The apartment door screeched open and rattled on its rails as Kael stepped into the dim, one-bedroom excuse for a living space. The motion sensor lights flickered, then finally buzzed to life like they were doing him a favor.
A foul cocktail of stale air, sweat, and something that might've once been food assaulted his nose.
"Lovely," he muttered, wrinkling his nose. "Home sweet hellhole."
He trudged toward the rusted metallic cube that passed for a refrigerator. Its surface was dented, the old logo peeled off long ago, and it emitted a faint wheezing hum that told him it was either dying or considering a career change.
With a resigned sigh, Kael pulled open the fridge door—and immediately regretted every decision that led him to this moment.
The rank stench of sour, curdled milk exploded out like a slap to the face. His stomach churned as the stench clawed its way into his sinuses.
"Oh, great," he gagged, jerking back. "Fridge finally kicked the bucket again. Should've buried it months ago."
Mouth breathing to avoid inhaling his own personal biohazard zone, Kael yanked the bloated container from the shelf and launched it into the disposal chute. It thudded, hissed, then vanished with a mechanical chomp.
Inside the fridge, there wasn't much else besides a couple half-empty condiment bottles that had survived three apocalypses, probably. Other than that, it was the usual—a sad, empty space and the cold comfort of nutrient packs and protein bars.
Food for champions. Or, more accurately, the food of someone too broke to afford groceries and too paranoid to sit in a diner without watching his six.
Takeout was a luxury—one he only indulged in when his credit count climbed high enough. Even then, he ate it in here, away from the street urchins with razor-blade smiles and sticky fingers. Ashgarde kids didn't beg—they hunted. You flashed creds in front of them; you might as well leave your wallet, shoes, and a pint of blood behind.
Kael shut the fridge with a dull clunk, exhaled through his teeth, and rolled his shoulders with a wince.
His whole body ached like someone had run him through a blender on "demon puree" mode.
He shuffled toward his room, stripping off his jacket along the way, and muttered, "First warm shower in days... if the water heater hasn't joined the fridge in appliance hell."
But the hot water could wait a little longer—he still had to swing by ARC Division HQ. Not one of the dozen understaffed, corrupt branch offices littered across the city like fungal infections, but the actual HQ building.
Lucky bastard that he was, he'd found four freshly devoured rookie Hunters out near the Rift. And while most people would've looted the bodies and kept walking, Kael had a nasty habit of giving a damn—just enough to report their deaths and deliver their comms watches to whatever family they had left.
He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the dark window that looked out onto the neon-drenched walkways below.
"Dead kids, a broken fridge, and a trip to the bureaucratic black hole that is ARC HQ," he muttered. "All before dinner. Living the dream."
🐺⚙️"༒ The Howl of the Forsaken ༒"⚙️🐺
It was 8:49 PM when the rail train screeched to a halt in front of a pristine skyscraper that shimmered under the city lights. The ARC Division HQ loomed above like a monument to bureaucracy and cold efficiency, its windows glinting with the sterile perfection that screamed "you don't belong here."
Kael stepped out of the train with a grunt, his boots thudding against the polished platform. He took a moment to glance around, squinting at the clean, glossy architecture and neon-blue signs blinking in perfect synchronization.
The inner city might as well have been a different planet compared to the filth-stained slums he called home. It had taken him nearly two hours to get here—two hover trams, one overcrowded rail, and a small piece of his soul. Not to mention a sizable bite out of his credits.
Still, it was necessary.
He didn't trust the cryptkeeper-looking hag who ran the teller booth at his local ARC branch. That woman would've sold his mother's bones for spare change and then claimed she was doing a public service. If he'd handed the remains over to her, the victims would've ended up dumped in a ditch, and their comms watches gutted for scrap without a second thought. Screw the law—the ARC Division's rulebook was more like a suggestion pamphlet, anyway.
A cool, filtered breeze stirred the air as he stepped off the platform, ruffling his wild mane. For once, the air didn't taste like rust and engine grease. With a sigh of relief, Kael pulled down his re-breather mask and let it dangle around his neck.
The rich folks here got actual air—clean, circulated, and probably blessed by some overpaid purification mage. Of course, that's what happened when you shared a zip code with people who bathed in money and influence.
Even if they were criminals too, they were fancy criminals—white-collar scum with blood on their hands and polished boots on their feet. Especially the Six who ruled Ashgarde Reach from behind the safety of glass towers and security drones. Kael always thought of them as wolves in perfume: just as vicious, just harder to smell.
As he approached the ARC HQ entrance, his eyes caught the polished suits, high heels, and designer coats moving in and out of the building like clockwork ants. The people here wore their wealth like armor, eyes sharp and nostrils flared in offense at the mere sight of him.
He looked like a roach in a ballroom.
Let them stare. Kael had dealt with monsters that made their worst nightmares look like children's bedtime stories. A few side-eyes and smug scoffs weren't going to pierce his skin.
Besides, the bloodstained bag slung over his shoulder wasn't doing him any PR favors. It bulged slightly, and if anyone took a closer look, they'd realize it was filled with the carefully stored remains of four dead Hunters and their scorched comms watches. Yeah. Not exactly something you accessorized with.
Just as he reached the foot of the marble steps leading to the glass doors, a pair of ARC guards stepped forward, rifles low but tense. Both wore matte-black combat suits, armor gleaming under the HQ lights. The ARC Division emblem—two wings wrapped around a downward-pointing sword—sat proudly on their chests.
"Halt," barked one of them, stepping in front of him. His visor glinted as he looked Kael up and down like he'd just stepped out of a dumpster fire. "What's a slum rat doing here?"
Kael raised an eyebrow, tired and unimpressed. "Well, you see, I heard the elitist pricks convention was in town and figured I'd show up uninvited."
The guard scowled beneath his helmet.
Kael sighed dramatically, shifting the weight of the bag on his shoulder. "Relax, tin can. I'm here to report four deaths. Got their remains right here, packed and preserved like discount meat." He patted the bag. "Try not to wet your pants."
The two guards tensed, knuckles whitening around their weapons. Kael could practically feel their trigger fingers itching. But he didn't flinch. Hell, he wasn't even mildly concerned.
He lived in the slums of Ashgarde Reach—where toddlers wielded knives sharper than their teeth, and getting mugged by a six-year-old was just another Tuesday. If these two clowns thought they were intimidating, they clearly hadn't taken the scenic route through his neighborhood.
"Then why didn't you relay this information to your local ARC branch?" one of them barked, all self-righteous authority and no brains.
Kael tilted his head slightly, his mouth twitching with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Are they dense, or just pretending?
"Because," he said, voice dry as bone, "the rats at my branch would sooner sell the corpse to a black market than report the death properly. I'm sure you've heard of corruption? You know, that thing that turns law enforcement into glorified grave robbers?"
The guard stiffened, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm, but Kael pressed on.
"I'm following protocol—ARC Division decree 17-A. Report the death of a fellow Hunter directly. I've got four dead Hunters in this bag, and you can bet your synthetic rations I'm not trusting the locals with it."
The guards exchanged a glance. One of them gave a reluctant nod, as if doing so might give him fleas. "Be quick," the first one grunted. "And don't drag your filth all over the floor."
Kael met their glares with an icy stare of his own, but held back the insult on his tongue. Barely. He didn't have the energy to waste on glorified doorstops with daddy issues. Without another word, he pushed forward as the guards returned to their posts like obedient little gargoyles.
The automatic doors hissed open, bathing him in sterile white light. Kael stepped inside the ARC Division HQ, and for a second, the brightness stung his eyes.
The lobby looked like something out of a utopian fever dream. White marble floors so polished they practically screamed we overpaid for this, sleek glass counters, and rows of holographic screens flickering to life around obsidian-black support pillars. The air was scented with something artificial—clean, chemical, expensive.
Around the central platform, a handful of Hunters stood chatting, laughing, or scrolling through their AR displays. These weren't bottom-feeders like Kael. They were ranked—D and above—each one dressed in high-grade armor custom-forged by ARC technicians, mostly made from beast cores and harvested Rift metal. A few had magical artifacts hanging from their belts or embedded into their gear—rare spoils from boss monsters or dungeon conquests. The kind of loot people killed for.
And they strutted like it, too. Smug and shiny, pretending the blood on their boots didn't stink. Kael's eyes lingered on their gear for a beat, not with envy, but calculation. Give me a few more weeks in the forge, he thought. And I'll outclass every one of these pricks without needing a damn permit or a lab coat.
The ARC Division's equipment was good—he wasn't delusional—but it was also limited. Manufactured. Efficient. Boring. They'd tried to reverse-engineer their own primordial forge after stumbling on an ancient schematic, but the real thing? Long dead. Defunct. A fossilized monument to power they didn't understand.
Kael's forge, though—his Forge—was alive. Sentient. Hungry. And it had chosen him.
He smirked to himself as he made his way toward the front desk, ignoring the looks thrown his way. The bag over his shoulder was dripping faintly now—just enough to leave a soft red trail behind him. So much for not dragging filth across the floor.
Oops.
Kael reached the counter and dropped the bloody bag like yesterday's trash. It landed with a dull thud, splattering a few red droplets across the pristine glass surface.
The brunette woman behind the desk—mid-thirties, dressed too sharply for someone this jumpy—let out a shriek and clutched her chest. The surrounding Hunters turned to stare, some raising eyebrows, others clearly annoyed that their peaceful evening of looking important was being interrupted.
Kael didn't give a damn.
A man strutted over, every step radiating self-importance. White tailored suit. Red tie. Blond hair slicked back like he bathed in hair gel every morning and whispered affirmations into his mirror. His black-rimmed glasses gleamed under the lobby lights, but it was the porn-star mustache twitching in fury that really sold the whole try-hard aesthetic.
"What's the meaning of this?" the man hissed, icy blue eyes narrowing at Kael. His voice was just a shade too high to be threatening. "You can't just filthy the place!"
Kael raised a brow, unimpressed. "I'm following ARC protocol. So if you've got a problem with it, take it up with your superiors. Maybe send them a strongly worded memo."
The man's eyes flashed. His mustache bristled like it had a personality of its own. "And what, exactly, is in this filthy bag you've plopped onto our counter?"
Kael leaned on the counter lazily. "The remains of four Hunters. Found 'em rotting outside city limits, Rift Zone Three. Thought you folks might want to know. You know, being the upstanding, law-abiding institution you are."
As he spoke, he fished four bloodstained comms watches from his coat pocket and set them down next to the bag. Each landed with a soft clink, tiny metallic tombstones for the unlucky dead.
The man recoiled slightly. The woman behind the counter had gone pale, her hand flying to her mouth as she staggered back like the bag might come alive and bite her. Honestly, Kael wouldn't have blamed it. It smelled like old copper and regret.
The blond man's bravado wavered. He stepped closer, pulling up a holographic interface above the counter with a flick of his fingers. The light from the screen flickered against his face, turning his disgust into something more professional.
"Very well," he muttered. "Please provide any details on how you discovered the, ah... remains."
Kael tilted his head, stretching his neck until it popped. "I stumbled across them in the middle of Rift Zone Three. Their bones were scattered like dice, half-chewed and bloodied. Place was swarming with Infernal Imps—low-tier, pack-hunting bastards.
"There was a rift anomaly, probably an expansion. You know how those things go—one second it's stable, then the next second it vomits out a swarm and half the terrain's molten. My guess? The rift expanded while they were in range. The blast caught 'em off guard. Knocked out cold. Imps did the rest."
The man nodded slowly, typing Kael's words into the screen with practiced indifference. Kael could see it now—some poor intern getting this report later and puking their breakfast.
"I see," the man finally said. "That's... a believable hypothesis. I'll dispatch a retrieval team to secure the zone." He pressed a glowing button, sending the report upstream. "We appreciate your diligence. Were there any other belongings recovered?"
Kael's expression hardened. "Everything they had is in that bag. Call me a bastard, call me slum trash—but I'm not a thief. Or a grave robber."
The man blinked at the intensity in Kael's voice, then held up his hands slightly. "Of course. We're required to verify claims, that's all."
Kael snorted. "Sure. Check their comms watches. Inventory logs should be intact. I took everything I found after wiping out the remaining imps. Thought I'd make sure someone actually did their job."
The man gave a curt nod, clearly eager to move this interaction along and get the smell off his counter. The woman beside him still hadn't said a word—she looked seconds away from vomiting.