(The Old Tannery District)
My plan was in motion, I was walking into the throat of the beast.
The warehouse was a cathedral of rot. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the ozone hum of a high-level barrier.
I stood in the center of the vast, empty floor, wearing my disguise. The mercenary mask itched, the metal plates digging into my cheeks.
The glamour made my mana signature appear weaker.
My [Mana Sense] wasn't just screaming; it was vibrating. There were twelve signatures hidden in the rafters. Not grunts. Elites.
"I'm here for the job," I announced, my voice distorted by the mask into a low, metallic rasp. "But all I see is dust."
A figure detached itself from the shadows on the far walkway. He wore the black robes of the Cult, but his mask was different—gold-filigreed bone.
"Ambition is a dangerous hunger, mercenary," the Cultist Leader said, his voice smooth and cultured. "It often leads to the grave. What is your name?"
