"You're sure this is drinkable?" Frank squinted at the glass Lira shoved into his hand.
"It's not poison," she said, grinning. "Mostly."
They sat at a low-lit table in the corner of the Rustbrine Tavern, one of the safer—and less vomit-scented—spots near the Hollowtrade Nexus. Hazen was leaned back, arms crossed, boots kicked up. Dren stood at the bar, silently watching the door like he expected something to come through it and explode.
"You're lucky," Lira said to Frank, swirling her drink. "Most newbies get hazed. We didn't even make you carry the heavy packs."
"Or sweep traps with your face," Hazen added dryly.
Frank smirked. "Yeah. I'm overwhelmed by how welcoming you've all been."
Hazen raised his glass. "To clean runs and unexpected allies."
They all clinked glasses.
Frank took a sip, then immediately set his down. "That tastes like regret and burnt cherries."
"Exactly," Lira said, pleased. "You'll get used to it."
The table quieted after that. A comfortable silence. One that only follows a well-earned victory.
Then Hazen broke it.
"You gave it some thought?"
Frank looked up.
"The team spot," Hazen continued. "We could use someone like you. You bring balance."
Frank didn't respond immediately. He leaned back in his chair, watching the low flames flicker in the corner sconce.
"I did think about it," he said finally.
"And?" Lira asked.
He looked at them both.
"I'm not joining."
A small pause. No tension. Just quiet surprise.
"Because of us?" Lira asked.
"No," Frank said gently. "Because of me."
He took a breath, voice steady.
"I'm not trying to be a great team player. I'm not trying to climb dungeon ranks or earn guild perks. I'm building something else. A system. A network. Something that stretches beyond a blade or a party formation."
He tapped his temple lightly. "I fight when I have to. But I'm not a warrior."
Hazen studied him for a long moment.
"Most people fight to earn a place," he said. "You… build one."
Frank gave a small nod. "Exactly."
Dren returned, setting a clean drink down in front of Frank. He'd clearly heard the entire exchange.
"You're not wrong," he said. "But that means you'll have more enemies. No shield wall to fall behind."
Frank smirked. "Then I'll make my own shield wall. Trade for one. Reinforce it. Put a glyph on it. Sell five copies."
Lira chuckled. "You're a strange kind of genius."
"I get that a lot."
Hazen raised his glass again. "Well. When you're ready to clear something big again, the door's open."
Frank returned the gesture. "I'll knock."
The Howlbeast's body still twitched occasionally—nerve reflex or something darker, Frank wasn't sure.
But his attention was elsewhere now.
"Over here," Dren grunted, standing near a cracked wall at the edge of the chamber. "There's something behind this panel."
Frank walked over, brushing soot from his gloves. Hazen and Lira followed, weapons drawn—caution still reflexive.
Dren tapped a hidden hinge. The stone gave slightly. Lira pried it open with her dagger.
Behind it: a narrow crawlspace. And at the end of it—a room that shouldn't exist.
It wasn't large. Barely five by five meters. But the air inside felt… heavier.
The walls were covered in scratched symbols—not painted, not carved—scratched, with urgency, as if done by someone desperate or possessed.
And in the center: a circle. Burned into the stone floor.
A summoning mark.
Lira crouched low. "That's not dungeon-made."
"No," Hazen said grimly. "That's a ritual site."
Frank stepped in slowly. His eyes flicked from the symbols to the floor and back again.
He didn't speak for several seconds.
Then, softly: "These runes… they're fractured."
"Fractured?" Lira asked.
"They're written in parts. As if someone tried to copy something too large to fit here," Frank said. "Dimensional compression theory—fragmented glyph chains. It's… like they were trying to pull something across."
Hazen stared at the central mark. "You're saying someone was summoning?"
Frank nodded. "Or testing. Like a prototype."
Dren folded his arms. "This isn't local cult work. I've seen sacrificial pits. This is something else."
Frank's eyes darkened as he reached toward one of the symbols—and stopped just shy of touching it.
"I've seen this one before," he whispered. "On a black-market scroll two months ago. Trader-only node. It was tagged under 'convergence energy theory.'"
Lira frowned. "What's convergence?"
"Different planes aligning," Frank said. "Dimensional overlaps. Temporary gateways opening where they're not supposed to. Usually theoretical."
"Not anymore," Hazen said.
Frank pulled out his scanner tab and took quick images of the entire room. "I'm logging all of it."
Hazen nodded. "Good. The Association's going to want answers."
****
The team sat before a single evaluator—gray uniform, silver trim, calm expression.
Frank stood behind Hazen, arms folded, as the man flipped through the projected scans.
"Unusual," the evaluator said flatly. "Glyph structure is advanced. Not standard ritual type."
"Not dungeon-born," Lira added. "Someone put it there."
The man nodded once. "You'll be credited with anomaly detection. The site will be sealed and studied."
"That's it?" Frank asked, eyes narrowing.
"For now. There is… a group. Theorists. Fringe at best." He leaned forward. "They call themselves the Convergence Cult."
Lira snorted. "Sounds theatrical."
"They're old," the evaluator said quietly. "Pre-date the guild system. Always talking about balance, veils thinning, cycles ending. We've never confirmed their existence."
Frank spoke up. "Then you just did."
The evaluator looked at him for a long moment.
Then nodded. "Maybe we did."
As the portal lit up and the team prepared to leave, Frank stayed back for just a second longer.
He looked at the cracked stone where the symbols had been.
Then murmured to himself, "Convergence… cult…"
His eyes narrowed.
"How deep does this go?"
Frank shut the door to his apartment with a quiet click.
He didn't turn on the lights.
The city outside his window hummed with neon and noise, but inside, it was still—like the world paused just long enough for him to breathe.
He dropped his gear bag beside the door and peeled off his gloves. Blood, dried, cracked off one knuckle.
He stared at it for a long second, then walked to his desk.
The terminal screen glowed softly.
He had notifications—several.
> [Inventory Low – Popular Item: Smokeburst Glyph]
[New Orders: 34]
[Reviews: +9 | 4.9★ Average]
[Network Ping: Repeat Buyer Request – Guild Affiliated]
Frank sat down, fingers hovering above the keys, but his mind was still on the crawlspace.
The way those symbols scratched into stone pulsed with meaning.
The incomplete circle.
The wrongness in the air.
And the name.
"Convergence Cult," he whispered.
He opened a search tab and keyed in the phrase.
> [0 Public Results Found]
[Query Flagged – Clearance Required]
He leaned back. "Figures."
He stood, crossed to the small kitchenette, and poured stale tea from his infusion orb. It was cold and bitter fitting.
"You don't just stumble across a dead-end cult doing dimensional math unless something's about to go wrong," he muttered.
He stared out the window for a moment, watching a drone zip past.
Ding.
His terminal pinged.
Not a standard alert.
He walked back to the desk.
> [Encrypted Message Received – No Sender ID]
[Title: Interested in the impossible?]
[Decrypting…]
The screen shimmered, then reshaped into a coded message formed of moving glyphs—half language, half spellwork.
Frank's eyes narrowed. "That's not system-generated."
The message finished loading:
-
"Trader Hagan,
You're asking questions others ignore.
You've seen things that were meant to stay buried.
If you want answers—real ones—come find us.
You're already closer than you think.
Bring only what you trust. Leave the rest behind.
Location follows.
S"
Coordinates flickered below the signature.
Frank stared at the screen.
For a long time, he didn't say anything.
Then finally, softly:
"Looks like I just got promoted… from merchant to messenger."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp, fingers tapping the encrypted tag.
"Alright, 'S'," he muttered. "Let's see what you're selling."
Frank stared at the message on his screen.
> "You've seen things that were meant to stay buried…
If you want answers—real ones—come find us."
The glyphs continued to shimmer faintly across the glass.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
His tea sat cooling beside him, untouched.
For a long time, he just listened—to the hum of his system core, to the soft ticking of the old analog clock on the wall, to the noise of the city bleeding through the window.
This wasn't a trade.
This was a pull.
And that... made him uneasy.
He sat back, fingers laced behind his head, eyes still fixed on the cryptic message.
"Bring only what you trust. Leave the rest behind."
That line hit harder than it should've.
What did he trust?
His gear? Sure.
His instincts? Usually.
People? Rarely.
But this… this wasn't a dungeon. It wasn't a supply contract or a ranked evaluation. This was the kind of message that didn't come from someone interested in credits.
This came from someone interested in truth.
And truth, Frank knew, always costs more than you expect.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
What if this is bait?
What if it's the first move of something bigger?
What if walking through that door means never walking back?
He opened his eyes again. The message was still there. Still waiting.
But so was that tiny flicker in his chest, the one that lit up every time the world stopped making sense.
He exhaled through his nose, low and steady.
You started with trade kits, Frank.
Then traps.
Then dungeons.
Then glyphs and theories.
And now… now it's this.
He tapped the encrypted tag once.
Just once.
"Alright," he whispered, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
"Let's see what's on the other side of the map."