The muffled sound of the rain drummed against the windows of the empty coffee shop in a discreet corner of London. The yellowish lights barely illuminated the room lined with dark wood and heavy curtains. It was a place where no one asked questions - the ideal kind for conversations that shouldn't take place in daylight.
A man in an impeccably tailored suit, with a gold British Hunters' Association badge pinned to his jacket, was silently observing the man in front of him. His eyes were clinical, experienced. He analyzed the other man like a mission report: every detail, every sign, every flaw.
The man on the other side of the table, on the other hand, looked like the personification of despair. Sitting hunched over, as if the very weight of life were crushing him, Jack Carter was a shadow of his former self. His crumpled black shirt was stained with sweat and drink. His beard, patchy and flawed, hadn't seen a shave in days. There were cigarette ashes scattered on the table, and the strong smell of alcohol mixed with nicotine created an unpleasant haze around him.
His eyes were deep-set, surrounded by deep circles under his eyes, and seemed to carry the pain of someone who had already cried all he could... and even then, it still wasn't enough.
The association agent raised an eyebrow, slowly pulling his cup of tea closer.
"What company did he say he was an executive for...?" he wondered, almost aloud.
Jack looked up, and despite his destroyed face, there was a dark spark there. Something deeper than sadness: anger and purpose.
"What is the job that needs you to come to me, Mr. Carter?" The hunter asked, his voice soft, almost indifferent - a man used to receiving sordid proposals.
Jack took a deep breath, scrunched up his face, and then spoke, with the hoarse voice of someone who has spent sleepless nights:
"I heard that... everything that happens inside a dungeon... stays in the dungeon. Am I right?"
The hunter crossed his arms, letting out a small, lopsided smile. One of those that didn't express joy, but rather a silent acknowledgement that a boundary was about to be crossed.
"You know how it works," he replied, his tone neutral but full of intent. "What happens in there rarely gets out. And it's rarely investigated."
Jack leaned over and pulled out a battered leather satchel. Without saying another word, he placed it on the table and unzipped it. The metallic sound of piles of money echoed low, drowned out by the almost imperceptible ambient music. Hundred-dollar bills strung together in perfect blocks.
"There's a million and a half in here," he said, without looking the hunter in the eye. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say...?"
The hunter didn't touch the money. He didn't need to. His smile became a little wider, almost amused.
"Hmm... hiring a hunter for a 'special elimination' inside a dungeon...?"
Jack closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tense. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, shakier.
"Please, hunter. I beg you..." He clenched his fists, his face marked by a contained fury. "Kill all those bastards... every one of them... with your bare hands, if possible."
Silence hung for a second. The sound of the rain outside seemed more distant. The hunter pulled a thin cigarette from a metal case, lit it with a flick of the lighter, and slowly blew the smoke upwards.
"Another million," he said at last, his tone too casual for the seriousness of the proposal. "For the additional risk. After all, as you said yourself, there are other hunters in there... and not all of them will be 'easy targets'."
Jack raised his face abruptly. "Are you implying... that you're going to kill hunters too?"
The hunter tilted his head, still smiling, like a child discovering something obvious.
"If they have those 'bugs' you mentioned, then... there won't be any choice, will there?"
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting into an expression of conflict. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate - but then the memory came back. Something dark, something that burned his chest from the inside. He nodded with a slight, almost imperceptible movement.
The hunter stubbed out his cigarette on the porcelain plate. He stood up, adjusting his black leather gloves.
"Send me the names. The dungeon. The time of the raid. I don't want any surprises."
He started to walk away, but before he left, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Jack... If you've lied to me... and this is just a worthless personal vendetta, you won't have enough money in the world to hide it from me. Understand?"
Jack swallowed and just nodded, his face grim.
Outside, the rain was pouring down.
The rain poured down in streams through the fogged-up window, tinging the world outside with shades of gray and silver. Seth watched in silence, his eyes fixed on the sky pouring with melancholy. The drips drummed with an irregular cadence, as if the city was mourning something he didn't yet fully understand.
He turned slowly, the heat of the forge embracing him like a hot breath - dense, almost suffocating. The walls of the workshop were dark, covered in soot and tools hung in an organized but intimidating way. Each hammer, each pair of tongs, seemed to have lived through battles of their own.
In the center of the room, surrounded by the flickering glow of the embers, was Valentina Wykes, the eccentric blacksmith. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, her muscular arms were dirty with charcoal, and her eyes glowed with the obsessive flame of geniuses. She didn't even look at him when she spoke:
"Shut up."
Seth arched an eyebrow. "Huh?"
Valentina was already walking over to the heavy iron workbench next to the furnace, putting on thick leather gloves. Without saying another word, she bent down and reverently pulled out a black box - heavy and massive - with rune carvings almost invisible to the naked eye. The metal seemed to exude energy, as if it were breathing.
She placed it on the worktop with a deafening thud and ran her hand over it with an almost maternal caress.
"My baby... must be ready," she murmured with a soft smile on her sooty lips. "Come on. Come soon."
Seth approached, curious and intrigued. With a firm gesture, Valentina slowly opened the box. The sound of metal fittings coming loose echoed like the creaking of old chains.
Inside, wrapped in dark velvet and a vivid aura, was her.
A sword as black as midnight - long, elegant and cruel. Its edge seemed to absorb the surrounding light, and the ruby runes engraved along the center of the blade pulsed faintly, like a living heart. The handle was adorned with burnished silver and dark leather, molded perfectly to the shape of a hand that knew war.
Seth felt the air become heavier. The sword... it was beautiful. Dangerous. Alive.
Valentina smiled, that smile of a proud artisan who saw beyond the metal and saw the soul in what she forged.
"JackPot was destroyed," she said with a serious tone, but without regret. "So I used the fragments that secretary brought in... the enchanted steel, the magic condensation crystals... and some wyvern blood that I recycled from another client who left it behind. I mixed it all with enchanted duralum from and..."
She held out her hand, almost solemnly.
"I call her... Ebony."
Seth swallowed. It was more than a weapon. It was an answer.
He reached out, hesitantly, and as he touched the handle, a pulse ran through his skin. Warm. Familiar. The blade vibrated gently, recognizing him.
"Is she... alive?" he murmured, impressed.
Valentina gave a low, husky laugh. "If she's not, at least she fakes it well. She's been spiked with blood. Literally."
Seth raised his sword, and the blade seemed to cut through the very air with a thin, menacing whisper. He felt the perfectly balanced weight. The strength. The magical response.
"That... is another level," he said, without taking his eyes off Ebony.
"I think it's Rank-S," Valentina confirmed, crossing her arms. "And more than that... it will only evolve with you. A Living Bond Weapon. I've never done anything like that before. And I probably never will again."
Seth took a deep breath. For the first time in days, he felt something familiar: power. Direction. Purpose.
"Thanks, Valentina."
She snorted and turned away. "Thank me after it doesn't explode in your hand. Oh, and... just one thing."
Seth was already beginning to sheathe Ebony when he heard her last sentence:
"If you destroy it... I'll kill you" She smiled.
He laughed softly, and for the first time in a long time... he felt ready.