After stuffing my lunch – a small, green box containing two ham and cheese sandwiches that Mia made for me every morning – into my backpack, I said goodbye to my sister and left the apartment.

A few flights of stairs and another door later and I was standing in front of our apartment building. Outside, I turned around once more and looked toward the small window on the second floor. Behind it, Mia would be starting to clear the table and wash the plates before getting ready to go to school herself.

I turned my back on the old building, took one deep breath of the fresh morning air, and then headed out.

♦

Gray houses – strung together like dominoes – passed by me as I moved at a run through the streets.

Mia and I lived on the outskirts of the city of Potsdam, in the heart of the hunter’s Republic of Germany. You couldn't say it was a particularly nice place to live in.

Quite the contrary.

As a suburb to the capital city of Berlin, Potsdam did receive a gigantic amount of money each year from the EHO – the European Hunter Organization. However, the aristocrats would never allow this money to be pumped into the poor quarters near the city walls. For them, the only thing that mattered was how things looked in the inner rings – the neighborhoods where the nobles lived.

A small part of society shared the cake, while the rest had to fight for the crumbs.

The word »birthright« has always preceded the word »right« in the dictionary. It was just that, 50 years ago, people figured out why.

At the same time, they crossed out »solidarity«, and voilá: Welcome to the Middle Ages.

But even with crumbs, there were differences. Those who were strong could eat a lot. Those who were weak were eaten. A simple law that halved the world's population at the start of the war.

'Don't think. Just don't think,' I thought to myself.

I averted my eyes from the moss-covered facades of the prefabricated buildings and refocused on the path ahead.

My destination: A small bar, a 25-minute walk away – 15 minutes if you hurried.

It was not the place where I would be working today, nonetheless, I had to get there. Because that's where my equipment was.

My vocation was that of a Mendax, but more about that later.

The crucial thing is, that my nature was that of an Awakened One. A person who was blessed with special abilities.

Usually, it was superhuman strength, speed, or reflexes. But magic was also not uncommon among the Awakened.

In a world where monsters, mythical creatures, mystical objects, and anything else you could imagine in a fantasy book had existed for 50 years, it was only natural that wizards and heroes walked among men.

Only, we didn't call them that.

The phenomenon in which ordinary people received their special abilities was simply called The Awakening. This was due to the widespread opinion that awakened people were already special before their awakening. Since their childhood, they would have already stood out from the rest in one way or another. Either it was a matter of above-average physical attributes or they had a special gift, such as the ability to perceive magical energy.

But even noble blood was enough to mark them as special, chosen beings. »The awakening had only revealed their inner potential,« they said.

Only intelligence did not seem to be a prerequisite for awakening – but that was just my personal opinion.

Anyway. After the Awakened were recognized as such by the authorities, they usually went to an academy for their training and special education. After graduation, they were then allowed to officially call themselves Hunters, the protectors of humanity – or something.

And when it comes to hunters... Forget crumbs. They devoured whole pies.

But I shouldn't judge them too harshly, because I too have slipped into this strange group of people. While I don't have a hunter's license, the fact that I possessed magical energy and thus met the basic requirement for awakening, bordered on miraculous.

At least any normal person given this chance at fame and fortune would have called it one – a miracle.

But I was a bit different, and not in a good way.

Because possessing a microscopic amount of magical energy was all that indicated, I wasn't normal. Superhuman strength? Speed? Reflexes?

I had none of those.

In all physical attributes, I resembled an ordinary person. In fact, I was convinced that many ordinary people would still be superior to me in that respect if I hadn't worked so hard on my body in the four years since my awakening.

Back to the theory. The chance of awakening was one in a hundred – depending on which bloodline you possessed. Since neither of my parents was a hunter, it should have been closer to one in a thousand for me. 

But however small the odds of that might be... It was still gigantic compared to the probability of awakening and still being as weak as a normal human.

But look at me. Here I stood. Living proof that statistics suck.

And where was I standing?

In front of a small run-down building with a big sign hanging above the front door that said: Fuck It!

♦

With a creaking sound, the old, inconspicuous wooden door opened.

Behind it, a narrow corridor revealed itself, which led downward and ended in another door.

As I descended the squeaky stairs, I let my hands slide along the stone walls to the left and right.

'2, 3, 4...'

Meanwhile, I counted how many steps I had already taken. Because when the door closed behind me, the only source of light in this place went out.

I was already used to it, so it didn't bother me, but I couldn't help but think back to the day I first came here. On the said day, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs with a concussion.

'7, 8, 9...'

When I arrived at the tenth step, I reached my hand out in front of me until something cold brushed against my fingertips.

Without hesitation, I pushed down the metallic handle and swung open the second door.

Immediately, the aroma of old wood and cheap alcohol rose to my nose.

I stepped inside the room.

Old wooden beams supported an old wooden ceiling. Besides three tables, some chairs, a counter, and a lot of alcohol, there was not much to be seen in the small room, which reminded more of a misappropriated pantry than a bar.

Modern LED lights hung from the ceiling, which didn't match the otherwise rustic interior look.

»Hektor? You here already? Drinking so early in the morning? I've got vodka and vodka.«

»Morning Oren,« I said to the old man to my right who greeted me so charmingly.

»Why are you behind the counter so early? I don't think anyone will come at 9 am in the morning.«

Usually, Oren always slept until noon, so I was kind of surprised that he was up so early in the morning.

»What are you saying? A bar owner has to start preparing early. Washing plates, rinsing glasses. It's like a bakery,« Oren said with a grim expression on his face.

'Why don't you wash your dishes the night before? After they've been used?' I thought but didn't speak up.

I knew why, of course. The old man in front of me was a hopeless alcoholic. In the evening he always drank with his guests until he was no longer able to fulfill his duties as a bar owner – not that he ever fulfilled those duties when sober…

»The people that come here are always the same ones, after all. They don't care what condition the glass they drink from is anyway. Or if they drink from a glass at all, really…« I replied, rolling my eyes.

»Don't get smart with me now, brat. It's not like it's my fault that there's no new clientele. People these days just don't know what's good for them anymore,« Oren said with a grumble.

'No, people don't want to break their legs on the way to what's good for them,' I thought but didn't say it this time either. There was no point in arguing with Oren. One could only lose.

Instead, I went behind the counter until I stood in front of a metallic door marked PRIVATE.

»It’s open.«

I turned my head to the side and saw the old man polishing some glasses with a rag. Although I doubted – looking at the rag – that the glasses would be cleaner afterward than before, the way he tensed his arms made me think that he just wanted to show off his muscles.

Because, even though Oren was already 65 years old, he still had the body of a professional wrestler – or a professional hunter, if you want to put it in contemporary terms. His white T-shirt with the imprint Fuck It! did nothing to hide his protruding arm and chest muscles. It was not a small shirt, but on Oren, it looked like it was going to rip at any moment.

Through my work, I had built up some pretty good basic muscles myself over the years, but when I stood next to Oren, I still looked like a kid – and it wasn't just because he was a head taller than me.

The scars that littered his entire upper body told a story of their own.

Oren was an Awakened himself. But not only that. He was someone officially recognized by the government. A real hunter – and by his admission, a pretty good one.

He never told me about his rank, and I never asked, but the condition of his body – even after retirement – indicated that he at least was not a Probatio.

That said...

I let my gaze wander down until it landed on Oren's leg. Or rather, down to where a leg would normally have been.

Beneath the shorts, a metallic prosthesis was revealed, replacing the old man's entire right leg.

Since the beginning of the war, there had been huge advances in this area, and the new models, reinforced with diluted Adamas, were not only supposed to be virtually indestructible but even improve the physical attributes of the wearer. Of course, only people from great houses, from noble houses, could afford them.

Oren's prosthesis, on the other hand, dated from the time of the First Invasion. It consisted of a few metal tubes tied together which ended in a foot-shaped plate and was a temporary engineering stopgap when people suddenly began to lose their limbs.

The fact that this ancient apparatus had not collapsed even after nearly 50 years was due to the tiny amount of mana-crystals incorporated into the metal.

»I know I look good, but today you're staring more than usual.«

The old man's deep voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I turned back to the front and stepped through the metal doorframe. Behind it, another room revealed itself, about the same size as the room I had just come from.

Besides a bed and a small closet, exactly two things could be found here.

One was alcohol – obviously. A lot of it – obviously.

Old beer kegs were stacked up against the walls to my right, while hundreds of bottles of a clear liquid filled the shelves. In fact, the Fuck It! served only beer and vodka. Oren always preached that the right mix ratio between these two could create all other kinds of alcohol.

The other thing that could be found here was a bit more unusual for a bar.

To my left one could see hunter's gear of all kinds. Weapons such as swords, knives, spears, and bows hung on the walls, while breastplates, leg guards, gloves, and other armor covered the floor. According to Oren, the numerous crates contained valuable materials such as vita-juices, pecorium – meaning monster-leather – and even a mana-crystal or two was said to be hiding among the rest of the odds and ends.

I didn't know why Oren wasn't selling all this stuff after all these years, because the bar could really use some money, but I didn't ask.

Instead, I went to a shelf on the other side of the room. On it lay a sword, some bracers, and a simple vest made of pecorium.

First, I set the backpack I took from home down on the floor. After my work was done, I would stop by the bar again, change, and pick up the backpack.

It was a bit unfortunate because the bread Mia made me extra for lunch won't be as tasty then, but I could not afford to carry an extra piece of luggage with me on today's mission.

I then took the brown monster leather vest and pulled it over my head, the bracers over my forearms, and buckled the belt with the sword scabbard around my waist. Immediately I felt the weight of the heavy steel sword.

Weapons that partially incorporated melted mana-crystals - mana-steel - often weighed only a fraction of what a  weapon of pure steel would weigh, while being many times as sturdy.

A few of these expensive specimens hung on Oren's wall, as was evident from a faint bluish glow that surrounded these particular weapons, but I doubted the old man would allow me to use one of them.

I didn't want to ask either, because Oren was already doing so much for me and my sister, I couldn't burden him any further.

What I had always wanted to ask about, on the other hand, was the content of the oblong box under Oren's bed.

Everything in that room was either dusty or old – or both. Everything except the black chest with gold and silver ornaments Oren stored under his bed.

A few years ago, when I had just met the old man for the first time, this irregularity, which didn't fit at all with the rest of the room crammed with antiques, caught my eye for the first time.

As Oren was drinking with his friends and not paying attention, out of curiosity I pulled out the box from under the bed and wanted to open it. To my dismay, a fat lock foiled my plan of stealing a look. 

As I tried to slide the oblong chest back under the bed, a large hand grabbed me by the shoulder. Startled, I turned to see Oren standing behind me – with a countenance as hard as stone. Not a hint of the alcohol he had poured into himself by the gallon only moments before was visible on his face.

He then yelled at me to keep my hands off.

It was the first time, and the only time since, that I experienced the grim, yet actually very gentle old man so angry.

This experience was so shocking to me that to this day I never asked what was stored in the chest.

With a light sigh, I turned around again – now fully equipped – and made my way to the exit.

Work was calling.