Hunter: Lord of Mysteries

The tavern smelled of damp wood, roasted onion, and secrets.

Archer stepped through the unmarked door at the side of the Braveheart Bar, passing into a narrow corridor that sloped gently upward. The walls here were bare brick, slick with condensation. His boots thudded softly against the warped floorboards. Somewhere beneath the layers of dust and damp, he could hear the city breathing. Not with lungs, but with gears, whispers, and blood.

He reached the stairway. Narrow. Cracked in the middle. And he recollected Kaspars' words:

"First door on the right," Kaspars had said. "Four knocks. A second between each. Skip a beat. Four more. Skip one. Then a final tap."

It felt absurd. But absurdity was common in Backlund's hidden world. Archer did as instructed.

A pause.

Then a click. A narrow panel slid open in the heavy oak door, revealing only darkness and the impression of someone watching.

Then the door swung inward.

Candlelight bled through the gap, warm and flickering. Inside, the room was circular, carved out of what seemed to be an old storeroom or perhaps an abandoned cellar. Dozens of hooded and masked figures sat at various corners, shadows dancing across their faces. No one greeted him. No one asked his name.

A single tall candle burned at the center of the round table, wax pooling like pale blood.

He chose a seat at the edge. Not quite in the dark. Not quite in the light.

Moments later, a man stepped into the room with a presence that rearranged the air. Cloaked in a dark overcoat with a brass chain linking his collar, he wore no mask—only a calm, calculating stare. Silver hair framed a face that had seen every kind of lie. His gloved hands remained behind his back.

"The meeting begins," he said.

Heads turned. Conversations ceased.

Archer's golden eyes narrowed slightly beneath his half-mask.

So this is the Eye of Wisdom... and that man must be Detective Isengard Stanton.

Though no one said a name aloud, his bearing and the deference others gave him made it obvious. Archer knew the man from his fragmented knowledge of the novel—a cautious, brilliant mind who once walked the fine line between mysticism and actual crime work.

A heavy-boned woman in a deep violet coat stood abruptly. Her voice cut through the silence.

"I'm offering a Beyonder artifact. A locket. Grants brief premonition on direct threats. Can block one physical attack from even a Sequence 7, but requires two days to recharge."

"Side effects?" a masked figure asked from the far side.

"Mild spiritual pollution over prolonged use. Also, during the waning moon, users may experience a compulsive craving to stare at the sky for hours. It fades with rest, but the sensation can be... disturbing," she replied flatly

Archer's interest cooled immediately.

Not worth the disruption. Especially not for a sensory-focused Pathway.

Still, bidding began. 500 pounds. Then 550. The artifact sold for 575 pounds after some brief bartering.

The room flowed with quiet commerce. A hunched figure bartered away a salve that dulled spiritual residue for an Enchanter's nail and 180 pounds. Another offered a silence talisman that muted one's footsteps for 115 pounds and a bottle of Moonflower extract.

Archer observed. No names. No questions beyond what was needed. Every deal was vetted by the man at the center—Isengard. His authority unspoken, but absolute.

Finally, Archer rose.

He stepped forward only slightly, voice calm, even.

"Seeking information. Full Hunter Sequence 9 formula. Offering 300 pounds. Also open to reliable clues verified by Eye of Wisdom—100 pounds each."

No one spoke. But a few glances turned his way.

He didn't expect an immediate answer. Not in a place like this.

Then someone stirred.

A wiry figure. Nearly invisible until now. Cloaked and masked like the others, with a presence so faint it was almost deliberate.

Theft Pathway, Archer guessed. Deliberate minimalism. Not incompetence.

"Would you consider a private discussion?" the man asked, his voice like parchment.

Archer nodded once.

The meeting continued for another twenty minutes. Items changed hands. Secrets were exchanged in codes and gestures. No one ever looked directly at another's face.

Eventually, the man in the center raised a gloved hand.

"Disperse. Five-minute intervals. No direct contact outside."

No names. No goodbyes. Only protocol.

Archer left with the fourth group. The wiry man guided him silently to a side room.

"I go by Teller," he said, once the door clicked shut. "No full formula. But I have the main ingredient. A verified one. And a lead to the rest."

"Price?" Archer asked.

"280 pounds for the ingredient. 100 for the clue."

"Show me."

From within his coat, the man produced a tightly wrapped cloth. Inside: a talon—glasslike, curved, and faintly radiant.

Teller said, "Moon-Drake Talon. Rare. And dangerous if mishandled."

"We'll verify it through the Eye."

They returned to the main chamber. Isengard Stanton was still there, gaze unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

The talon was handed over. Isengard examined it briefly, nodding once.

"Authentic. Transaction permitted."

Archer unfastened a pouch and removed the requested payment, handing over the money.

Then Teller leaned in.

"The retired Hunter lives in East Borough. Meat shop on Grimsley Lane. He goes by 'Rook.' Gruff, private. Keeps to himself. But sane. He has the full formula."

He turned to go.

Isengard remained silent until Archer turned to him.

"Do you have the formula?" Archer asked simply.

Isengard tilted his head.

"I know of the main ingredient—Moon-Drake Talon—due to the transactions I oversee. That's why I was able to authorize the trade. But the full formula? That's passed by hand, not record. You'll have to take your chances with the source."

His tone was even. Not warm. Not cold.

"You've already noticed how it works here, right?" he asked.

Archer nodded.

"I do."

And with that, he turned.

Outside, the mist of Backlund coiled tighter than ever, but so did Archer's sense of direction.

The Hunter's path was no longer a mystery.

Only a hunt.