Book 1: The Reluctant Summoning Arc: Adaptation and Identity

Prologue: The Last BulletAfghanistan, 23:47 Local Time

The Humvee's headlights cut through swirling dust like a razor. Mike S. Devon chambered a round in his Glock 19—the soft click nearly swallowed by the roar of rotor wash overhead. His comms crackled with urgency: "Tango down, exfil in 90." Ahead, an unmapped temple emerged—a jagged black spire clawing at the starry sky, its entrance bathed in an eerie violet glow."Negative," Mike barked. "Structure's not—"And then the world dissolved.

Chapter 1: The Rules of This Fucked-Up PlaceThe Realm of Elytheria, Year 243 of the Shattered Crown

Mike hit the ground hard, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt ozone and wet stone. His night vision goggles were gone, replaced by a sky dominated by twin moons. Clutching his Glock like an old friend, he rolled into a crouch, scanning the ruins: crumbling arches entwined with ivy, shattered statues whose faces were distorted by acid—or magic. In the end, it was all the same decay from a different century.

"Identify yourself, outsider," a voice called from the shadow of a broken tower. Mike's finger tensed on the trigger.

From the gloom stepped a woman clad in scaled armor, her face hidden behind a helm fashioned like a dragon's skull. In her hand, a sword hummed softly, its edge flickering with blue flame."I'm Mike. Friendlies call me 'Ghost.'"

She snorted. "A name fit for a tombstone." Her gaze drifted to the relic clutched in his other hand—an obsidian shard etched with runes, still warm from Afghanistan. "The Voidspire Key. You've been summoned. Explain yourself."

"Beats the hell out of me, lady," Mike replied, his eyes darting to the treeline where movement stirred—three heat signatures, then six. His SEAL training screamed ambush, yet the air here tasted off… metallic. Magic.

The armored woman stepped closer. "The Key chooses warriors, yet you bear no sigil, wield no spell. What are you?"

"A guy who doesn't like questions." Mike holstered his Glock and drew the sniper rifle from his back. Its ceramic stock was cracked, but the scope still gleamed. "Now, you care to explain why a bunch of crossbow-wielding assholes is creeping up on us, or should I just start shooting?"

Her laugh was sharp. "They're mine. Scouts from House Veyth, tracking the Key. They'd kill you for it."

"Not if I kill them first." Mike dropped back into a crouch and peered through his scope. The figures were humanoid—but something was off. Too many joints. Demons? Mutants? His finger brushed the trigger.

Bang.

The shot thundered through the air. One scout fell; the rest scattered like ghosts.

She stared, incredulous. "You… just snuffed a shadowstalker. With a toy."

"It's a Barrett M107, sweetheart. And I'm out of bullets." Mike ejected the spent magazine, counting the remaining rounds—five. "So, care to tell me where I can buy more?"

Sheathing her sword, the knight gestured east. "Thornmere village. But the road's… occupied."

"Occupied by what?"

Before she could answer, a roar shattered the tense pause—a sound like a tank engine revving to life. From the ruins, a beast emerged: twelve feet tall, its skin resembling molten lead, tusks oozing black ichor. Its eyes fixed on Mike with unyielding intent.

"Intruder," it grated. "Surrender the Key."

Mike's mind raced—no cover, no exit, no backup. There was only the knight, her enchanted sword, and a relic he barely understood.

"Hey," he said, sliding the sniper rifle onto his back, "ever seen 300?"

The beast lunged, tusks aimed straight for his throat. Mike sidestepped with his Glock raised, but the knight—Elyra—was quicker. Her flaming sword arced through the air, carving a crescent that bit deep into the creature's leaden hide. The beast howled as black blood sprayed across the ruins.

"Your move, Ghost," she snapped, parrying a vicious claw swipe.

Mike's eyes flicked to the Voidspire Key in his hand. It pulsed softly, as though matching the rhythm of the beast's roars. Gritting his teeth, he barked, "Cover me."

Dropping to one knee, he emptied his remaining rounds into the creature's vulnerable joints. Each shot staggered it, though none were fatal—armor-piercing rounds would have been ideal. His final bullet struck the knee, and with a desperate thrash, the beast collapsed.Without hesitation, Elyra plunged her sword into its skull, and the creature dissolved into ash.

"Five shots," she murmured as she sheathed her blade. "Impressive for a relic-licker."

"Relic-licker?" Mike echoed, holstering his now-empty Glock with grim awareness.

"Outsiders who chase artifacts for power," she replied, gesturing toward the Key. "That thing is a beacon for horrors far worse than shadowstalkers. Come—Thornmere's this way."

Thornmere was, in every sense, a shithole.

Squatting in a mist-choked valley, the village's timber buildings slumped like drunken sentinels. The stench of rotting fish and unwashed bodies hung thickly in the air. Mike's combat boots sank into the mud as he and Elyra passed a group of peasants bickering over a rat carcass.

Elyra led him to a tavern marked by a sign depicting a skeletal stag. Inside, the air was heavy with pipe smoke and wary eyes. As they entered, every patron fell silent—fixated on Mike's rifle and Elyra's blazing sword.

"The Guild's upstairs," she murmured, tossing a coin to the bartender. "Try not to get killed before you're useful."

Upstairs, the cramped Adventurers' Guild of Thornmere was lined with faded bounty posters and well-worn weapon racks. Behind a scarred wooden desk, a grizzled half-orc examined Mike's rifle. "That's a… unique crossbow," he commented.

"It's a sniper rifle," Mike replied flatly. "And I need bullets."

The half-orc snorted. "Iron? Silver? Dragonbone?"

"9x19mm Parabellum. Full metal jacket," Mike corrected.

A silence followed before the half-orc let out a hearty laugh. "You're either brave or stupid, relic-licker. We've got guns here," he said, gesturing toward a rusted musket on the wall.

Mike's jaw tightened. "What about enchanted rounds? Something that never misses."

"Magic isn't a cure-all, outsider." A raspy, feminine voice interrupted. From the shadows stepped a woman with a mechanical left arm, gears whirring softly. "Name's Kaela. Guildmaster." She regarded Mike intently. "Elyra tells me you took down a shadowstalker. With that."

"Yeah. And now I'm out of ammo," Mike replied.

Kaela smirked. "Then you're in luck. The Bone Pit is crawling with shadowstalkers. Kill ten, bring me their teeth, and we'll talk payment."

Mike crossed his arms. "I don't work for teeth."

"Then work for answers." Kaela leaned forward, her eyes glinting with determination. "That Key you're clutching? It's one of seven. The Cabal already controls three. You want bullets? Help us stop them."