The Price of Omniscience (LOTM X MARVEL)

Adrian knew he could no longer remain a passive observer. The pentagram wasn't mere coincidence—it was a calculated design, a blueprint for something deeply unnatural. Whatever ritual was being orchestrated at its heart, it wasn't just dangerous—it was apocalyptic. And standing quietly at the center of that arcane geometry was an ordinary-looking building, now thrumming with malignant purpose. If he didn't intervene, the consequences could swallow London whole.

Steeling his resolve, Adrian slipped through the fog-laced veins of the city—alleys lined with crooked lamp posts, streets still glistening from the evening's rain. Each footstep echoed like a heartbeat beneath the cobblestones, shadowed by the weight of what he was about to face. But as he turned the final corner and caught sight of the building, a cold dread settled into his bones. It was unremarkable in every way, yet it exuded a pressure that crushed the breath in his chest. His danger intuition exploded in a wave of icy electricity, crawling up his spine like grasping fingers. Every fiber of his being screamed one message: Step closer, and you will not walk away unchanged.

The spiritual haze surrounding the building glimmered faintly in his Spirit Vision, a shimmer like oil floating on water—slippery, layered, deeply wrong. It wasn't just a site of gathering; it was already a node of power, charged with tension as though some great force lay just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.

Adrian gritted his teeth and didn't move forward. He wouldn't run, but he wouldn't barge in blindly either. Instead, he ducked into the shadows opposite the building, pressing himself behind a stack of crates outside a shuttered tailor's shop. From there, he watched. If he couldn't stop the ritual yet, perhaps he could glean a piece of the truth. He just needed a sign.

And fate, it seemed, was listening.

Moments later, the heavy iron door creaked open. Two figures emerged into the misty street, moving with a predator's grace. Adrian's breath caught. Even without activating Spirit Vision, he could tell. Vampires. Their movements were too smooth, too controlled; the way darkness clung to them was unnatural, as though they were beloved children of the night itself.

The pressure from their auras tugged at the edge of his consciousness—cold, serpentine, ancient. He activated Spirit Vision briefly and saw them as they truly were: pale glows nestled in dark cocoons of hunger and predation. Each step they took left faint spiritual traces, like footprints in dust.

Adrian reached into his coat, fingers brushing the cold brass of his late father's pocket watch. Flipping it open, he let it swing freely, his eyes focused. "Should I follow them?" he whispered, imbuing the question with his will. The pendulum swung once, twice, then held steady—horizontal, deliberate. Yes.

Keeping low, Adrian followed.

The pair cut through the fog like wraiths, gliding through narrow lanes and crooked alleys without pause. They didn't rush—but they didn't hesitate either. As if they knew exactly where they were going. Adrian kept a careful distance, blending into shadows, his footfalls muffled by years of navigating city backstreets. Each twist and turn only confirmed what he feared: they were headed somewhere specific, somewhere familiar.

Eventually, the vampires turned into a narrow alley lit by the sickly flicker of a lone gas lamp. A woman stood at its end, fiddling with her scarf, seemingly unaware of the danger closing in.

Adrian's pulse quickened. He'd seen this scene play out before—predators hunting prey. One of the vampires raised his hand, preparing to weave a hypnotic command. But before the words left his lips, the woman's arm snapped up. Violet light exploded from her palm, blindingly bright in the gloom.

In a heartbeat, both vampires were slammed against the alley walls by invisible force. Purple energy coiled around their limbs like chains, pressing them into the bricks with a hiss of searing magic. They writhed and shrieked, utterly trapped. Adrian froze. She wasn't a victim.

She was a Hunter.

From his distance, the energy radiating off her was unlike anything he had seen. It was structured and wild at the same time—old magic, not just power but knowledge. It stung his Spirit Vision with its complexity, a spell matrix that wrapped around her like armor. There were sigils embedded in her very presence—old runes Adrian didn't fully recognize, yet intuitively knew were dangerous and protective.

With deliberate steps, the woman advanced on the pinned creatures. Her aura flared, pulsing with ancient, wrathful power. "Where is Campbell?" she growled. "Where is the Black Act? Where is that damned book?" Her voice trembled with restrained fury—and something deeper, older, more arcane.

The vampires bared their fangs, snarling in defiance. One spat, "We'll never tell you anything, witch."

Her eyes narrowed. The glow from her hands intensified. The haze that bound the vampires burned brighter, searing their flesh with streaks of light. Their screams tore through the night air.

Adrian could only stare. He had read about witches—about magic—but seeing it wielded with such control and fury was overwhelming. Yet even in that moment of awe, something shifted at the edge of his perception.

A shadow moved.

Down the alley, beyond the woman's line of sight, a third figure detached itself from the gloom—silent, crouched low, ready to strike. Adrian's danger intuition flared again.

"Behind you!" he shouted instinctively.

The woman didn't hesitate. She whirled, her left hand crackling with magic. A violet wave shot outward, catching the attacker mid-leap and hurling him into the wall with a thunderous crash. Dust and splinters filled the alley.

Then there was silence.

Adrian's fingers were trembling. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, not from fear—but from the realization that something massive was at play. He had stumbled into a web far larger than he imagined. Vampires, rituals, witchcraft, hidden players. Whatever Black Act or Campbell was, it was connected to this—and it was deadly.

The woman turned, eyes sharp and assessing. She didn't say anything at first. The power in her hand remained active, flickering like stormlight in her palm.

She approached him with caution—not out of fear, but calculation. Then finally, she gave a brief nod.

"Name's Agatha Harkness," she said. "And you are?"