The Undermarket was more than a mere warren of criminals, Pactmakers, and clandestine dealings whispered in the shadows of forgotten alleys.

  It was a battleground.

  A war of debts and oaths, of knives both real and metaphorical, fought in the dim glow of eldritch neon and candlelit contracts written in blood.

  Dante sat stiffly in the low-lit lounge, across from the one man in this den of vultures who could answer the question gnawing at his already frayed nerves. His drink was dark, bitter, and did absolutely nothing to dull the ache in his bruised ribs. Every breath was a reminder of his last encounter—one he had barely crawled away from.

  But stopping? Slowing down? Taking a moment to lick his wounds?

  Not an option.

  But the weight pressing down on him wasn’t just exhaustion or the lingering pain from the last fight. It was something deeper, heavier—the knowledge that every step forward only dragged him further into the abyss. The Undermarket was never a place where problems got solved. It was where problems metastasized, where the debts you thought you settled had secret clauses, and where enemies you hadn’t even made yet were already sharpening their knives. Dante had spent years keeping his head above water, dodging the worst of it, skirting the edge of conflicts too vast for him to comprehend. But now? Now, he was in it. Neck-deep.

  The lounge around him hummed with low conversation, deals being struck in murmurs barely audible over the crackling neon lights and the distant wail of some forgotten melody from a half-broken speaker. Every shadow in the room felt like it was watching him. Every flicker of movement at the edges of his vision sent his pulse spiking. It wasn’t paranoia. It was certainty. He wasn’t just another player in the game anymore. He was a name spoken behind closed doors, a marked man walking through a city where power was measured in secrets and souls. And in a place like this, a marked man was just a dead man on borrowed time.

  He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to sit up straighter despite the fire licking through his ribs. No hesitation. No weakness. Whatever came next, he had to meet it head-on, because hesitation in the Undermarket was the same as a death sentence. The only way to survive was to stay ahead, to see the blade before it sank into your back. And that meant getting answers—fast.

  He exhaled sharply, voice rough, barely more than a growl. “Alright. Who’s coming for me next?”

  The Broker’s grin was as sharp as ever, a crescent moon of amusement and quiet malice. He steepled his fingers, taking his time, as if savoring the moment. Then, with the lazy flick of a wrist, a map unfolded on the table between them. No mere piece of parchment—this was a thing of power, ink shifting, sigils burning against the paper like embers waiting to ignite.

  Three symbols. Three factions. Three nightmares wrapped in the trappings of empires.

  The Broker tilted his head. “That depends.” His grin widened. “Which enemy do you want to piss off first?”

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  1. The Abyssal Brokers – "Debt is power. Power is everything."

  Dante’s stomach twisted. He already knew too much about them. The Broker’s own faction—his brothers and sisters in chains, though only the cruelest and sharpest ever made it to his level.

  They were the ultimate merchants of the supernatural world, but they didn’t merely deal in coin or trinkets. No, their trade was far more insidious.

  They owned people.

  Debt was their weapon. Promises their currency. And once they had their hooks in you, escape was a fairy tale that ended in a closed casket.

  Break a deal? They collect.

  Try to run? They collect.

  Try to fight? You better have already picked out your tombstone.

  Dante owed them.

  And that meant they weren’t done with him yet.

  1. The Celestial Legate – "A contract is sacred. Break one, and you break reality."

  The second sigil burned gold, an open book bound in heavy chains.

  These were not mere enforcers. They were zealots.

  Where the Abyssal Brokers saw Pactmaking as business, the Legate saw it as holy law—the foundation of reality itself. To them, every contract was sacred, every vow a piece of the cosmic balance. To break one was not just a crime.

  It was heresy.

  If Dante held a contract that should have died with its original owner?

  The Legate wouldn’t just kill him. They would erase him.

  Completely. Utterly. Without so much as a whisper left behind.

  1. The Free Binders – "No masters. No debts. Just the power to survive."

  The third sigil was a fractured chain.

  Dante frowned. “Never heard of them.”

  The Broker’s grin didn’t waver. “Few people have.”

  They were the wild card. The unknown variable. The Pactmakers who had slipped the leash—who had discovered ways to cheat, to bend the rules, to carve out a sliver of freedom in a world bound by oaths and bargains.

  To the Abyssal Brokers? They were bad business.

  To the Legate? They were dangerous heretics.

  To Dante?

  They might be the only ones who could teach him how to survive.

  Dante exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the table as he stared at the sigils. His entire world had tripled in size in the span of a single conversation.

  The map before him wasn’t just a collection of symbols—it was a declaration. A cosmic joke played at his expense. He had spent so long believing he was just another small-time operator, a Pactmaker scraping by on borrowed luck and sheer audacity. But this? This was something else. These weren’t just enemies; they were institutions, forces older and hungrier than anything he had ever faced. He wasn’t dealing with thugs or rival contractors anymore. He was staring down the kind of power that didn’t just kill people—it unmade them.

  Abyssal Brokers, Celestial Legate, Free Binders—three roads leading in three different directions, each promising ruin in its own unique flavor. He could feel the weight of their reach pressing against him, could already imagine the noose tightening. The Brokers had patience, but patience didn’t mean mercy. The Legate had conviction, which made them the worst kind of enemy—one that believed it was righteous. And the Free Binders? If they were really as elusive as the Broker suggested, then trusting them might be just another way to put himself in an early grave. No good options. No safe bets. Just a choice between different shades of catastrophe.

  Dante ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through gritted teeth. He had been playing checkers, but the rest of the board had been set for chess, and now he was expected to make his first move while blindfolded. No matter which path he took, he’d be bleeding for it before long. But standing still? That wasn’t an option either. Not anymore.

  He wasn’t just being hunted.

  He had been dropped into a war he hadn’t even known existed.

  His lips curled into a tired, sardonic smirk as he looked up at the Broker. “Let me guess. You’re about to give me some cryptic bullshit about picking a side.”

  The Broker chuckled, raising his glass in mock celebration.

  “Oh, Dante.”

  “You don’t pick a side.”

  “The sides pick you.”