The snake-creatures moved with a synchronized grace that made my skin crawl. There were dozens of them and their distinctly cobra-esque hoods flared and contracted as they took up positions around the cricket pavilion.

"Friends of yours?" Roderick said.

"Something like that. Give me a minute."

I opened the door and poked my head around it. An awful lot of reptilian eyes fixed on me. "Anyone interested in a quick parley before we get down to it?"

As no one immediately shot me in the face I took that as an affirmative. In my long experience of similar standoffs, these types of things tended to go one of two ways. Shoot-First-Ask-No-Questions-Whatsoever or Bit-Of-Idle-Probing-Pre-Shootout. Looked like these guys were open to a bit of Option B.

I opened the door and stepped onto the pavilion porch, resting my morningstar on my shoulder and trying to project an air of casual indifference. As I looked, Strategic Instinct kicked in and began overlaying various bits of information across my vision. It seemed to want me to put most of my attention on the creature in the centre of their formation, a creature slightly larger than the rest, and carrying something that looked not-unlike an oldschool gangster tommy gun.

[System Scan: Hostile Entity Detected]

[Name: Pursuivant-Class Contractor (Team Lead)]

[Level: 12 (Elite)]

[Origin: The Void]

[Contract Status: Irrevocable / Divine Mandate]

[Employer: The Maker]

[Note: They do not come for the rent. They come for the eviction.]

I stared at the text, letting the implications sink. First off, Level 12. That wasn't ideal. was sitting at Level 9, feeling pretty pleased with myself, but a three-level gap against something tagged [Elite]? I worried that this might be shorthand for "has way too many hit points and hits like a truck."

And the name. Pursuivant-Class Contractor. No personal name. No "Sslith the Terrible" or "Venom-Fang." Just a job title which made these guys reek of being a hive mind. Were there hundreds of these things, all interchangeable, all waiting for a shift change?

However, it was the [Employer] field that made my brain stutter. The Maker. I swore. The Maker? As in, the divine architect of Bayteran? The cosmic entity I'd spent quite some time in a different realm royally thwarting? I'd be honest, in the rush of returning to Earth, dealing with Griff, and fighting the Shadow, I'd kind of... forgotten about him.

Which, now that I thought about it, probably wasn't the smartest move. Generally speaking, when you foil the plans of a god-like being, you should probably assume he's going to hold a little bit of a grudge. It was bad staffwork to assume he was just going to sit in his celestial armchair and sulk until you were ready for Round 2.

But sending snake hitmen after me across the realms? That was a vibe. The Maker was a God. He controlled the System on Bayteran. He could literally warp reality. And yet, he'd hired... contractors?

Did he have a Rolodex of extra-planar hitmen? Did he have to put out a tender for my assassination? "Wanted: One annoying Tank removed. Must have own transportation and void-weaponry. Competitive rates."

And more to the point, how was The Maker reaching through to Earth? If he had to hire things from somewhere called 'The Void' to do his dirty work, maybe his reach wasn't as infinite as he liked to pretend. Or maybe he just didn't want to get his hands dirty with Earth mud.

Either way, he'd sent the professionals. And they looked expensive.

The leader's hood flared wide as he stepped towards me. "We are the hand of the Inevitable."

"I mean, sure. That sounds pretty impressive, but from what I can tell you're a gig economy worker with scales," I said. "How does that even work? Does your employer have an app? Do you get rated five stars if you bring back my head, or is it a tip-based service? 'Great service, would apocalypse again'?"

"Your mockery changes nothing, Warden," the leader said, though I noticed a few of the snakes behind him glancing at each other. "The contract is absolute. Surrender your essence, and the structural integrity of this location will be preserved. Resist, and we are authorised to salt the earth."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The idea that the Maker - the terrifying antagonist of Bayteran life - was operating like a disgruntled middle manager trying to balance a budget was just too rich.

"Look, I appreciate a good callback, but that guy's so last week's antagonist," I said. "Tell him if he wants me dead, he can come down here and do it himself. Sending the reptile appreciation society to fix his plot holes just screams 'management issues'."

Roderick stepped out of the pavilion and next to me.

The old man looked less like a mythical warrior and more like a grandfather who'd been interrupted while trying to solve the Sunday crossword. He was wearing his heavy coat, and in his hands, he held the claymore. The Null-Edge. It was humming like my every childhood dream of being a Jedi and was creating a visual distortion that made my eyes water if I stared directly at it.

Roderick tapped me on the shoulder and shook his head. "We don't negotiate with pests, lad," he said, looking at the leader snake and narrowing his eyes. "We fumigate."

The Snake Leader obviously sensed what was about to happen because he suddenly raised his gun and screeched. "EXECUTE!"

Across the field, forty arms raised simultaneously and a whole bunch of wrist-mounted flechette rigs clicked and whirred, locking onto me.

I sighed, tightening my grip on the morningstar. "For the record," I said to Roderick. "I really think I could have talked these guys down."

Which is when Kenny stepped out from the shadow of the pavilion awning, the modified 10-gauge levelled at the centre of their line. "Pull!" he roared.

The gun went off.

Calling it a gunshot feels somewhat inadequate. It was an atmospheric event. A thunderclap that slapped the air out of everyone's lungs and rattled the windows. A cone of displacement erupted from the end of the barrel, chewing up the turf, the air, and every last inch of the space between Kenny and the snakes.

The front three Pursuivants simply ceased to be biological entities. There were no damage numbers. No health bars ticking down. Just physics taking a holiday as they were turned into a fine red mist and a scattering of scales. The two behind them were thrown backward as if they'd been hit by a truck, their high-tech armour buckling under the insane force of the impact.

I blinked as my System did its best to parse the event and failed.

[Combat Log: Critical Failure of Enemy Existence]

[Damage: Yes]

I looked at the carnage. Sure, I was an Aggro Tank but it seemed this little old man just had a really, really big gun and a bad attitude.

"Right," I said. "My turn."

The rest of the snakes were scrambling now, any plan they had broken by the sudden application of extreme violence. Their flechette rigs whined, searching for targets. I saw one lock onto the pavilion porch where Mooney was frantically trying to fit a metal tray into his trousers.

"Oi!" I bellowed, sprinting forward. "Eyes on the prize, you oversized worms!"

I slammed my fist against my chestplate, triggering the aura.

[Ability Activated: Aggro Magnetism - Lvl 5]

[Effect: Mass Taunt. Enemies within 20m are compelled to attack you.]

[Note: They really, really hate your face right now.]

[Taunt Echo Active: All Hostiles within 20m fixated.]

The air shimmered around me as a magnetic hook sank into the psyche of every snake on the field.

Heads snapped toward me. Yellow eyes widened, pupils dilating with sudden, irrational fury. They forgot about Kenny. They forgot about the old man with the void sword. They only saw me. The big, loud, armoured idiot who was now running straight at them.

"That's it!" I yelled, skidding on the wet grass and bracing for impact. "Come and have a go!"

A hail of flechettes tore through the air. I crossed my arms over my face, trusting the Carapace of the Defiant Line.

Stolen story; please report.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

Shards of metal bit into my armour, shredding the outer layers. One even managed to punch through a pauldron, digging into my shoulder. Pain flared.

[Incoming Damage: Flechette Round]

[Mitigation: Carapace of the Defiant Line absorbs 60%]

[Health: 43/54]

[Stubborn Constitution: Pain Suppressed. You're fine. Walk it off.]

I gritted my teeth, ignoring the blood running down my arm. This was, after all, the job.

"Is that all you've got?" I roared, lowering my shoulder and activating [Crash Tackle] to launch myself into the nearest cluster of snakes. The outcome was pretty spectacular as three of them were sent spinning away like bowling pins. They went flying, limbs flailing, hissing in surprise and pain.

I scrambled to my feet in the middle of their formation, swinging my morningstar. It connected with a satisfying crunch against a scaly ribcage. But there were too many of them for this tactic to be effective. Sure, I was hardy, but there was a chance I might have misjudged this as they swarmed around me, wrist-blades flashing, surrounding me in a circle of hissing death. In next to no time, I was down to 30 Health and dropping.

Then the air screamed and Roderick was there.

Obviously, he didn't run like a young man. He hadn't been that in literal decades. Instead, he moved with the economical speed of someone who knew exactly how much energy was required to kill you. He stepped into the melee around me, the greatcoat swirling around his ankles, and swung the Null-Edge.

A snake lunged at him, seeking to parry with its wrist-blade. It was a good parry. Solid form. 8/10 would absolutely cross swords again.

But it didn't matter.

Roderick's void-blade passed straight through his defences. It passed through the blade, the wrist, the armour, and the snake's torso with zero resistance. The snake stood there for a second, looking confused at this state of affairs. Then the top half of its body slid slowly, perfectly, to the left.

[Weapon Analysis: The Null-Edge]

[Damage Type: Void / True]

[Effect: Bypasses Armour Rating. Bypasses Magic Resistance. Bypasses Physics.]

[System Note: That shouldn't be legal.]

"Iron for the fae," Roderick grunted, reversing the stroke and taking the head off another snake that was trying to flank him. "Void for the filth."

I blocked a strike with the haft of my morningstar and kicked a snake in the knee, shattering the joint. "Roderick! Remind me to never get on your bad side!"

"We just need to keep them busy and occupied for a bit, lad!" he said, pivoting to decapitate a third. "Iris is setting up for something really special!"

I glanced back toward the pavilion where Iris was standing, her eyes closed and hands moving in complex, weaving patterns. And she was still holding those knitting needles?

Silver dust swirled around her, glowing in the twilight. And then she thrust the needles forward.

"Stay!"

Lines of silver light shot across the pitch, stitching themselves into the shadows of the snakes. The effect was instant as nearly all of the creatures froze, their feet glued to the turf as if gravity had suddenly increased tenfold. They thrashed and hissed, but their shadows were pinned.

"That'll be a Zone of Denial!" Iris called out. "They're anchored! Now hit them!"

Kenny, who'd been busy reloading didn't need much more encouragement. His shotgun roared again. This time, the snakes couldn't dodge. The spread tore through the immobilized group, shredding armour and scales.

I laughed, feeling the wild, manic energy of the fight take over. "How do you feel this is going for you all?" I said, grabbing a snake by the throat as it tried to stab me.

[Skill: Closed Circle - Activated]

The snake was strong but I had the leverage. I twisted, using its own momentum against it. There was a loud pop as its elbow gave way. I spun, dragging the screeching creature around and using its body to block a volley of flechettes from its friends. Then I tossed the body into the path of an oncoming attacker and swung my morningstar into the gap.

[Skill Level Up: Closed Circle - Lvl 7]

+45% bonus to grapples, disarms, and improvised restraint techniques.

+30% Damage on melee strikes with fists, knees, elbows, or wielded detritus.

Lock and Break: Disarming now applies -15% Stamina Regen for 12s.

Submission Loop: 25% chance to apply [Suffocating Hold] at <35% HP.

Enemies struck while grappled suffer [Off-Balance] and [Suppressed Reaction].

New Passive: Living Shield – While actively grappling a target of equal or larger size, gain +10% Directional Mitigation against incoming attacks from external sources.

Nice.

I suspected things weren't quite working out the way these guys had expected.

The Snake Leader, who had been hanging back, seemed to realise this too. He looked at his decimated squad, more than half of them dead, and the other half pinned by silver light or being dismantled by an old man with a hole in reality for a sword.

"This is not in the contract!" the Leader shrieked, backing away toward the rift. "The risk assessment was flawed! We demand hazard pay!"

He raised a device on his wrist, and the air around him began to warp. A personal portal. He was bugging out.

"Oh no, that's a hard no," I said. "You don't get to come to my realm, ruin the turf, and leave without paying the bill."

I looked around for something to throw. My morningstar was too valuable to yeet and, to be fair, I suspected even a Level 12 [Elite] was too squishy.

Then I saw it. A heavy, cast-iron bench near the boundary rope. The kind meant for spectators to endure long Sunday matches on.

"Roderick!" I shouted. "Clear the lane!"

Roderick didn't ask why. He just ducked, letting a flechette fly over his head, and stepped aside.

I sprinted to the bench, grabbed it by the leg, and heaved. Veins popped in my neck and I heard my armour groaned. With a roar that was mostly effort and partly pure spite, I spun and released the bench.

[Skill: Improvised Javelin - Activated]

[Target: Freelance Deity-botherer]

The bench cartwheeled through the air, heavy iron legs whistling. The Leader looked up just as his portal began to form. His yellow eyes widened and then the bench connected with a sound like a church bell falling down a flight of stairs.

[Critical Hit]

[Target Stunned]

[Dignity: -100%]

The Leader folded as the bench caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him backward into the grass. The portal device on his wrist sparked and fizzled out, the warping air snapping back to normal. He lay there, pinned under the wrought iron, wheezing and his high-tech armour looking decidedly second-hand.

Roderick was already there, standing over the pinned alien, the Null-Edge resting casually on his shoulder. The blade wasn't dripping with anything. All the blood that had touched had just vanished, presumably consumed by the void.

The Leader coughed, something unpleasant bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "This... is a violation of the... inter-realm accord," he wheezed. "You cannot... the Maker will..."

"The Maker," Roderick interrupted, his voice calm and utterly terrifying, "can kiss my saggy arse."

The snake hissed, baring broken fangs. "You are... glitches. Errors. You will be... corrected."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, straightening up. "Tell him the Maker the error code is 'Get Off My Lawn'." I looked at Roderick. "He's all yours."

Roderick reversed his grip on the claymore and drove it down.

The blade passed through the bench, through the armour, and through the snake who simply dissolved. One moment he was there, a solid mass of hate and scales; the next, he was a silhouette of static, unravelling into grey ash that scattered on the wind. The bench clattered to the ground, empty.

The last of the remaining snakes, seeing their leader deleted from existence, broke. The discipline and the tactical formation all evaporated. They weren't elite contractors anymore. They were just things that realised they were in the wrong neighbourhood.

They scattered. Some dove back through the tearing rift, scrambling over each other in a panic. Others fled into the darkness, vaulting the fences and disappearing into the woods

"Let them go," Roderick said, wiping a smudge of something from his cheek. "They'll spread the word. The Hunt's reputation could always do with a little buffing."

The rift pulsed one last time and then sealed itself shut.

I took a deep breath, checking my stats. Health was regenerating slowly. Stamina was in the toilet. But I was standing.

"Everyone okay?" I called out, turning back to the pavilion.

Kenny was cracking the breach of his shotgun, smoke curling from the barrels. He looked around the field, counting the piles of ash and the few remaining snake corpses that hadn't been voided. He looked genuinely disappointed. "I had two shells left," he grumbled. "Hardly seems worth the cleaning time."

Iris was walking across the grass. As she clicked the knitting needles together, the glowing lines of the Zone of Denial faded. She looked tired, her cardigan slightly askew, but her eyes were bright. "My hip is going to give me hell tomorrow," she noted, pocketing the needles. "But that was... invigorating."

I walked over to Roderick. He was examining the Null-Edge, checking for... well, I don't know what you check for on a sword made of nothing. Flaws in the vacuum?

"You okay, lad?" he asked, not looking up.

"Me?" I looked down at my armour. The Carapace of the Defiant Line looked like it had been chewed by a metal shark. "I've been better. But I think I levelled up my heavy lifting skills."

Roderick sheathed the sword. The air around him seemed to relax, the pressure lifting. "You did good. You draw fire like a lighthouse draws moths. Stupid, suicidal moths."

"Thanks. I think. You guys... you didn't have any System prompts, did you? No damage numbers. No cooldowns."

"Nope," Roderick said, fishing a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Just practice."

Fair play to them. These guys had balls. I had a HUD telling me exactly how much damage I could take, when to dodge, and how hard to hit. The Hunt? They just had grit. They had bad knees and gout and they stood in the mud and fought monsters because Aunt M had asked them to.

"You guys are a deal," I said.

"We just do the job," Roderick corrected, lighting a cigarette. The flame illuminated the deep lines of his face. "Now, where's Mooney? If he's drunk all the tea, I'm going to feed him to the next thing that comes through that veil."

There was a clatter from the pavilion porch.

Mooney emerged from behind the tea urn. He was holding a large, dented metal serving tray in front of him like a shield. He peered over the top of it, his glasses askew, blinking at the carnage. He looked at the dissolved remains of the snakes, the craters in the pitch from Kenny's shotgun, and the iron bench embedded in the turf.

He lowered the tray slowly. He looked at me, then at Roderick, then at the empty air where the rift had been.

"You know," Mooney said, his voice trembling slightly. "I'm beginning to think I might be in this a bit over my head."

I thought of the Maker. Of Griff. Of the Kohe-therës. Of the approaching deadline.

"You and me both, Mooney. You and me both."

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