Fifteen minutes later—a neat perk of being superhuman—Richard stood outside a small travel agency near the edge of the city.
A fluorescent sign buzzed overhead in the late afternoon heat.
It wasn't his first choice, but it would have to do.
He slipped inside, the chilly breeze of an air conditioner stirring the stale air. A bored clerk behind the desk glanced up from a fashion magazine. Her eyes flickered over his ragged coat and dusty trousers, but she masked her curiosity with a polite smile.
"Καλησπέρα," she greeted in Greek, switching seamlessly to English when she spotted his uncertain expression. "How can I help you?"
"I need a flight to London," he said quietly, keeping his voice neutral. "One that leaves… as soon as possible."
She arched an eyebrow at his urgency but nodded, tapping at her keyboard. "We've a few seats left for tonight's flight from Paphos International to Heathrow," she offered.
The cost she quoted would have made most people's stomachs lurch, but Richard was anything but poor. Thanks to the Association's vast resources, money had never been a concern.
Reaching into his battered coat pocket, he discreetly summoned his wallet from his inventory with a flick of thought.
The motion was so seamless that the woman at the counter never realised she was speaking to a high-level hunter—one with an ability that would raise questions he'd rather not answer.
He pulled out a wad of fifty-euro notes and placed them on the counter.
The clerk, mildly surprised, counted the cash before completing the booking.
Her eyes flicked between his date of birth on the screen and his face, but since he was paying in cash, she kept her questions to herself.
A moment later, the printer whirred, spitting out a receipt and boarding pass. She handed them over with a polite smile. "Enjoy your flight, sir."
Richard gave a curt nod. "Thank you."
He stepped outside quickly, ignoring the pang in his chest as memories stirred.
Ten years… so much time, and for what?
With his flight confirmed, he had a few hours to kill before departure.
Against his better judgement, he took a slow circuit through Paphos's older quarter.
Despite his bitterness, he couldn't quite resist the urge to see how much of the place he'd once fought for—died for—had truly changed.
He spotted children chasing a stray cat along the cobblestones, their laughter ringing under the glow of streetlamps.
The air was warm, thick with the scent of grilled fish wafting from a nearby taverna.
It's as if my death never happened, he mused, feeling equal parts relief and resentment.
They'd built a memorial to Astralis, held tours in his name, then moved on…
He paused at a vantage point overlooking the sea.
The water shimmered gold under the setting sun, the horizon streaked with pink and orange.
Richard exhaled, pushing down the tangle of emotions.
Let them have their peace. This city deserves it.
If he wanted answers, they wouldn't be found here, in the streets of a rebuilt Paphos.
The truth lay elsewhere—with the Hunter Association and the archives they guarded so fiercely.
Fuck me, I'll have to become a hunter all over again.
Nightfall found him boarding the plane with minimal fuss.
No one questioned his battered look, the weary slump of his shoulders, or the fact that he carried no luggage.
He dozed on the flight, half-lost in memories, occasionally jolting awake with a phantom twinge in his chest.
It's not there anymore, remember? he told himself, pressing a palm to the spot where the sword had run him through.
The ache felt just as real.
When the plane touched down at Heathrow, a fine drizzle misted the tarmac—quintessentially British weather.
Richard emerged into the cool night air, the neon glow of taxi queues reflecting on puddles at the kerb.
London hadn't changed.
Unlike Paphos, rebuilt and unrecognisable, London always felt timeless—grey and grand, quietly bustling.
And Richard loved it for that.
A black cab took him through streets he hadn't seen since he was little more than a rookie hunter.
He remembered leaving home to chase after anomalies across the globe, determined to make a difference.
And did I?
I became the best—or the apparent best—hunter in the world. And then my colleagues, my superiors, turned on me. For what?
Is there any hope for humanity's survival when those sworn to protect it betray their own kind?
He shook the thought away, focusing on the rain-slicked streets flashing past the window.
Eventually, the cab pulled onto a quiet, familiar road lined with terraced houses.
His childhood home—the Blackwood house—stood at the far end, its front more weathered than he remembered, the paint peeling at the edges of the doorframe.
He paid the driver and stepped out, letting the drizzle soak into his coat as the cab's taillights disappeared around the corner.
Tension coiled in his gut.
Is anyone inside?
His parents had moved away years before the fiasco in Paphos.
They'd never quite approved of his choice to become a hunter—or so he'd gathered from their last, terse conversations.
He approached quietly.
The garden gate squeaked in protest. The front window was dark, no lamps lit inside.
Empty.
Relief warred with disappointment.
At least I won't have to explain where I've been.
Testing the door, he found it locked. A short rummage in the flowerpot beside the step yielded a familiar spare key, hidden in the same spot it had always been.
The tumblers clicked, and the door swung open, revealing a silent, dimly lit hallway.
He'd expected dust and neglect, but to his surprise, the house bore signs of recent occupancy.
Flicking the light switch, he watched as the corridor flickered into a warm glow.
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, breath shallow.
I'm home.
Yet he felt no more at peace than he had on those ruinous streets of Paphos.
Because now… he had to face the truth.
Standing in a changed place was one thing.
Standing before changed people?
To face his parents. His little sister.
To see the way ten years had shaped them, to hear their voices and realise they had grieved, moved on—perhaps even resented him?
The thought made him shudder.
A part of him wanted to run. To disappear into the night before he had to face those inevitable conversations.
But he couldn't hide forever.
His family had been the only ones who knew his true identity as Astralis. They must have known something had happened…
There's no way they don't see the difference between me and the new bastard who took my place. Not like the rest of the sheep.
That thought brought a cold smile to his lips.
Astralis.
I wonder who took up my mantle.
His mind drifted back to a screen he'd seen earlier during the flight—an update on the Hunters Association's latest missions.
A photo.
His face—or rather, the impostor's.
Clad in the same dark battle attire, standing triumphant.
Richard's blood boiled.
They had done a remarkable job replacing him, crafting a perfect copy for the masses to worship.
But the longer he stared at the pristine image, the longer he noted all the new achievements listed under his name, the more his resolve hardened.
He would find out the truth.
No matter the cost.