Night fall.
Five kilometers east of the unregistered dungeon, the world still believed itself untouched.
The village lay low between shallow hills, its homes clustered tightly as if proximity alone could ward off danger, Oil lamps had gone dark, the village asleep, believing distance was protection.
They were wrong.
The first scream came from the eastern edge—short, sharp, cut off mid-breath.
Then the fire.
Torches bloomed like malignant flowers along that side of the village, orange light spilling across mud walls and thatched roofs. Doors were kicked in. Windows shattered inward. Shadows flooded the streets, armed and laughing.
Bandits.
They moved fast, practiced. Twenty of them, spread in loose formation. Not desperate men. Not starving ones. These were raiders—confident, experienced, efficient.
Steel flashed.
A farmer tried to raise a pitchfork. He never finished lifting it. A blade split his shoulder, buried itself in bone. He collapsed, blood soaking into the dirt.
"Don't waste time!" someone shouted. "Silver first!"
A woman ran with a child in her arms. An arrow took her in the back. She fell forward, the child screaming until a boot silenced it.
Resistance was punished immediately. Hesitation was fatal.
Most learned quickly.
Doors opened. Hands went up. Coin was surrendered. Food dragged from storage. Jewelry ripped from necks. The bandits laughed as they worked, voices overlapping in a crude harmony of cruelty.
"Look at this place," one sneered, kicking over a stool. "Barely worth the walk."
"Copper adds up," another replied, dumping a sack into his pack. "And look—" He grinned, grabbing a woman by the wrist and yanking her forward. "Extra profit."
She screamed. He backhanded her. She fell, dazed, blood on her lip.
"Careful," a third laughed. "Boss'll want them breathing."
The magic caster arrived near the end.
He hadn't rushed in with the others. He never did. He walked through the village after the fighting was done, boots unhurried, staff tapping softly against the ground.
He surveyed the aftermath with mild interest.
Bodies. Fire. Whimpering survivors crouched in doorways, afraid to look up.
Satisfied, he raised a hand.
A ripple of force rolled outward—snuffing flames, collapsing burning beams before they could spread too far. Not mercy. Preservation. A village burned to ash attracted attention.
"Enough," he said calmly.
The bandits obeyed.
They regrouped at the edge of the village, sacks heavy with silver and copper. Eight captives were shoved into the center—five women, three teenage girls. Terrified. Hands bound. Eyes red from crying.
One of the bandits whistled. "Good haul tonight."
"Best in weeks," another said. "Guild's been too quiet. Nobles too cautious."
The caster smiled faintly. "That will change."
They set off toward the forest path, boots crunching over gravel, laughter returning as the village faded behind them.
The forest swallowed sound quickly.
Moonlight filtered through branches, painting silver lines across the trail. The bandits walked loose now, relaxed. Weapons slung casually. Confidence restored.
"After we drop the goods," one said, nudging another, "I'm claiming first pick."
"Ha! Like hell. We draw lots."
One of the girls stumbled. A bandit yanked her upright by the hair. "Careful. Boss doesn't like damaged merchandise."
The caster walked at the front, unconcerned with the noise behind him.
His base lay in the hills—a structure once meant for trade storage, abandoned decades ago. Stone and timber. Reinforced poorly over time. Patches of new wood nailed over old damage. Ugly, but functional.
When they reached it, the caster gestured.
"Store the coin," he said. "Weapons too. I'll handle the rest."
The bandits grinned knowingly.
The captives were shoved forward.
"Upstairs," the caster added, voice thick with anticipation. "My room."
He turned—
—and the sound came from above.
A soft impact. Controlled. Heavy.
Dust fell from the ceiling beams near the entrance.
One of the bandits frowned. "You hear that?"
The ceiling split.
A figure dropped through the gap and landed at the doorway, crouched low, one hand touching the ground.
Black.
The bodysuit absorbed light rather than reflecting it—night-sky black threaded with faint cobalt circuitry that pulsed once, then went still. Featureless helm. No face. No eyes.
Retractable claws extended silently from the hands and feet—three inches of polished metal—but they remained unused.
The figure stood.
The air changed.
"What the—"
Seth moved.
He didn't sprint. He appeared.
The first bandit raised his sword. Seth's hand snapped up, caught the wrist, twisted. Bone cracked. The sword clattered to the floor. Seth drove his elbow into the man's throat. He dropped, choking, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Second bandit lunged. Seth sidestepped, palm striking the sternum with surgical precision. The impact stole breath and consciousness simultaneously.
Chaos erupted.
Shouts. Weapons drawn. Formation lost.
Seth stepped forward into them.
A mace swung. He ducked under it, seized the wielder by the belt, and threw him into two others. Bodies slammed together. One didn't get back up.
An axe came down from behind. Seth leaned aside, letting it bite into the floor, then drove his knee into the attacker's face. Teeth scattered. The man collapsed.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Every strike was final.
Four bandits were taken down deliberately—precise blows, rendered unconscious and ignored thereafter. Seth tracked them automatically, ensuring they stayed down.
The rest weren't afforded the courtesy.
A knife flashed. Seth caught the arm mid-thrust and pulled, yanking the man forward into a rising headbutt that snapped his neck.
Another charged screaming. Seth met him with a straight punch to the jaw. The sound echoed like splitting wood. The body folded.
Fear finally took hold.
"Magic!" someone yelled. "Use magic!"
The caster raised his staff, chanting hurriedly.
Seth turned.
Their eyes—human and unseen—met.
The caster unleashed a bolt of force.
Seth took it head-on.
The Evo-suit absorbed the impact, rune circuitry flaring once before stabilizing. Seth didn't slow.
He crossed the distance in three steps.
The caster tried again—fire this time—but Seth was already inside the arc. He grabbed the staff, twisted, and shattered it against the wall.
The caster screamed as Seth drove him through a support beam.
Wood cracked. Stone dust filled the air.
The remaining bandits broke.
Some ran. Some begged.
None escaped.
Minutes later, silence returned.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor. Blood pooled slowly. The four unconscious bandits remained alive—breathing, bound, forgotten by everyone else.
The captives had seen everything.
They stood frozen near the stairs, terror eclipsing comprehension.
Seth turned toward them.
They screamed.
They ran.
The door burst open as they fled into the forest, tripping over roots and each other, not daring to look back.
Seth let them go.
He stepped toward the caster, who was still alive—barely—crawling across the floor.
"No—wait—" the man rasped.
Seth extended his hand.
The claws deployed.
One clean motion.
The caster stopped moving.
Seth retracted the claws, the Evo-suit returning to stillness.
He surveyed the space once more, then lifted the four unconscious bodies with practiced efficiency—two over each shoulder.
Without a sound, he leapt through the broken wall and vanished into the forest.
The hills swallowed him whole.
Far below, the dungeon waited.
The chamber was circular, not for symbolism, but for balance.
No wall stood closer than another. No corner gathered shadow more deeply than its opposite. The stone floor had been ground smooth over decades, its surface unadorned save for a single ring etched faintly around the center—so old its purpose had long since been forgotten.
At the heart of the room stood a round table of dark wood, wide enough that no one seated could easily reach the one across from them. Its surface bore no sigils, no cloth, no ornamentation. Only shallow grooves where hands had rested over years of quiet deliberation.
Seven chairs ringed it.
Only four were occupied.
The others sat empty, their presence heavier than if they had been filled.
No one remarked on this.
The doors sealed with a low, final sound—stone sliding into stone, old mechanisms engaging with deliberate patience. Whatever light existed in the chamber came not from torches or crystals, but from thin veins of pale luminescence embedded in the ceiling, casting an even, shadowless glow.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the figure seated opposite the empty northern chair leaned back slightly and folded their hands on the table.
"We begin," the Broker said.
Their voice was smooth, practiced, carrying the cadence of someone accustomed to being obeyed without raising their tone. Their face was hidden behind a simple half-mask of dark metal, polished to a dull sheen. No markings. No heraldry. Only anonymity worn like a second skin.
To the Broker's left sat the Southern Chair—broad-shouldered, posture relaxed, fingers drumming idly against the wood. Their attire was practical rather than ceremonial, layered fabrics chosen for travel and trade rather than display. When they spoke, they would speak plainly.
Opposite them sat the Veiled Scholar.
Where the others occupied their seats fully, the Scholar seemed almost to recede into theirs, wrapped in layered robes of muted gray. A veil of fine mesh obscured their face, distorting features just enough to make prolonged focus uncomfortable. Their hands rested still, fingertips touching lightly, as though every movement had been measured in advance.
The last occupied seat belonged to the Quiet One.
They sat straight-backed, unmoving, cloaked in deep black that drank in the chamber's light. No mask concealed their face—because none was needed. Their expression was empty in the way of a locked door, revealing nothing of what lay behind it.
The remaining chairs stood silent.
The North Chair remained empty, its absence pulling at the edges of the room like a pressure imbalance. The Crownless Seat showed signs of recent use—faint impressions in the cushion, the subtle scent of oil and metal lingering in the air. The Western Chair was pristine, untouched, as though it had not been occupied in years.
The Broker's gaze passed over them all without pause.
"Reports," they said. "Begin with the kingdoms."
The Southern Chair snorted softly. "As expected. Three border realms drifting toward open conflict. Grain shortages in the west are forcing levy increases. Coin is tightening. Nobles are blaming one another. The populace is angry enough to listen to anyone who speaks with confidence."
"And the churches?" the Broker asked.
"Fragmented," the Southern Chair replied. "Local clergy are overextended. Pilgrimages are down. Offerings are inconsistent. Faith is becoming regional instead of centralized."
"Good," the Broker said mildly. "Division keeps attention local."
The Veiled Scholar inclined their head slightly. "Our agents embedded within the lesser orders report similar trends. Orthodoxy is weakening. Interpretation is… flexible."
"Flexible how?" the Quiet One asked.
Their voice was low, measured, each word placed with care.
The Scholar did not bristle at the scrutiny. "Doctrine bends most easily when survival is involved. Famine creates heresy faster than philosophy ever could."
The Southern Chair chuckled. "Nothing corrupts belief like hunger."
The Quiet One's gaze shifted to them. The laughter died quickly.
"Proceed," the Broker said, unperturbed.
The Scholar continued. "We have established subsidiary cult structures within five recognized churches. Not openly, of course. They present as charitable arms, mutual aid circles, disaster relief groups. Their language aligns with sanctioned prayer. Their rituals are… adjusted."
"Adjusted," the Southern Chair echoed skeptically.
"Reframed," the Scholar corrected. "Belief redirected without altering the outward form. The gods receive what they expect. The rest is… surplus."
"And surplus is power," the Broker said.
"Surplus is leverage," the Scholar replied.
The Quiet One tapped a single finger against the table—once.
"And the risk?"
The chamber stilled.
The Scholar exhaled slowly. "Manageable. Thus far."
"Define manageable," the Quiet One said.
"Observation without action," the Scholar answered. "Minor anomalies noted by verification-aligned entities, dismissed as statistical noise. No apostolic movement."
At the word, the Southern Chair shifted slightly. "Let's not pretend that remains guaranteed."
"No," the Broker agreed. "It does not."
Silence settled again, heavier now.
The Broker's gaze drifted, briefly, to the empty North Chair. They did not linger.
"Our political scheme remains sound," the Broker said. "Kingdoms fracture. Churches hollow. Cult infrastructure expands quietly. Resource control follows population displacement. Influence grows without presenting a singular threat."
"Avoiding patterns," the Quiet One said.
"Avoiding notice," the Scholar corrected.
"They are the same," the Quiet One replied.
The Southern Chair leaned forward. "We've been careful. No mass conversions. No miracles. No displays that could be traced back to a single source."
"Careful is not invisible," the Quiet One said.
The Southern Chair bristled. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think," the Quiet One replied calmly, "that you think in numbers. They think in violations."
The Veiled Scholar's fingers tightened slightly.
"The Pillars," the Broker said.
No one reacted outwardly. The air itself seemed to thicken at the words.
"The Pillars of Beginning and End," the Broker continued, voice even. "We have avoided their domains deliberately. We do not create gods. We do not end gods. We do not initiate systems that lack precedent, nor do we attempt to prevent closure when it is due."
"So far," the Southern Chair said.
"So far," the Broker agreed.
The Scholar nodded once. "The Pillars do not concern themselves with politics. They do not care who rules, or what banners fly. They respond only to anomalies at the level of origin and termination."
"Unauthorized beginnings," the Quiet One said.
"And improper continuations," the Scholar added.
The Southern Chair grimaced. "Say it plainly."
"If something begins without sanction," the Scholar said, "or refuses to end when it must, the Pillars take notice."
"And when they take notice," the Broker said, "they do not investigate."
"They correct," the Quiet One finished.
Silence followed. Not the comfortable silence of agreement, but the tense quiet of shared understanding.
The Southern Chair cleared their throat. "We're not doing either."
"No," the Broker said. "We are repurposing what already exists. Redirecting flows. Encouraging decay where decay would occur naturally. Accelerating trends, not creating them."
"Incremental change," the Scholar said.
"Derivative systems," the Quiet One added.
The Broker smiled faintly beneath their mask. "Exactly."
Their gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, to the Crownless Seat.
"And yet," the Southern Chair said, "we've lost contact with several assets."
The Broker's fingers stilled. "Define lost."
"Unresponsive," the Southern Chair replied. "Routes gone silent. Intermediaries failing to report. Small nodes, mostly. Nothing central."
"Patterns?" the Quiet One asked.
The Southern Chair hesitated. "Not enough data to establish one."
The Scholar tilted their head. "Silence itself can become a pattern."
"Or coincidence," the Southern Chair countered. "Bandits. Disease. Local conflicts. Plenty of explanations."
"Assumptions are dangerous," the Quiet One said.
"Paralysis is worse," the Southern Chair shot back.
The Broker raised a hand. Both fell silent immediately.
"We proceed with caution," the Broker said. "But we do proceed."
They turned to the Scholar. "Any divine response?"
"None of significance," the Scholar replied. "Minor fluctuations in prayer resonance. Localized surges of fear and desperation. Nothing that crosses thresholds."
"No apostles," the Quiet One said.
"No apostles," the Scholar confirmed.
The Broker nodded. "Good."
Their gaze moved again, this time toward the empty Western Chair.
No one followed it.
"Then the next phase," the Broker said. "Acceleration."
The Southern Chair's eyes lit faintly. "You're certain?"
"The longer we linger," the Broker replied, "the more time we give external actors to interfere."
"External actors like gods?" the Southern Chair asked.
"Gods are predictable," the Broker said. "They move slowly. They require consensus, signs, thresholds."
"And mortals?" the Quiet One asked.
The Broker paused.
"Mortals are irrelevant," they said finally. "Unless elevated."
The Scholar shifted. "Elevation is precisely what we must avoid triggering."
"Which is why we will not concentrate power," the Broker said. "No singular champions. No icons. No figures of worship. Everything remains distributed."
"Diffuse," the Quiet One said.
"Subtle," the Scholar agreed.
The Southern Chair leaned back, satisfied. "Then we're agreed."
The Broker inclined their head. "We are."
They placed both hands flat on the table.
"The scheme continues," they said. "Kingdom by kingdom. Church by church. Piece by piece."
"And the Pillars?" the Southern Chair asked, unable to help themselves.
The Broker's voice remained calm. "The Pillars of Beginning and End do not act unless violated."
"And we will not violate them," the Scholar said.
The Quiet One did not speak.
The Broker looked to them. "You disagree?"
A pause.
"Confidence," the Quiet One said slowly, "is not immunity."
The Broker studied them for a moment, then nodded. "Noted."
They rose from their seat. The others followed suit, standing as one.
"The gods will not interfere," the Broker said, as though stating a simple fact. "Their attention remains elsewhere."
The chamber seemed to accept this.
One by one, the figures turned away, moving toward separate exits that led from the room like spokes from a wheel. No farewells were exchanged. No rituals performed.
As the last door sealed and the chamber fell empty once more, the seven chairs remained in their silent vigil.
Four occupied.
Three empty.
Aboveground, kingdoms shifted.
Faith bent.
Politics churned.
And far below the awareness of gods and men alike, something continued to grow—
not loudly,
not publicly,
but with a patience that did not belong to the world as it was.