The carriage lurched to a halt beside a weathered stone well, its cracked basin half-buried in shifting red sand. The sand beast broad shouldered, scaled, legs thick as tree trunks—lowered its massive head and drank deeply from the trough. The driver hopped down to refill his own waterskin, muttering about the heat.
Joel stepped out, boots sinking into warm sand. Three months of travel had hardened him further—muscles leaner, movements quieter, eyes sharper. The Drown Long Man Desert Coat hung heavy on his shoulders, pockets still impossibly full. He pulled a water pouch from one sleeve and drank, eyes scanning the endless dunes.
Something moved.
A blur brown, impossibly fast—cut across the horizon. Joel's hand snapped to the spear inside the coat, but before he could fully draw it, the blur streaked past him. A gust of wind and dust hit his face. His water pouch vanished from his grip.
"What the fuck did I just see?"
The carriage driver looked up from the well, ears twitching. "Rabbit-kin?"
"Yeah," Joel said, stunned. "So fast I couldn't even react."
The driver chuckled dryly. "Normal around here. They rob travelers on this stretch because no one can catch them. We're lucky they didn't take more than your water."
Joel stared at the empty spot where the pouch had been. The same species as the rabbit-kin driver he'd traveled with—kind, grateful, slow. But this one had moved like lightning. The difference unsettled him more than any Hell's Keeper ever had.
They continued north.
Three months later, the carriage finally rolled into a modest border village low stone buildings, wind-carved walls, a central tavern that doubled as the Hell Hunters' registration office. Joel paid the driver with a handful of gold, bowed slightly, and said, "Thank you, mister."
The driver tipped his hat. "Safe roads, stranger."
Joel watched the carriage disappear into the dust, then turned toward the tavern.
The village square was alive with creatures straight out of forgotten books: scaled ones slithering on bellies, winged ones perched on rooftops, multi-limbed ones hauling crates, hopping furred ones darting between stalls. Humanoid in shape, but none of them human. Eyes followed him—curious, dismissive, predatory—but no one stopped him. In this world, value came from blood spilled or potential proven, not appearance.
Joel pulled his new wide-brimmed hat lower, adjusted the bandana around his neck (beast teeth embroidered across it), and stepped inside the tavern.
The room fell quiet.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes turned. The air thickened with evaluation—belittling, measuring, deciding whether he was prey or threat. Joel met their stares without flinching. Death had already found him twice—once in his old life, once in this one. Fear had its place, but it no longer owned him.
He walked straight to the counter.
A red-skinned female—horns curved back, tail flicking lazily, yellow eyes bright and dangerous—leaned forward. She looked like every succubus from the stories he'd read, but the menace in her gaze was real.
"Registration for Hell Hunters," Joel said.
She closed her eyes slowly, as if bored. "Closed. Main branch is two towns north. By the time you reach it, we might be open again."
Joel didn't move. "Can I speak to the branch manager?"
Her eyes snapped open—yellow slits glowing. "I told you. Wait. Or leave. Or did I not make myself clear?"
Before Joel could respond, a calm voice came from the stairs.
"Let him come up."
The succubus froze. A tall figure descended—black suit tailored perfectly, small horns, monocle over one eye, hands clasped behind his back. Male demon-kin, dignified, unhurried.
The succubus stepped aside with a hiss of irritation.
Joel followed the manager upstairs to a small office. The door closed behind them.
"Sit," the demon-kin said.
Joel sat. "I want to register as a mercenary—Hell Hunter. I was told this is the place."
The manager steepled his fingers. "As my employee said, we're closed. Town crisis. We can't process new registrations until it's resolved."
Joel leaned forward. "I'm in a hurry. If there's anything I can do to speed things up, I'll do it."
The manager's ear flicked. A long silence.
"The town is plagued by seeds," he said finally. "Remnants of defeated gods or giants. One has taken root. It's trying to birth a demi-giant. We've requested aid from Altier, but they won't arrive in time. The seed must be destroyed before the next solar blackout—or the demi-giant will rise."
Joel kept his face neutral. Seeds. Gods. Giants. Questions burned, but asking too much would expose how little he knew.
"I'll help," he said.
The manager studied him—long, appraising. Then nodded once.
"Deal. Handle this, and your registration goes to the front of the line, your assistance will be needed two days from now."
They shook hands. The manager's grip was cool, firm.
Joel left the office, descended the stairs past the glaring succubus, and stepped back into the red sunlight.
Two days until the fight.
He had work to do.
Upstairs, the succubus leaned against the doorframe.
"Why let the stranger help? He's not even from here."
The manager smiled faintly, yellow eyes catching the red light through the window.
"I've always had an eye for people," he said. "And my eyes tell me this one will be useful in killing that disgrace of a demi-god they created."
The succubus raised an eyebrow.
The manager returned to his desk, already writing letters for more aid.
"Trust me," he said quietly. "He's exactly what we need."
Outside, Joel walked the dusty streets, spear in hand, coat swaying.
The red sun watched.
And somewhere beneath the sand, something ancient stirred.