious, but the signs would always be there for those who knew where to look.
Kneeling, Cain picked up the stones and swept away the dirt clinging to their surfaces.
The stones varied — some were ordinary lumps of black, gray, and white, while others glittered with crystalline edges that caught the faint light.
A few even had metallic shards embedded in them, relics of ancient technology.
Cain wasn't deceived by their curious appearances.
He knew the roots of humanity's evolution — sticks and stones.
The most powerful secrets often wore the plainest masks.
One stone caught his eye — ugly and misshapen, with a single splintered stick wedged into its surface.
He ran his thumb along its edge, feeling the weight of time etched into its grain.
Predator tree wood — an unyielding material, known to last millennia without decay. It was a key.
Cain approached the statue, noting the mage's outstretched hand, its palm slightly cupped.
Without hesitation, he put the stone in it's palm as if giving his answer.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, the ground trembled beneath him. Dust shook from the walls, and the warrior's hidden hand, locked for centuries, moved.
Stone grated against stone, and with a low rumble, a passageway yawned open beneath the statue.
He didn't hesitate. Cain darted forward, the entrance sealing behind him with a final, resounding thud.
He descended into the flight of steps, footsteps echoing off the dusty metal, the air thick with the scent of forgotten secrets.
The stairway folded itself behind him, each step retracting like the teeth of a metal jaw, sealing off any chance of retreat.
The walls crept inward with a mechanical hum, closing the path behind him in a slow, deliberate motion.
'I hope I don't die here like some lost lamb.'
Darkness swallowed him whole, the silence so absolute that even his breath seemed too loud.
Cain's heart thudded against his ribs, the back of his hands brushed against the cool, monotonous walls as if testing if they were real.
The sensation of the floor shifting beneath him only heightened the tension.
He was trapped — no going back, only forward.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
A thin beam of green light sliced through the darkness, starting at his head and sweeping down to his feet.
Cain stiffened, his eyes shutting instinctively. He knew better than to resist. If they wanted him dead, there were far simpler ways than this elaborate scan.
The light flickered off, and for a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a panel to his right illuminated with a crimson border, casting eerie shadows against the metallic walls.
A fractured voice crawled through the confines — like rusted steel scraping against one another.
"Channel energy into the panel."
Cain swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the space.
He could sense it — hidden, massive energy signatures coiled and ready to fire at the slightest deviation.
'Grandpa, I should be fine, right? What if... What if they had some policy changes?'
He couldn't even pinpoint their locations, the energy felt like it came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
With a hesitant breath, he raised his hand to the panel, fingertips brushing the smooth surface. Magicules surged from his core, flowing through his fingertips and into the panel.
He half-expected it to explode, half-expected the walls to collapse, but neither happened.
Instead, a crisp, affirming ding echoed through the space — sharp and deliberate, its clarity signaling that he was already in the clear.
The crimson light flickered green, and the hallway ahead of him lit up with faint, fluorescent strips lining the floor, forming a path.
Cain exhaled, muscles relaxing as he stepped forward.
He still felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him, the lingering sense of threat, but the hidden turrets weren't locked on him anymore.
He was still watched, yes — but hunted no longer.
The murmur of voices rolled over him like the distant rumble of thunder, low and persistent. Cain stepped forward, his breath steady, though his eyes flitted cautiously across the room.
The bar stretched out beneath an arched stone ceiling, its surface gleaming with polished wood that seemed to drink in the light.
Rows of bottles, crystalline and ancient, lined the walls in perfect symmetry, casting fractured reflections onto the floor.
The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and smoke, mixed with something sharper — ozone.
'Maybe it's just me getting too nervous, I need to keep it calm.'
Cain moved a bit deeper, the heels of his boots barely scraping against the smooth floor. He scanned the room, instincts sharpening with each step.
He spotted him almost immediately — slouched on the massive leather sofa, arms stretched out like he owned the air around him. The man with the white collar, metallic veins tracing up his exposed arms, fingers flexing slightly as if testing invisible strings.
There was a calmness to his posture that belied violence — a stillness too measured to be ordinary.
Cain swallowed and shifted his gaze. The woman was in the far corner, shrouded in shadow where the light didn't quite reach.
Her figure was motionless, hands folded neatly atop a small, unmarked book. A hood veiled most of her features, but strands of silver hair spilled from the edges.
'Inconspicuous... too much so. She's hiding something, people don't sit that still unless... No. No. No. I don't need to overthink this.'
His eyes moved again, this time to the bar itself. The man with the metal arm leaned against the counter, fingers tapping a rhythm against its surface.
His one arm was an intricate assembly of interlocking plates and flickering nodes — looked both impossibly dense and seamless.
It glimmered under the bar lights, a sheen of polished alloy that seemed far too clean.
Cain watched his fingers tap lightly against the wood, four quick beats, pause, four again.
Counting something—but softly.
This place was no pigsty, after all.
A flicker of motion caught his attention.
The barkeeper, dressed in a sharp suit with one eye blazing through a mask of living flame, was polishing a glass.
His movements were fluid, almost practiced, like he had done it a million times and would do it a million more.
When the man's gaze settled on Cain, it didn't linger, it simply acknowledged, like noting a new painting hung on the wall.
His hand moved in a smooth arc, gesturing to the empty seats.
"Young master, a multitude of seats await your choosing."
The words were polite, almost warm, but there was an edge to them — an understanding that this place had rules, invisible lines drawn in the air.
Cain nodded, forcing his feet to move. His heart pounded in his chest, the room pressing down on him like the weight of stone.
'This man... was the most terrifying of them all.'