The next morning, Richard ate breakfast with his parents before heading out to a hunter's store.
"Do you need any money, son?" his father asked, reaching for his wallet.
Richard shook his head with a small smile from the doorway.
"No thanks, Dad. Being humanity's hope pays well," he replied mirthlessly.
After a short, awkward goodbye—his father attempting to press cash into his hand, his mother fussing over whether he was dressed warmly, and both of them failing miserably to keep him in the house—Richard set off towards the city centre.
He wasn't naïve. The moment he tried to re-enter the world of hunters, his reappearance would send shockwaves through every corner of it.
That was why he needed gear first—new weapons, new clothes, and, if he was going to operate at all, a new hunter's licence.
It felt surreal, wandering streets both familiar and unfamiliar.
London had changed. More neon signs, monstrous glass towers rising among rows of Edwardian houses, and graffiti scrawled in alleyways, proclaiming "Astralis Lives!"
How ironic, he thought, quickening his pace.
Eventually, he arrived at a district he remembered as a haven for hunters.
Tucked away off Camden High Street, it was disguised behind mundane shopfronts that deterred the average passer-by.
But to those with a hint of magical sense—or just the right kind of knowledge—it was unmistakable.
Armour glinted behind shuttered windows, and every so often, the air crackled with residual magic.
Richard ventured deeper until he spotted a modern-looking establishment with a curved glass frontage. Above it, a brightly lit sign declared in bold, italicised letters:
THE BEST AND ABSOLUTELY ASTOUNDING ARMAMENTS(Purveyors of Supreme Quality since… we made this sign!)
He stopped and stared.
How the hell is this place still in business?
Resisting the urge to laugh, he stepped inside.
The moment he pushed the door open, a loud cluck echoed through the store.
A rush of cool, enchanted air swept over him, tinged with the faint tang of ozone—proof that magic was at work.
Inside, the shop was a mix of polished professionalism and utter absurdity.
Rows of weapon racks stretched down neatly ordered aisles, each polished blade or staff displayed under a spotlight like a museum piece.
Cloaks and robes hung on rails like designer suits, their tags declaring:
"Battle-Tested! 70% Chance of Not Catching Fire!"
"Lightning-Proof… ish!"
"Guaranteed 80% Demon Repellent!"
What the hell? Richard thought, unsure whether to laugh or be deeply concerned.
Gold chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their warm glow making the shop feel almost… theatrical.
He made his way towards the counter.
Behind it stood a man who appeared to be in his fifties, though he carried an odd vibrancy that made him seem ageless.
His silver hair was unruly, and he wore a fur coat—one that had arms.
Not human arms, thankfully, but long, sinewy limbs that sprouted from the hide, assisting him in stacking boxes on high shelves.
The moment the man caught sight of Richard, his face split into a wide grin.
"My, my. If it isn't Mr Blackwood. What brings you back to my humble abode, lad?"
Richard barely stopped himself from sighing. No… How the hell did I end up in bloody Olivander's shop again?
"Mr Olivander," he greeted warily. "I need new gear. Nothing fancy. Cloak, boots, daggers."
The shopkeeper clapped his hands together. Two of his coat's arms followed suit, applauding a half-second behind him.
"Wonderful! We've got plenty of options. High or low budget?"
"Somewhere in the middle," Richard said, mindful not to draw attention by flashing too much money. "I want durability and… subtlety."
Olivander stroked the collar of his coat—a motion made even more unsettling as the extra limbs patted him comfortingly on the back.
"Subtle, eh? We've an excellent selection of 'Don't-Notice-Me' cloaks. They scramble your appearance just enough to slip past unobservant people. Of course, if someone's really looking for you, they'll still see you plain as day."
He coughed theatrically. "Totally legal, you see. Absolutely no shady business here."
Richard forced a polite smile, stepping closer to examine a grey cloak. The label read:
Low-Visibility Cloak: Blend with Shadows—If You Remember to Stand Very Still.
"How much for this one?" Richard asked, pinching the fabric between his fingers. Lightweight, at least.
"Oh, that's a steal at five thousand quid." Olivander beamed, arching his eyebrows as though offering the bargain of the century. "Enchanted fabric from the Moorlands of—"
Richard cut him off with a cough. "That's usually around two thousand, tops."
The older man put a hand over his heart. The coat's extra limbs fanned his face in a grand show of mock offence.
"I say, you wound me, lad! And yet…" He sighed dramatically. "You've not changed at all since last time."
Richard arched a brow. "Then you know I'm familiar with hunter gear prices."
"Fine, fine," Olivander relented with a long-suffering sigh. "Three thousand. But you won't find a better deal, I promise."
Richard almost scoffed. He had more than enough money, but old habits died hard.
His gaze drifted past the grey cloak to a darker one with silver threading along the edges.
The tag read:
Shadow-Weave Cloak: Mutes Sound, Dampens Magic Signatures—Perfect for the Discerning Professional.
Price: £10,000.
Richard feigned disinterest. "What about this one?"
Olivander's grin widened. "Ah, the Shadow-Weave. You've got a good eye, Mr Blackwood." His tone shifted from playful to professional. "Nine thousand, and I'll throw in a maintenance charm—keeps the enchantments fresh for an extra season. Final offer."
Richard's lips twitched.
"Hard to say no to that. Deal."
Olivander plucked the cloak from the rack and draped it across the counter. One of the fur arms produced a hanger from somewhere, hooking it neatly.
"Next, boots?"
Richard moved to the display. A particularly garish set caught his attention:
Never Slip Again!In case of demon goop or random banana peels.
The boots were bright orange.
He stared at them a moment longer before decisively moving on, settling instead on a sleek, charcoal-grey pair enchanted for slip-prevention and all-weather protection.
He also selected a set of sturdy black bracers—nothing flashy, just enough to ward off B-level curses and shrapnel.
For daggers, after some animated back-and-forth—and several upselling attempts—he settled on a matched pair of obsidian-edged blades.
Olivander claimed they could cut through spectral forms. Richard took that claim with a very large pinch of salt.
All told, he shelled out a tidy sum for the lot, the daggers being the most expensive at £20,000.
"Farewell, young Blackwood. May fate hold a kinder turn for you this time," Olivander said, his coat's many arms waving in unison.
Despite the man's eccentricity—and his tendency to know too much—Richard felt a strange sense of gratitude.
He had what he needed. Enough to get started.
Storing the items in his inventory, he gave Olivander a curt nod before stepping back into the London drizzle.
The ridiculous cluck of the door-chime echoed behind him.
That's done, then. Now I need to find Meredith, Richard thought, heading for the bus his father had mentioned.