Saturday morning arrived at Castle Nightfall not with the gentle chirp of birds, but with the concussive booming of divine artillery.

  A shockwave of holy magic slammed into the invisible wards surrounding the castle’s foundation, rattling the stained glass windows in the grand hall.

  Michael stood on the highest balcony of the keep, staring down at the cliffside below. Charles Darlington had not been bluffing. A team of Inquisitors from the Church had set up a perimeter around the summer villas and were currently blasting the mountainside with bright spheres of Holy magic.

  To a normal human, it probably looked like a spectacular fireworks display of environmental remediation. To Michael, who could feel the sting of the holy resonance in the air even from this height, it was a profound annoyance.

  He gripped the railing. For the past few weeks, he had been playing defense. He had been ducking from carriage windows when he saw silver coats, sweating through high society dinners, terrified that someone would notice his lack of a pulse. He had been trying to shrink himself down to fit the mold of a normal, albeit wealthy, human.

  The castle shuddered again.

  And right then and there, looking down at the petty landlord using church artillery to harass him, Michael had an epiphany.

  This isn't working, he realized.

  He was a Level 100 Progenitor. He possessed a spatial inventory filled with weapons that could crack the island in half. His Spymaster could subjugate a room of nobles by breathing on them, and his Seneschal could likely rip a hole in the fabric of this barrage if he asked nicely.

  They were simply too big to hide.

  The more he acted like he had a secret, the harder people like Father Joseph and Charles Darlington would look for one. If he cowered, he looked guilty. If he flinched, he looked weak.

  The strategy of lurking in the shadows was a failing one. He couldn't be a quiet, mysterious lord. He had to be loud. Arrogant. He had to be so undeniably, overwhelmingly present in the public eye that society wouldn't even think to look for a monster; they would just see an eccentric, untouchable aristocrat.

  He had to hide in plain sight.

  "Dralis! Drummond!" Michael’s voice boomed.

  Moments later, the doors to the balcony opened. Dralis stepped out, his butler uniform immaculate as always. Right behind him was Drummond. The werewolf-turned--thrall looked like a coiled spring, his eyes wide and eager.

  "You called, My Lord?" Dralis asked, bowing slightly, though he cast a deeply offended look down at the flashes of holy light below.

  "The mortals are making a mess of our foundation," Michael said, his voice dropping. "If they are going to kick up dust, we shall clean our own house. Drummond."

  "Progenitor!" Drummond practically shouted, dropping to one knee.

  "I want every inch of flooring in this keep shining," Michael ordered, pointing a finger at the architecture. "All ten floors. Scrubbed. Polished. Spotless."

  Drummond’s eyes widened with zeal. To a werewolf granted god-like power by his master, manual labor was a sacred duty.

  "It shall be done before the sun reaches its zenith, Lord Mikhail!" Drummond vowed, leaping up and sprinting back into the keep at superhuman speeds, a literal blur of motion.

  Michael turned his gaze to Dralis. "Seneschal. The guild library is in disarray. You will organize the tomes. Alphabetical by arcane discipline, cross-referenced by author."

  Dralis stared at Michael, entirely appalled. "My... My Lord? You ask your Seneschal to sort dusty paper like a common scribe?"

  "I am asking you to maintain the intellectual superiority of House Sabwat, Dralis," Michael said coldly. "Do it."

  Dralis’s jaw clenched, but he bowed deeply. "As you command."

  With his commanders distracted by menial labor, Michael turned his attention back to his new strategy. If he was going to be loud, he needed to make a statement. He needed to show the Royal Society, the Syndicate, and the Church exactly what a Sterling Rank Hunter looked like.

  He marched back into the keep, retrieving his cane and his coat. He found Lavius lounging in the throne room, tracing a claw along the armrest.

  "Spymaster," Michael said, adjusting his cravat. "We are going to the Lodge."

  The carriage ride down into the city was a revelation.

  For the first time since arriving in Londinium, Michael didn't duck when they passed a Constabulary patrol. When the carriage rolled past a pair of Inquisitors in the West End, Michael actually leaned forward, resting his chin on his cane, and stared the silver coated zealots directly in the eyes.

  The Inquisitors blinked, slightly unnerved by the arrogance of the foreign noble, and looked away first.

  It was intoxicating.

  When Michael and Lavius strode through the doors of the Royal Society of Hunters, they didn't hover near the back tables with the Soot Hands. Michael walked with purpose, his cane clicking against the floor, straight past the receptionist Edith, and up to the exclusive, velvet roped section of the contract boards reserved for Sterling Ranks and above.

  Several wealthy nobles and decorated Naval officers stopped their conversations, turning to watch the "Eccentric Count" who had flushed the Rust Belt sewers.

  Michael ignored them and scanned the bounties. Most of the Sterling contracts were incredibly lucrative but relatively safe—escorting high value Syndicate shipments through the Middle District, or tracking down rare, magical fauna in the protected royal forests.

  He didn't want safe. He wanted loud.

  His eyes locked onto a heavily stamped, red-inked contract near the bottom of the board.

  Contract: Extermination / Area Denial

  Location: Grey Moors

  Target: Feral Lycan Pack (Level 26+)

  Client: The Coal & Cog Syndicate

  Reward: 500 Gold, 50 Society Merit Points, Syndicate Favor.

  "Feral Lycans," Michael murmured, tapping the parchment with his cane.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "An insult to the night," Lavius sneered quietly beside him, reading over his shoulder. "They are werewolves who have completely surrendered to the beast and lack the discipline of the lupines in the Gallows. They are faster, stronger, and entirely mindless. They hunt the Syndicate's Harvester Golems for sport."

  "Perfect," Michael said, a smile touching his lips.

  Most Sterling Hunters avoided the Grey Moors because it was dirty, treacherous, and highly lethal. By taking a high-risk, blue-collar protection job for the Syndicate in a Level 25-30 zone, Michael would accomplish three things. He would generate massive political goodwill with the city’s economic masters, he would publicly cement his "fearless" persona, and he would finally get to test his combat capabilities against something that wouldn't immediately explode.

  He ripped the contract from the board, signed House Sabwat at the bottom with a flourish, and walked out of the Lodge, leaving the staring nobles whispering in his wake.

  By the time Michael and Lavius returned to Castle Nightfall, the Church’s artillery had ceased.

  Michael walked into the grand hall and stopped dead.

  The floors were sparkling. They had been buffed to a mirror shine so perfect Michael could see his own reflection. Every suit of armor was dusted, every chandelier polished.

  Standing at attention at the base of the grand staircase, holding a bucket and a mop that looked comically small in his massive hands, was Drummond. The werewolf was panting slightly, but his chest was puffed out with immense pride.

  "The keep is sanitized, Progenitor!" Drummond announced loudly.

  Michael stared at the floor, his janitor’s heart weeping tears of pure joy. "This is... phenomenal work, Drummond. Truly exceptional."

  Drummond practically vibrated with ambition. "What is my next task, Lord Mikhail? Shall I polish the gargoyles?"

  "No," Michael said, holding up the red-inked contract. "We are going hunting. Tell me, Drummond... how do you feel about tracking your feral, undisciplined kin in the Grey Moors?"

  Drummond’s eyes burned. He dropped the mop. "I will tear them apart with my bare hands to honor you, Master."

  "Excellent," Michael nodded. "Go fetch Morpheus from the war room. We need a party of four to satisfy the Lodge's bureaucratic nonsense."

  Ten minutes later, the vanguard of House Sabwat was assembled. Michael, Lavius, Morpheus, and Drummond stood at the castle gates. Dralis, looking miserable and covered in a fine layer of ancient book dust, stood by to lock the doors behind them.

  "Guard the keep, Seneschal," Michael ordered.

  "With my life, My Lord," Dralis bowed stiffly. "And please... kill something unpleasant for me."

  The only geographical route to the Grey Moors was a straight line north, directly through the dense, monster-infested forest behind their mountain—the Gallows.

  Michael commanded. "Run."

  The four of them vanished.

  To a human observer, they would have looked like a blur of wind snapping the pine needles. They moved at supersonic speeds, weaving through the trunks of the woods. The Level 10 beasts that stalked the Gallows—lesser dire wolves, giant arachnids, and minor trolls—didn't even have time to register their presence. By the time a monster turned its head toward the sound of their passing, Michael’s party was already a mile away.

  Within twenty minutes, they broke through.

  Michael skidded to a halt on the dirt, his cane digging into the earth.

  Rising up before them was a heavily fortified wall of iron and stone. It stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, completely separating the safe, industrialized Londinium Kingdom from the untamed horrors of the Grey Moors.

  The border was absolute chaos.

  Sprawling along the base of the wall was a massive staging ground. Military encampments of Red-coated Constabulary rubbed shoulders with heavily armed Syndicate loading docks. Tents belonging to independent hunter parties dotted the muddy landscape.

  "Form up," Michael ordered, adjusting his lapels and resuming his aristocratic stride.

  He led his party through the muddy encampment, ignoring the stares of the rough, heavily scarred mercenaries, and approached the heavily guarded central gate.

  Sitting in a reinforced glass tollbooth next to the iron portcullis was a man wearing the uniform of a Crown Official. His brass nameplate read: Gatsby.

  Michael stepped up to the glass, projecting his most commanding aura, and slid the red-inked Sterling contract and his silver pocket watch under the small teller slot.

  "Count Mikhail, of House Sabwat," Michael announced crisply. "We are here to clear a Syndicate contract."

  Gatsby did not look up.

  The clerk was leaning dangerously far back in his wooden chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was aggressively chewing a massive wad of pink gum. The sound was horrifying.

  Gatsby slowly lowered his eyes, picked up the Sterling contract with two fingers as if it were covered in disease, and squinted at it.

  "Right," Gatsby drawled. "Okay, Manny. Says here you got three retainers. Where's the fourth?"

  Michael looked at Morpheus, Lavius, and Drummond standing directly behind him. "My name is Mikhail. And we are a party of four. Myself, and my three retainers."

  Gatsby slowly looked past Michael, staring directly at his team, then looked back at the paper.

  "Lodge policy says you need four registered bodies to cross the threshold, Milton," Gatsby sighed, dragging a rubber stamp across his ink pad with agonizing slowness. "I don't make the rules. You got a Form 4B for this?"

  Michael gripped his cane and his knuckles popped. "You are holding the Form 4B. It is stapled to the back of the contract."

  Gatsby didn't flip the page over. He just stared at Michael with heavy eyelids. "Don't get smart with me, Martin. You want to cross my gate, you fill out the forms. Now, I need a notarized signature from the Syndicate liaison confirming liability for any damages."

  Behind Michael, Lavius let out a hiss.

  Master, Lavius’s voice echoed telepathically in Michael’s mind. Please. I will melt his eyes. I will turn his blood into boiling lead. Just give me the word.

  Morpheus stood rigidly still, his eyes locked onto the reinforced glass. Michael could practically hear the Dhampir calculating the exact amount of kinetic force required to shatter the booth and decapitate the clerk.

  Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was a Sterling Rank Hunter. A Citizen. He had rights. He had to follow the law. He could not murder the glorified DMV clerk from hell.

  "The Syndicate signature is on page three," Michael said, his voice strained to the absolute breaking point, forcing a terrifyingly tight smile onto his face. "Highlighted in yellow."

  What should have been a ten-second approval turned into a literal hour in purgatory. Gatsby was not just impatient and rude; he was aggressively, weaponizedly stupid. He purposefully misheard names, asked for documents he had already stamped, and took three separate "mandated union water breaks" while Michael stood at the window, slowly losing his mind.

  Finally, Gatsby slid the paperwork back under the slot.

  "Alright, Marcus. You're cleared for action," Gatsby droned, pulling a lever on his desk. "Try not to die. The paperwork is a nightmare."

  The portcullis opened.

  Michael snatched the papers, didn't say a word, and marched his party through the gates.

  The moment the iron slammed shut behind them, the chaotic noise of the border camp, the shouts of the mercenaries, and the maddening sound of Gatsby’s gum were instantly silenced.

  The vibe shift was absolute.

  They stood at the edge of the Grey Moors. It was breathtakingly bleak. A vast expanse of rocks, fields of dark purple grey heather, and bubbling peat bogs stretched out to the horizon.

  But the most striking feature was the fog.

  "The Grey" clung to the ground like a living entity. It was thick, swirling, and unnaturally heavy. It muffled all sound, turning the landscape into a sensory deprivation chamber. It was thick enough to hide a person.

  But more importantly, the fog was so dense it completely blocked out the sun.

  [Direct Sunlight Blocked. Racial Debuff Removed.]

  Michael inhaled deeply, the damp air filling his lungs. In this bleak, Level 25-30 death zone, surrounded by feral monsters and treacherous terrain, Michael was operating at one hundred percent of his world ending power.

  "Tracking," Michael commanded quietly.

  Drummond stepped forward and the ambitious werewolf dropped to one knee on the rocks. His eyes flared in the gloom. He pressed his face close to the purple heather, taking a deep sniff of the damp air. His heightened senses locked onto the scent of his feral kin.

  Drummond stood up, looking back at Michael with a grin. His hands flexed, his claws extending.

  "I have them, Progenitor," Drummond growled. "They are close."

  Michael stepped forward.

  "Lead the way, Drummond," Michael said. "Let us show the Royal Society how House Sabwat hunts."