The bell above the door gave a dull chime as Martin stepped into the jewelry store. Not a grand one—just a well-warded, nondescript shop tucked between a cursed tailor and a perfumery that probably dealt in hexes more than fragrance.
The place smelled of incense and powdered silver, the air faintly buzzing with containment runes. It was a merchant's domain, the kind of place where gold changed hands with as much blood on it as the items themselves.
Behind the counter stood a wiry man with bronze spectacles and a facial expression permanently etched somewhere between boredom and fear. A retired mage, maybe, or a coward who found capitalism safer than duels.
Martin didn't waste time. He dropped a cloth bundle onto the glass counter with a metallic clatter.
"Fifty-seven rings," Martin began. "And all the ceremonial silver from the Cathedral of Hollow Divinity."
The shopkeeper's eyes widened slightly as he peeled back the cloth, sifting through the items with gloved hands. Rings set with minor enchantments. Some cracked from heat, others soaked in blood, still humming faintly with lingering rituals. The ceremonial silver wasn't true silver—just cult-grade alloy, a mix of silver dust and spiritual catalysts—but still valuable to the right buyers. Useful for necromancy, resurrection rites, or cheap wedding curses.
"How much?"
The dealer adjusted his glasses, calculating silently. Then he looked up. "Eleven thousand ruincoins for the rings and silver. Nine thousand more if you throw in the totem I saw you take."
Martin's expression didn't change. "I'm selling the rings and silver. Nothing else."
"Alright," the dealer said slowly. "Or I could offer you seven thousand ruincoins and information."
Martin's brow arched. "That's a worse deal."
"It's also a better one." The man tapped a drawer behind the counter. "Depends on what you value more—coin, or leverage."
Martin smirked, then leaned forward just enough for the shadows under his eyes to harden. "Fourteen thousand ruincoins and the information. I throw in the totem as a bonus. But if you lie…"
He tapped the counter twice.
"I'll turn that skull of yours into a coffee cup."
The man swallowed and nodded. "Fair."
From the drawer, he produced a sealed scroll. "It's all written here. Straight from the underground threads. I bought the intel last night—barely beat out a noble's hound for it."
Martin took the scroll, tore the wax seal without ceremony, and unrolled it. His eyes scanned quickly, pupils darting over glyph-coded shorthand and translated whispers from informants.
After a moment, he nodded. "Deal."
They each extended a hand. Not for a handshake—this wasn't trust. This was commerce. Their palms shimmered as they brought their Runic Imprints forward, thin rings of blue light appearing under the skin like a branded oath. Magic hummed as the transaction processed. Ruincoins shifted from one ledger to another, encrypted through the leyline network, intangible but undeniably real.
"Happy hunting," the dealer offered.
Martin nodded as he turned to leave. "Thanks."
Later, he was perched once again on a rooftop. Only this time, the feast was smaller. A bowl of salad, barely touched, sat beside a pair of goggles and a half-dismantled compass-etched relic he'd snatched from the Cathedral altar.
The scroll lay open across his lap, weighted by a small summoning stone.
He chewed slowly, eyes narrowed as he reread the details.
"Storm's Creed"—a low-profile cult operating out of the Solholme region. Nothing major. At least not until now.
They'd somehow stolen an artifact from Varncrest Institute itself. A relic designed for divine acceleration, a tool meant to shepherd a spirit through maturation into godhood. Dangerous. Forbidden. Experimental.
And they were trying to use it immediately, bypassing the traditional growth cycle of a divine spirit—intent, prayer, mythos, manifestation—by jamming it into power with raw worship and stolen magic.
"Idiots," Martin muttered, spearing a piece of wilted lettuce. "It's like trying to microwave a volcano."
He leaned back, looking up at the night sky, barely visible behind the clouds.
Solholme was noble territory. That alone made the situation worse. House Solholme wouldn't tolerate a rogue spirit ascending within their domain, not unless they were involved.
And if they were involved...
"An artifact belonging to Varncrest," Martin repeated, almost reverently. "On top of that, one that can speedrun the development of a god…"
He whistled softly.
"This'll be very valuable for my studies."
He stood, brushing salad off his lap and crumpling the container. Without looking, he tossed it behind him—it hit the side of a chimney with a hollow clunk and tumbled into the alley below.
Martin adjusted his suit jacket, then tightened his tie with slow precision. He flexed his fingers, and faint sparks of magecraft danced between his knuckles.
"A cult trying to ascend a god," he said, pacing along the roof's edge. "A noble house with too much pride to look away. Varncrest about to throw a tantrum over stolen toys…"
His grin widened.
"Let's make this a four-way war."
He leapt from the rooftop, coat flaring behind him. His boots hit a nearby balcony with a metallic clang, and without breaking stride, he vaulted down into the next alley. Shadows folded around him, his figure vanishing between pools of flickering streetlamp light.
The hunt had begun.
And Martin Kaiser had just decided that someone else's apocalypse would make the perfect testbed for his next research project.