POV: Michael
The bar didn't stand out.
Wedged against the crumbling edge of Fortuna's old quarter, it looked like the city itself had forgotten it existed. No sign. No lanterns. Just a half-buried archway leading to a reinforced steel door that had likely survived more than one siege.
Michael pushed it open without hesitation.
Warm air swallowed him instantly. The scent of incense clung to the walls—sharp, spiced, the kind that stuck to your coat and lingered on your skin like an old memory.
Amber light spilled from ceiling lamps. The space was small, quiet. Every bottle behind the bar was sealed, untouched. The only movement came from the man polishing a glass at the counter.
He didn't look up until Michael reached the bar.
"You must be Martini."
Michael said nothing.
The man smiled. Cool. Relaxed.
"Machiaveli," he offered.
Michael rested a hand on the counter. "Morrison said you knew things."
"I know plenty," Machiaveli said, setting the glass down. "Depends what you're buying."
Michael slid a hand into his coat and pulled out two crystals—one a deep, pulsing red, the other a flickering violet-blue. He placed them on the counter like poker chips.
The air shifted.
Machiaveli leaned closer but didn't touch. His eyes narrowed—not surprised, just interested.
"Been busy," he murmured.
Michael gave a slight nod. "Pulled them from a few demons. Don't know what they are. Figured you might."
"They're demon cores," Machiaveli said quietly. "And not the cheap kind."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "They didn't feel rare when they bled."
Machiaveli's grin was faint. "Most demons vanish when they die—ashes, smoke, nothing left. But some… the old ones, or the angry ones—they leave these behind. Cores. Memory condensed into matter."
Michael glanced down at them. "So?"
"To demons?" Machiaveli said. "You absorb them. You don't just get stronger—you might inherit something. A trait. A habit. Fire breath, speed, wings."
Michael tapped the counter. "Gamble."
"Exactly. You might wake up with horns, or find out your reflection doesn't blink anymore."
Michael's lips twitched. "Hell of a risk."
Machiaveli chuckled. "To humans, though? Different story. Forge one of these into a weapon, and you don't get mutations—you get results."
"Infused gear," Michael said.
"Correct," Machiaveli replied. "It's not just metal anymore. The weapon becomes alive. Attuned to its wielder."
Michael pocketed the cores again. "Figured I'd ask before I started collecting."
"You've got a hunter's instinct," Machiaveli said. "But you're not just here for lore."
Michael nodded once. "I want something stronger."
"Of course you do."
"You sell weapons?"
"Not here."
Machiaveli turned, pressing his hand to what looked like a wine rack behind the bar. There was a click—then a section of the wall slid open with a low hiss, revealing a staircase descending into the dark.
He stepped aside.
"I only open the vault for people who can handle what's inside. You qualify."
Michael followed, his hand never far from the hidden blade beneath his coat.
Vault Below – Armory
The air shifted as they descended—cooler, dense with old magic.
The vault opened into a chamber carved from the city's bones. The stone walls pulsed with faint glyphs. Power moved through the room like a current.
Weapons lined the walls. Racks of swords, axes, guns—many of them marked by glowing seals, others suspended in stasis fields. The silence wasn't empty. It was listening.
"This," Machiaveli said, "is where good intentions come to die."
Michael said nothing. His gaze scanned the room, absorbing details.
Machiaveli began walking the line, casual but precise.
"Hellgore," he said, pointing to a massive shotgun. "Loads molten slugs made from crystallized blood. It eats through armor like acid."
They passed a gauntlet lined with faintly glowing claws.
"Splinterhand," he continued. "Forged from the bones of a telekinetic demon. Punches like a freight train. Bends steel if you're angry enough."
A floating dagger spun gently in a stasis field beside them.
"That one's called Sister's Edge. Talks constantly. Whispers into your mind. You'll either bond with it… or it'll drive you insane."
Michael's attention drifted past rows of exotic weapons.
Then he stopped.
At the far end of the vault, alone in a sealed glass case, was a sword.
Not flashy. Not monstrous. Elegant.
Its blade was slim, dark as obsidian with deep red lines pulsing through the metal like veins. It didn't snarl or hum. It breathed.
Alive.
Michael pointed. "That one."
Machiaveli turned. His smile deepened. "Ashen Mercy."[image]
Michael raised a brow. "Bit poetic."
"She earned it," Machiaveli replied. "Forged from the cores of three regeneration-class demons. Cuts that never close. Pain that never fades."
Michael's eyes didn't leave the case.
"It ignites," Machiaveli added. "Fire-based. Clean-burning. The blade cauterizes flesh, yes—but it also scars the soul."
Michael studied the sword. Not just its design—its aura. The way it sat still, patient. Not begging to be wielded.
Waiting.
"Price?" he asked.
"Half a million marks."
Michael didn't flinch.
He looked at the sword once more, then nodded.
"Wrap it."
Later – Fortuna, Near the Church District
Night had draped the city in soft gold.
Streetlamps buzzed above narrow alleys. Stained-glass windows reflected distant choir voices. The sharp scent of holy oil mixed with salt in the air.
Michael walked alone now. Ashen Mercy was strapped beneath his coat, hidden but present. Its weight was nothing—but he could feel its intent.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was a companion.
He turned a corner and stopped.
Ahead, behind a rusted gate, sat a small stone courtyard. Children ran barefoot across the worn bricks, chasing each other in loops, their laughter light and sharp in the quiet.
A woman stood by the door, watching them silently. Her gray robe marked her as church staff.
Above the door, faded letters read:
St. Leorine's Orphanage
Michael didn't speak.
He watched for a moment, still and silent. The children didn't notice him.
He looked up at the cathedral beyond them—its spires rising like a crown over the district.
Then at the statue of Sparda looming in the distance.
'They raise children in the shadow of a god who was once a devil.'
He adjusted his coat and turned away.
Not to fight it.
Not yet.
But to understand it.