Hunter: Lord of Mysteries

The fog in Cherwood was thicker than usual.

It crept low along the cobblestones like smoke from a dying hearth, muffling sound and softening edges. In the city beyond, carriages rolled past like ghosts. Lamps flickered. And the whispers of the arcane stirred beneath the soot-stained sky.

Leonel sat at the small desk in his apartment above the dormant forge, papers spread before him—maps, newspaper clippings, estate records, occult flyers. He had mapped the city's veins, learned its heartbeat. Yet one thing had become clear:

He could no longer remain Leonel Dusk.

That name was dead. It belonged to a noble heir, to a doomed family, to the ghosts buried in the manor's halls. To wear it now was to paint a target on his back and invite the same ending.

He needed to disappear—not only from the world but from the records that made men real in Backlund.

---

Where Klein Moretti had crafted his new identity with precision and research, Leonel chose a different route: the underworld.

Backlund was a city of smoke, factories, and corpses. Death was common. Documents were fluid. Identities could be purchased from the shadows—borrowed from the forgotten.

Through subtle whispers and silver coins passed under bar counters, he reached a fixer—an old woman who smoked from a cracked censer and wore enough rings to clink when she moved.

In a narrow room hidden above a gambling den, she offered him a wooden box.

Inside: papers. Dozens of them.

Forged lives—each one a ghost waiting to be worn. She explained them softly as he leafed through: laborers who'd died in mill accidents, orphans unclaimed by kin, farmhands, failed artists, failed everything.

Then his hand stopped.

Archer Windslow.

Male. Twenty-nine. A village hunter from the northern hills near Dallston. His hamlet was dissolved when a noble-funded mine overtook the region. No family. No siblings. No church record. No burial.

He had come to Backlund in search of work. Had registered at a lower borough station three years ago. The file closed soon after. He'd vanished without a trace.

A hunter. No ties. A man that no one was looking for.

Leonel's golden eyes narrowed slightly.

> "It fits," he murmured.

He paid extra for the full package— a full 80 pounds—backdated tenancy papers, a forged borough stamp, even a mock railway pass showing Archer's arrival. It was a complete skin.

He didn't choose the name. He found it.

And it suited him better than his own.

---

The transformation was easy after that. Archer Windslow dressed plainly: charcoal coat, dark hat, heavy gloves. Just another tall, silent man in Backlund's mist-choked streets.

But Archer wasn't here to linger.

He was here for answers.

---

The next step was to become a Beyonder.

He needed power—not in months, but soon. Without it, he was only a durable body. Still vulnerable. Still prey.

His mind turned to Xio Derecha. Her honesty, her loyalty, her firm roots in the city's secret undercurrents. She could be a valuable link.

But no—he discarded the thought.

> "Too early. She's too principled, and not cautious enough being a wild Beyonder," he thought.

Contacting her might be fruitless at this point in time. She, being a wild Beyonder who doesn't even know the acting method, might be helpless in his search for details regarding the Hunter pathway.

He needed something looser. A network without rigid loyalties, with a broader range of resources and knowledge.

That's when he remembered the Eye of Wisdom.

---

The Braveheart Bar, nestled near an abandoned tram yard, was known among certain circles. And behind it, deeper still, lay whispers of a gathering. Flyers in coded phrases. Odd language in classified ads.

He'd seen one posted in a tobacconist's corner.

He just had to read between the lines and numbers to know the date and time.

He marked the date.

Tonight was the night.

---

He arrived early.

The bar was dim and loud. Tobacco curled in the air, layered over the scent of sweat and fried onions. Men spoke with thick accents and women watched with sharp eyes.

Archer walked to the counter and placed two coins on the wood.

> "A dark stout," he said. "And if Kaspars still does introductions... tell him a traveler's passing through."

The barkeep gave him a long look—assessing the towering man, the calm voice, the unreadable gaze. Then nodded and vanished behind a curtain.

Minutes later, Kaspars emerged from the cellar. Grey at the temples, a thin mustache, and a cane that looked more ceremonial than practical. His left ring bore the insignia of an eye partially eclipsed.

He studied Archer for a beat too long.

> "You're looking for knowledge?" Kaspars asked.

> "Passing through Backlund. Might stay a while," Archer replied smoothly. "Always wise to know where minds gather."

Kaspars gestured to a corner booth, where they sat, away from the crowd.

> "Your trade?" Kaspars asked.

> "Used to catalog curiosities in the Northern Border," Archer said. "Maps, bones, ruins. Sometimes... stranger things."

> "Any affiliations?"

> "None that stuck."

Kaspars tried to probe deeper—asking about names, old towns, patrons. But Archer answered with a cold elegance—vague yet convincing. His stories were just fractured enough to seem authentic. No overcompensation. No boast.

By the end of the third question, Kaspars gave a small, amused nod.

> "You speak like someone who knows how not to be known. Okay, introducee fee will be 2 pounds"

Collecting the money, he reached into his coat and produced a porcelain mask—half-face, stylized with a single ink line over the brow.

> "Wear this. You'll understand how it all operates when you observe. As in the occult—you'll see things you shouldn't. Hear things you'll never forget. So be cautious."

Archer took it—the mask, and the warning.

He nodded slightly, thinking,

> "He's warning me. He knows I'm not a Beyonder yet."

It was light, yet heavy with implication.

Outside, the fog pressed closer against the glass.

Somewhere nearby, a church bell rang the ninth hour.

And behind a shadowed wall of the Braveheart Bar, a narrow door creaked opened.