Red Grave was louder than he remembered.
Smokestacks coughed gray breath into the sky. Steam hissed from grates in the cracked streets. Neon signs buzzed and blinked between stone towers and steel scaffolding.Cars honked. Dogs barked. Voices clashed in alleyways.
The city had its own heartbeat—metal, chaos, and sweat.
Michael stepped off the ferry dressed in plain black. His sword stayed hidden under a travel bag, his face half-shadowed beneath his hood.
He didn't blend in.
But in Red Grave, nobody looked too closely.
He had barely been walking twenty minutes when he found the bar.
It wasn't on any map. No sign above the door. Just a cracked frame, red light bleeding through the windows, and an iron door half-swallowed by brick.
Michael stepped inside.
Smoke drifted across the low ceiling. The air reeked of oil, cheap whiskey, and the faint metallic tang of silver.
Behind the bar stood a man dressed like an antique merchant and a trickster both—black gloves, long coat, and eyes like he'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time.
Machiavelli.
He looked up as Michael approached, raised a brow, then smirked.
"Took you long enough."
They didn't shake hands.
Machiavelli poured two glasses and slid one down the bar without asking.
Michael didn't touch it.
Instead, his eyes shifted—to a red-haired woman lounging nearby, meticulously cleaning a pistol. Her coat hung loose at the waist, boots kicked up on a stool, face unreadable.
"Friend of yours?" Michael asked.
"Beryl," Machiavelli said. "Shoots faster than she talks. You'd get along."
She didn't look up.
Michael turned back to him. "The note was vague."
"Had to be," Machiavelli said, voice dipping low. "Would've been intercepted otherwise."
"I don't like games."
"I'm not playing one," Machiavelli said. "You're here because something's coming. Something old."
Michael didn't blink. "What?"
"A cult. Not new. Not loud. But persistent. Been working under the radar for over a decade. Scattered, ritualistic."
Michael waited.
"They're trying to bring back a demon warlord," Machiavelli said. "Not a prince. Not a general. A warlord. Sealed by Sparda himself. Name's scrubbed from almost every record."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What do they want from me?"
"They don't," Machiavelli said. "But you'll be in the way whether you like it or not."
Michael leaned an elbow against the counter.
"I've been in the way before."
"Not like this."
The room held a quiet beat between them.
Then Machiavelli wiped his hands on a cloth and nodded toward the stairs behind the bar.
"There's something I want to show you," he said. "It'll explain more than words can."
Michael didn't move immediately.
His gaze flicked back toward Beryl.
She finally looked up—eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
"I'm only here for the bullets," she muttered.
Machiavelli smirked. "Ignore her. She trusts you. She's just bad at showing it."
Michael straightened, slinging the travel bag over one shoulder, and followed him toward the stairs—down into shadow.