Midway Core, Lakefront Metropolis
UCA (United Continent of America)
Terra, Gaea, Solar system
Neutral Free Zone
January 14th 2019
The Greyhorn Club sat north of Midway Core in the Rogers District, squeezed between a noodle shop and a late-night grocery whose neon sign flickered every few seconds. Compared to the surrounding storefronts, the building looked almost forgotten. Its brick façade was old and weathered, the mortar darkened by decades of rain and city soot. Two narrow windows faced the street, their glass fogged and stained, giving nothing away about what lay inside.
To anyone walking past, it was just another aging club struggling to survive among the restaurants and markets that crowded the block.
But Leon could feel it.
A faint pressure brushed against his senses the moment he stepped onto the sidewalk. Subtle. Cold. Like thin mist against the skin.
The Grey.
The invisible barrier that separated Terra's Hidden World from the mundane one hummed quietly around the building. Most people would never notice it—not even if they walked through the door. The Grey was designed that way.
Humans hurried along the street in both directions, bags of groceries swinging from their hands, conversations drifting through the evening air. None of them slowed. None of them looked twice at the narrow entrance tucked between the neighboring shops.
To them, the club barely existed.
Leon paused at the curb, studying the building.
A faint smile touched his lips.
The Greyhorn Club was a curious place. Only a few weeks ago it had stood thousands of miles away, on the opposite side of the continent. Yet here it was again—unchanged, as if the world had quietly rearranged itself around it.
He stepped through the door.
The noise hit him first.
Music pulsed through the interior in slow, heavy waves, the bass vibrating through the floorboards. The lighting was low and saturated in crimson and violet hues that crawled across the gothic décor. Black velvet draped the walls, and iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling like twisted crowns.
Dancers moved across the central floor, their long black garments flowing with each motion. Their bodies bent and swayed to the rhythm, shadows sliding across their skin as the lights flickered.
Above the main floor, a ring of elevated balconies stretched.
The VIP tier.
Private booths, velvet curtains, and all the indulgences the Hidden World preferred to keep out of sight.
Leon's gaze drifted upward.
His smile widened slightly.
That was where he was headed.
As he walked deeper into the club, conversations faltered.
Heads turned.
Eyes followed him across the room.
Some stared openly. Others tried to look away but couldn't quite manage it. The reaction didn't surprise him. Something in the back of their minds—something instinctive and ancient—recognized what stood before them even if they couldn't name it.
Leon moved through the crowd with effortless confidence.
His presence was impossible to ignore.
His features were too sharp, too symmetrical to belong to an ordinary human—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and the kind of beauty that felt almost unnatural. He wore black from head to toe: a fitted suit beneath a long armored trench coat, combat pants tucked neatly into polished boots.
Amber hair fell loosely around his face, the warm tone contrasting against his olive skin. And his eyes—
Luminous blue.
They seemed to cut through the dim light like twin blades.
It was safe to say Leon was the most striking figure in the entire club.
No.
Leon knew better than that.
On the whole planet of Terra, there was no creature more beautiful than him.
He reached the upper level and slid easily into one of the gambling circles. The roulette wheel spun beneath the lights, the ivory ball rattling along its rim as players crowded around the table. Leon leaned forward slightly, placing his bet with quiet confidence as the wheel continued to spin.
"Leonard Haravok!" a voice boomed over the pulsating rhythm of the club. Leon sighed as the source of the voice approached: Lance Al'Roth. Unlike some of the Demihumans scattered throughout the Greyhorn Club, Lance was a full-blooded Beastman—a humanoid race with animalistic traits. At the moment, Lance looked mostly human, if you ignored the telltale signs: sharp canine fangs, ash-gray hair, and striking yellow eyes that gleamed like those of a wolf. Following him was his entourage of female Demihumans who seemed utterly captivated by his presence. He wore an open-sleeved shirt that showcased his muscular frame, a silver chain hanging casually around his neck, and sunglasses that hid his inhumane eyes.
"Lance."
Leon offered the greeting as he slid into the seat across from him.
Lance Greyhorn lounged in his chair like a king who owned the room—and in many ways, he did. The proprietor of the Greyhorn Club wore a dark suit with the collar open at the neck, a pair of tinted sunglasses resting low on the bridge of his nose despite the dim lighting. Rings glinted on several of his fingers as he lazily spun a casino chip across the table.
The club itself existed because of him. The Greyhorn club was known throughout the Hidden World—even among the Offworlder Beastman clans—for its mastery over spatial anchors and wandering territories. It was their magic that allowed the club to slip from one city to another, sometimes across continents, appearing wherever Lance pleased.
Leon had known him since childhood. Back when Leon still visited Terra. Lance had always called them friends. Leon had never corrected him. If he were being honest, the relationship had always leaned in one direction. Lance valued their bond far more than Leon ever had. For Leon, Lance was simply… convenient. The club provided excellent entertainment. That alone made Lance worth keeping around.
"I see you're in a good mood tonight," Lance said.
He lowered his sunglasses slightly. Across the table, several women who had been gathered around Lance suddenly lost interest in him. Their attention shifted almost instantly toward Leon. Lance followed their gaze.
He sighed. Bringing women around Leonard Haravok was always a mistake. Leon noticed. Of course, he noticed. He simply pretended he hadn't.
"My luck seems to be working tonight," Leon said.
The roulette wheel spun between them, the ivory ball rattling along its rim. Leon placed his chip calmly on black. Around the table, most of the other players had stacked their bets on red, murmuring to one another with the confidence of gamblers who believed the pattern was obvious. Leon was the only one who chose otherwise. The wheel slowed. The ball danced along the rim—
Then dropped.
Black.
There were groans all around them as Leon won another third round, many dispersing away as they had lost almost all their money. Leon couldn't help but grin. Lance snapped his fingers, and a waitress appeared swiftly with more bottles of champagne, setting them down before slipping away. Lance popped one of the bottles open and poured Leon a drink.
"So how was the hunt?" Lance asked. Leon took a slow sip of his drink before looking at him. A golden dagger formed in his hand—effortless, silent—its edge resting just beneath Lance's throat.
"…Do I look like someone you send to clean up after you?" His gaze didn't waver. "Or have you mistaken me for something… expendable?"
"I take it, it didn't go so well," Lance said.
"It was infected," Leon replied. "Infernal energy."
Lance frowned. "Here? On Terra?"
"Deliberate," Leon said. "Something didn't want it speaking."
"You're saying it was silenced?"
Leon's gaze shifted, distant for a moment.
"It was trying to resist," he said. "They noticed."
Lance exhaled. "The Scorpio girl—she couldn't pull anything from it?"
Leon's expression didn't change.
"She did," Leon said. "She hasn't sorted through what she pulled from it yet."
"So I did my part," Lance replied.
He nudged the dagger from his throat with a single finger, slow and deliberate, a predatory grin tugging at his lips.
"I gave you what you needed. Enough to lead you to it. That should cover the Daigun fiasco."
The blade dissolved before it could fall—unraveling into a faint shimmer of light that vanished in Leon's hand.
"I need to know who Vashin Priyham is," Leon said, carefully masking the flicker of excitement threatening to surface. He knew he was close—so close—but he couldn't let Lance sense his desperation.
"Ah, I see," Lance said, spinning a golden coin idly between his fingers. His thumb and index fingers worked the coin with practiced ease, the flickering light catching Leon's attention for a moment. When his gaze returned to his face, the knowing smirk he wore sent a ripple of annoyance through him.
"And you need my help to figure out who this Vashin is," he continued, her tone playful but sharp.
"As an information broker, I figured you'd be the perfect person for this," Leon said. His voice was calm, but his words were edged with purpose. "The information you sold me led to an Erlking. The Beast was already infected with Infernal energy. Someone infected him to silence him."
"Sounds like a curse seal," Lance mused, his gaze flicking to the bag Leon pulled from his dimensional storage. He placed it on the table with a soft thud, the Essence Shards within shimmering faintly—the currency of the Hidden World.
"And?" He asked, tilting his head slightly. "Did anything else catch your attention?"
Leon hesitated, his mind flashing back to the Sewer. The runes carved into the walls glowing faintly with a mysterious power. The Erlking had managed to activate them somehow, but the moment he died, the energy within the runes vanished. It didn't sit well with Leon—such a powerful and cryptic source of magic, here in Terra of all places. But as unsettling as it was, it wasn't his immediate concern.
"So there was," Lance said, his voice soft but laden with meaning. Silence stretched between them as their gazes locked, each studying the other.
"There was a gateway in the sewer," Leon admitted, the image of the mysterious Runic wall flashing in his mind. He had little interest in how the Gateway came to be there—his focus was singular. Deep in his gut, he knew the Fallen Stars were still out there, waiting. Memories of the mission that had driven him and Emily away from Agartha bubbled up unbidden, the horrors replaying in his mind like a cruel loop. He glanced at his hand, phantom traces of blood long gone but never forgotten.
"But that's not important," he said firmly. "What I need from you is information on Vashin Priyham." He slid the bag of Essence Shards across the table to him. Lance took it without hesitation, though his curiosity still prompted a warning.
"Are you certain you want to proceed down this path?" He asked, his tone unusually grave. "Going after the Fallen star, a wanted organization throughout the galaxy, doesn't sound like a way to pass up one's time."
Leon gave him a look.
"FIne. Whatever. It's your funeral," Lance said.
Leon turned back to his drink, lifting the glass. The liquor burned on his tongue, sharp and bitter, but his focus had already slipped elsewhere—back to the tunnel, to the damp stone and those etched runes that seemed to breathe beneath the surface.
****
After the last hand was dealt and the bottles ran dry, Leon gave in to the quieter edge of his indulgence. He left the club before dawn could catch him.
He rose above the city as the first light crept over the horizon.
This—this was the part he kept coming back for.
The sky unfolded in slow fire, bands of orange and deep crimson bleeding through the clouds, painting the morning in something almost violent. Leon hovered within it, suspended in that burning stillness, the wind brushing past him in low, whispering currents. His senses stretched outward, widening—sight layered over sight, the physical and the internal intertwining as Lakefront Metropolis revealed itself beneath him.
The city stirred.
Tiny figures moved along its veins—humans spilling into the streets, threading through steel and glass, unaware of how thin the boundary truly was. They walked beneath something they could neither see nor comprehend.
Leon watched them for a moment longer than necessary.
Then his thoughts shifted.
Back to the Erlking.
The memory settled in, heavy.
Infernal energy.
Wrong.
It clung to the edges of the recollection like rot beneath the skin. The creature hadn't just been corrupted—it had been forced into it. Twisted. Driven past reason into something starving and blind.
It had fed on the weakest.
The unnoticed.
Homeless bodies vanishing into silence, leaving behind nothing but absence. That had been the trail—thin, easy to ignore, until it wasn't. Leon had followed it on instinct alone, a quiet pull in his chest he'd learned not to question.
And it had led him straight to the beast.
The fight flickered through his mind in fragments—
bone cracking,flesh tearing,the brief moment where its eyes cleared.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to realize something inside it was still there… fighting.
Then gone.
Eaten alive by the Infernal corruption.
Leon exhaled slowly.
Something stirred in his chest.
Heat.
His blood surged, sudden and violent, a low roar beneath his skin. The distraction he'd chased earlier—drink, noise, bodies—felt hollow now, replaced by something sharper. Hungrier.
His hand tightened.
Knuckles whitening as his fist clenched without thought.
The urge came fast.
To break something.To hit.To release.
The sky burned around him, and for a moment, Leon simply hovered there—perfectly still—while that pressure coiled tighter beneath his skin, waiting for an outlet.
He forced the surge down.
The pressure in his veins resisted, coiling tight beneath his skin, but he pressed it into stillness through sheer will. Losing control here—above a city packed with fragile, unguarded lives—wasn't an option.
The Grey clung to him like a second skin, folding his presence out of sight, out of sense. To anything below, he did not exist.
Still, Leon didn't relax.
His awareness swept the skyline, brushing against the edges of the unseen. Any Mystic wandering too far, any stray Ascendant probing where they shouldn't—he would feel them. There were few in this sector, fewer still who operated beyond the mundane. Most of them drifted toward the Federation Quadrants, where power gathered like gravity.
Terra was quiet by comparison.
That didn't mean safe.
Leon descended.
He touched down on a rooftop without a sound, boots meeting concrete with practiced ease. His gaze tilted downward, catching on the glow below.
An art gallery.
Reggie Sullivan Center.
The name lingered at the edge of memory.
Yesh Institute.
Right.
They collected talent the way others collected weapons—curated, displayed, studied.
Light spilled from the building's glass frontage, warm and inviting. Figures moved within—well-dressed, animated, their voices muffled by distance but alive with conversation.
Leon watched them for a moment.
"…How did I end up here?" he murmured.
The crowd didn't interest him. Not really.
Still… there was something.
Humans were fragile—physically, spiritually. Short-lived. Limited.
And yet—
They created.
Paintings, music, structures, ideas… things that outlived them. A stubborn kind of defiance against their own brevity.
Leon's gaze lingered a second longer than it should have.
Then he looked away.
The thought dissolved as quickly as it came.
He stepped back from the edge, the Grey shifting with him, swallowing his outline once more. The tunnel wasn't far. He could have reached it in an instant—Exodus would've carried him there before the next breath.
But tonight—
He chose to walk.
The streets of Lakefront Metropolis stretched out before him, soaked in the dim bleed of twilight.
Brick buildings leaned over narrow roads, their surfaces worn by time and neglect. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven pools of amber light that fractured across damp pavement. Cars crawled through traffic, red taillights smearing into reflections along the ground.
Neon signs buzzed faintly, their glow rippling in puddles left behind by earlier rain.
The air was thick.
Street food. Gasoline. A faint metallic bite of industry that never quite left the lungs.
People moved through it all—heads down, shoulders tight, caught in the rhythm of routine.
Leon passed through them like a ghost.
And beneath it—
Decay.
Boarded windows. Tagged walls. Alleys that swallowed light too easily.
A city layered over something older. Something hidden.
Something waiting.
Leon's focus narrowed.
The Erlking.
The tunnel.
The runes.
By the time he reached the alley near the parking lot, the temperature had dropped.
The wind cut through the narrow passage, sharp and restless, carrying with it the first thin flakes of snow. They drifted lazily at first, then faster, gathering along the edges of cracked asphalt and rusted metal.
Leon didn't slow.
The cold meant nothing.
He stepped to the edge of the sewer entrance and dropped.
No hesitation.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Retracing his steps came easily. The path was etched into memory—each turn, each narrowing corridor, each stretch of damp stone still carrying the faint residue of what had happened there.
He moved without sound.
Back toward the place where the Erlking had died.
Standing once more before the wall, Leon let his internal sight unfold.
The runes sharpened—layers beneath layers, currents moving through carved stone like something alive. He studied them in silence, tracing their rhythm, their structure—
—and then he saw it.
A coin.
Set into a narrow slot at the center of the wall, half-swallowed by the stone as if it had always belonged there.
Leon's gaze narrowed.
He stepped closer.
Heat radiated from it—not outward in waves, but inward, as if the warmth was being pulled into itself. Contained. Compressed. Wrong.
The Erlking.
It had to be.
Leon reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the coin, the heat flared.
Not warmth.
Not even fire.
It was something sharper—searing straight through the skin, bypassing resistance, biting into something deeper. His hand recoiled on instinct.
"—Tch."
The coin slipped from his grasp.
But it never fell.
It hung in the air, suspended, turning slowly as golden light bled from its surface. The tunnel dimmed around it, as though the light was stealing everything else away.
Leon stilled.
Then—
The coin shot forward.
The wall answered.
Stone shifted with a low, grinding hum, the runes distorting as a hollow opened—perfectly shaped, waiting. The coin slid into place with a final, decisive click.
And the world moved.
Something struck him.
Not physical.
Invisible.
It pressed against his mind, his senses—dragging, pulling, forcing him into alignment with something he couldn't see. Leon's breath caught, his body locking as the pressure deepened.
The wall ignited.
Gold.
Green.
Light poured through the runes, threading between them, spilling outward until the entire space was drenched in it. The air thickened, vibrating with something vast, something ancient—
—and then he heard it.
A note.
Soft.
Barely there.
Like a whisper brushing the edge of thought.
Leon's eyes narrowed.
The sound grew.
Layer by layer, tone by tone, until the runes themselves began to move—shifting, rotating in slow, deliberate arcs. Their glow intensified with each turn, patterns forming and reforming in endless cycles.
Not symbols.
Notes.
A composition.
A celestial arrangement etched into stone.
Leon recognized fragments—Terran script woven into the structure—but the rest…
Alien.
Older.
Impossible.
The melody pressed against him, slipping past his defenses, stirring something buried too deep to name. It wasn't pain.
It wasn't memory.
But it resonated.
The space in front of him began to change.
Light condensed, folding inward, crystallizing into form—
A surface.
Smooth. Reflective.
A mirror suspended in the air.
Leon didn't move.
Within it—
Something appeared.
A figure.
A girl.
His heart stuttered.
Once.
"Who are you?"
The voice slipped through the tunnel—soft, almost fragile—
—but it cut straight through him.
Leon turned sharply.
Nothing.
The corridor stretched empty behind him, damp stone and shadow swallowing the sound as if it had never been there.
His gaze snapped back to the mirror.
The girl stood within it.
Not a reflection.
Not an illusion.
Present.
She wore tactical gear—clean lines, reinforced plating, the unmistakable design of the Golden Dawn. Brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders, framing a face that struck him harder than any blow.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Slender nose. Full lips. The sharp contour of her cheeks—
Leon's breath stalled.
…Her.
The one from his dreams.
"Hello…" she said, voice unsteady. "Are you… real?"
Fear lingered in her eyes. Doubt. Something else beneath it—tension pulled tight across her expression, like she was standing on the edge of something unseen.
Leon didn't answer.
For a moment, he couldn't.
She lifted her hand.
Slowly.
Hesitant.
Reaching toward him.
Something in his chest tightened.
Before he could think—before he could question it—his own hand moved.
The surface between them rippled.
Their fingers met.
Warmth.
Real.
Not imagined.
Not a projection.
Her touch was soft—alive—and the moment their skin connected, something surged between them. A current. Sharp. Immediate. It ran up his arm, through his chest, into something deeper that had been silent for far too long.
Leon's voice came low, almost lost beneath the sound of it.
"…How is this possible?"
The answer never came.
The connection broke.
A violent pulse erupted from the point where their hands met—raw, uncontrolled. It tore through the space like a shockwave, distorting the air, cracking the mirror in an instant.
Light fractured.
Shattered.
The surface splintered into countless shards, each one dissolving before it could fall.
And she—
Vanished.
"No—"
The word tore from him.
He stepped forward, too late.
"No. No—"
His fist slammed into the wall.
Stone cracked under the impact, the sound echoing through the tunnel as the last traces of light faded into nothing.
Silence rushed back in.
Empty.
Leon stood there, breath uneven, gaze fixed on where she had been.
For a moment—
Nothing moved.
Then his eyes dropped.
The coin.
It lay at his feet, dull now. Lifeless. As if whatever power it held had already been spent.
Leon didn't pick it up.
Not yet.
His hand remained clenched at his side, the faint echo of her touch still lingering against his skin—warm… and already slipping away.
Pain lanced through his skull.
Sharp. Sudden.
Leon's thoughts shattered mid-breath. He staggered, a hand snapping up to his temple as the pressure spiked—then hit again, harder. It wasn't pain alone. It pushed. Forced its way in, prying at the edges of his mind like something trying to break through.
The coin slipped from his grasp.
Metal struck stone—once—then rolled.
Leon barely heard it.
A voice cut through the noise.
Leon… Leon…
Faint.
Strained.
Help me…
His eyes narrowed.
Emily.
The world shifted.
An image slammed into him—fragmented, unstable, but clear enough. Rubble. Dust-choked air. A collapsed ceiling pressing down around her. She was pinned, barely able to move, her voice threading through whatever connection had forced itself into him.
Leon exhaled slowly through his teeth.
"…What are you doing?"
Not anger.
Not quite.
Something tighter.
He bent, picking the coin back up, his grip firm.
For a brief moment, his gaze flicked to the wall.
The runes had gone still. The light was gone. The mirror—her—nothing remained but cold stone and silence.
The pull lingered.
The unanswered question.
The girl.
All of it pressed at the edge of his focus—
—and was cut off.
Emily's voice broke through again. Weaker this time.
Leon's grip tightened.
That settled it.
"…Tch."
He turned away.
The coin vanished into a mote of light as he stepped back from the wall, the decision already made.
Whatever this place was—
Whatever it was hiding—
It could wait.
"Don't move," Leon said under his breath, voice low and steady as he stepped into the darkness.
"I'm coming."