Leon didn't ask for a meeting. Didn't schedule one. Didn't reply to their messages.
The limo still showed up.
Matte black. Tinted windows. Parked outside the cafe like it belonged to the street itself. The driver didn't say a word—just opened the back door and nodded.
Leon stepped in without a word. Leather seats. Too soft. Too clean. A chilled bottle of champagne rested in a built-in holder, unopened. The vehicle didn't jolt—it glided.
They drove fifteen minutes in silence, weaving through the late morning traffic like traffic didn't matter. Eventually, they pulled into the underground lot of a private club—unmarked doors, keycard access, biometric scanners.
The woman waiting inside didn't stand when he entered. Didn't introduce herself.
She sat in a booth that looked more like a velvet throne room: dark red leather, dim overhead lighting, mirrored walls. Her posture was perfect—back straight, legs crossed, fingers laced around a half-filled flute.
Her hair was pitch black, swept back in a twist held by two pins that looked suspiciously like daggers. Her nails were blood-red, and they tapped against the glass with a rhythm that was either impatience or calculation.
Leon sat across from her. No smile. No preamble.
She smiled instead. Slow. Like a shark sighting blood.
"We don't normally chase new blood," she said, lifting her glass just slightly. "But you're different."
Leon didn't answer.
"Cleaned a B-Rank dungeon solo," she continued, eyes gleaming. "F-class. Necromancer. Makes no sense, which is exactly why I'm here. Either you're crazy—" she leaned in slightly, voice dipping—"or you're something better."
He glanced at the champagne, then at her.
"I'm not joining."
She blinked once. Then actually laughed. It wasn't forced, just amused. Real.
"Cute," she said. "Listen, Graves. I've been in this game a long time. Everyone thinks they can build something solo. You know what happens?"
He waited.
"They get crushed. Or bought. Or vanish into obscurity. The system isn't built for lone wolves. It's built for structure. For alliances. For money."
She gestured lazily to the plush room around them.
"We have infrastructure. We have logistics teams. Healing specialists. A reserve force of enforcers who never even see the field. We've got deals with five merchant guilds, four branches of government, and two major broadcasters. We make problems disappear."
Leon's face didn't change.
"We're offering you something rare. Autonomy, with protection. Your own squad. Resources. Funding. You can do whatever weird necro shit you want—we won't stop you. Hell, we'll weaponize it."
She set the glass down gently. "Let us help you."
Leon stood.
"I'm not joining."
That paused her.
She searched his face for something. A bluff, maybe. Arrogance. She didn't find either.
Eventually, she sighed. Long and practiced. Like someone used to getting what they wanted—but used to waiting longer if they had to.
From a coat pocket, she drew out a sleek black business card. No logo. No writing. Just a single contact ID etched into the surface in ultraviolet ink.
She slid it across the table.
"You'll change your mind," she said, not unkindly. "Everyone does."
Leon didn't touch it.
He turned, walked out, and left the champagne untouched.
By the time the limo offered him a ride back, he was already down the street. On foot. Hood up. Alone.
Two days later, the message from Seraphim arrived—encrypted, formal, not even signed.
The meeting wasn't a request. It was an itinerary. A car would arrive at 10:00. Business attire preferred. No plus-ones.
Leon went in his usual coat and boots.
The glass tower they owned downtown pierced the clouds—sixty-eight floors of pure vanity. A private elevator waited for him in the lobby, bypassing every button except the top. It didn't hum. It whispered.
When the doors opened, the temperature was cooler. The air filtered to sterility. No noise but the gentle hum of air systems and wealth.
The man waiting for Leon stood beside a floor-to-ceiling window, hands clasped behind his back like a priest or politician. Tall, late forties, suit tailored like a second skin. No name tag. Just presence.
He turned and smiled like they were old friends.
"Mr. Graves," he said, extending a hand that Leon didn't take. "Thank you for coming."
No small talk. No charm offensive. Just business.
A thin black folder sat on the glass conference table. No logos. Just precision.
"You'll get your own division," the man began, tapping the folder. "Full autonomy. Choose your people. Your missions. We fund it all—your research, your dungeons, your expansion."
He didn't sit down. Neither did Leon.
"We don't care about the necromancer thing," the man added with a slight shrug. "Honestly, it's trending. Edgy is profitable now."
Leon opened the folder.
Every page had its own watermark. Legal terms lined with airtight clauses. Flexible jurisdiction. Loopholes wrapped in luxuries.
It read like a dream. Or a trap built from dreams.
Leon read in silence. He flipped to the last page. Didn't sign it.
"I'm not joining."
The man's smile didn't shift. He didn't blink.
"Everyone needs backing, Mr. Graves."
"I don't."
"You will."
Leon closed the folder, placed it neatly back on the table.
Then he turned and walked out. No handshake. No second glance.
Behind him, the man stared out at the skyline—his reflection barely visible in the glass.
Still smiling.
Third visit was different. No towers. No limos.
ARES called him to a bunker beneath a warehouse. No lights except the fluorescents buzzing overhead. No welcome committee.
Just Tobias Virell, seated at the far end of a metal table. Leader of the ARES Guild. Built like a bear. Bald. Sharp eyes. Didn't offer a chair.
Leon stayed standing.
Tobias watched him in silence for a moment. Then leaned forward.
"You think you're untouchable."
Leon said nothing.
"You're not."
Still nothing.
"We could make you a general," Tobias said. "Put you at the front of our elite unit. Ten-man squad. All yours. No paperwork. No oversight. Just power."
Leon's voice was quiet. "I'm not joining. I plan on going solo."
Tobias's smile was slow. Cold. "Solo, huh?"
Leon stared back. "I'm not alone."
That ended the meeting.
No handshakes. No contracts.
—
That night, Tobias stood in the darkened conference room of ARES's HQ. He didn't speak as his second-in-command approached, data pad in hand.
"Orders, sir?"
Tobias didn't turn. "Put out the bounty."
"How much?"
"Three mil."
The man hesitated. "Public or shadow?"
Tobias finally turned, face lit only by the glow of city lights.
"Quiet. No broadcasts. Just word to the right people. If anyone asks—deniability."
"Understood."
—
Elsewhere, Leon sat alone in a corner diner, hoodie up, fingers absently stirring a coffee that had long gone cold.
He felt it. The shift.
A new phase had begun.
He didn't need to say a word.
He already knew someone would come for him.
And he was ready.