Liberl Port, Rubble District.
After recomndations from every company, departnt, organization, guild, and noble house—plus an open selection—City Hall had finally assembled a second high-level Adventurer Squad to take down Montport.
This group totaled thirty-two, but the real combat strength ca from just eight. The rest were support, there for backup.
The eight core mbers were: a gearforged wild-magic path barbarian, a human eldritch knight, a human arcane archer, a half-elven Oath of Redemption paladin, a halfling College of Eloquence bard, a gold dragonborn bloodline warlock, a dwarven Order cleric, and a sun elf School of Evocation wizard.
These weren’t just any adventurers—they were top picks, handpicked and battle-tested. The whole city pinned their hopes on them, convinced they’d defeat the Abyssal Lord and beco the next legendary party.
Of course, the real story behind this optimism was simple terror. Liberl Port’s upper crust—the rchants, nobles, bureaucrats, everyone worth ntioning—were at their breaking point.
They couldn’t even imagine what they’d do if this party failed too. What card could they possibly play against Montport, against that omnipresent and devious Abyssal Lord?
If this squad failed, everyone knew what would really happen: Liberl Port’s elites would run for their lives, taking their wealth with them. That, more than anything, would be the true end of the city.
So, this team couldn’t fail. Victory was non-negotiable.
Shapiro was among them now, but he hadn’t given up his real info, or his real na. Instead, he called himself "Shapiro Cassalanter," spinning the story that he was "a distant nephew of Matriarch Ammalia"—the perfect cover to win the trust of the party.
And his actual class? Kept under wraps. He just claid "eldritch knight," since it fit close enough and wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Sure, so had their suspicions, but with Cassalanter backing him up and his sheer strength on display, he’d been let in without trouble.
And now, departure day had arrived.
For once, the sun was out. Shapiro stood watching his teammates haggle with vendors over supplies, looking anything but pleased.
Of the twenty-so assistants, their job was to find routes, carry equipnt, and clear out mobs during actual combat—making sure nothing would distract from the real showdown with Montport.
City Hall thought they were vital. Shapiro, used to running solo, had another term for it...
"A waste of ti!"
He grunted in frustration. These slowpoke teammates weren’t going to achieve anything. In the end, he was sure, it’d all co down to just him.
"Shapiro! Hey, don’t say that,"
The voice ca from his side—a half-elven woman in plate armor, middle-aged and gentle-voiced: the party’s Oath of Redemption paladin. "We really do need their information support. Yes, you’re strong, but what good is that if you can’t even find Montport?"
Shapiro snorted. "And you think they’ll find Montport for us?"
The half-elf smiled. "Believe it or not, City Hall has done their howork. They’ve already got insiders planted among the cultists who summoned Montport. Now, they can pinpoint the demon lord’s location with real accuracy."
"The problem is, that guy keeps moving. We need these assistants to track him in real ti—so we can hit straight at Montport’s heart, like a steel dagger!"
Shapiro didn’t care. "Say whatever you want. The fact remains, they’re wasting our ti haggling with peddlers out here."
She tried to reason with him again, but he just turned away, already losing patience. "Wake when we’re leaving."
Watching him go, the half-elf opened her mouth, then just sighed.
As a paladin, she desperately wanted this quest to end in victory. And to her mind, step one had to be team unity.
But it was plain as day: despite his power, Shapiro Cassalanter had all the arrogance of a teenage genius—he fit nowhere into the group. And that worried her, though there was nothing she could do.
Shapiro, anwhile, made his way through the alleys to a ruined, deserted house, then knelt on one knee and bowed his head low. "Ancestor!"
He’d just heard her call, and faking an argunt with the paladin was just a way to make his escape.
Now, as he called out, in front of him, a swirl of twisted, black energy appeared—coalescing into the faint shadow of a beautiful, winged woman floating in the air.
Any seasoned adventurer would have recognized that figure instantly: An Erinyes, a fallen angel from legend.
Shapiro’s so-called ancestor was, in fact, a true devil—one who made a career of corrupting mortal souls.
Which, of course, ant his real class was no "eldritch knight" at all. Shapiro was a warlock, his patron a fiend.
As he knelt low before his blood’s progenitor, the shadow of the Erinyes peered down at him. "Shapiro, what have you been up to?"
At that cold, lodious voice, Shapiro flinched, panic rising. "I... I reached an agreent with the Cassalanter family, pretended to be one of their relatives, and joined Liberl Port’s expedition team to hunt down the Abyssal Lord Montport."
Saying it out loud, the sha of working with his old enemies, using their na for his own ends, nearly overwheld him. Terrified that his ancestor would be angry, Shapiro pressed his head to the floor. "Ancestor—do you have a mission for ? Whatever you need, I’ll drop everything here and see it done!"
The shadow paused, then spoke. "That won’t be necessary, Shapiro. Focus on destroying Montport first. Earn yourself so prestige."
"As for what I need... there’s no rush. Finish this job first, then I’ll tell you."
Compared to Shapiro’s obvious nerves, his ancestor seed perfectly cool. For her, it was only the outco that mattered—she didn’t care whose na or alliances he borrowed, or whose trust he gained.
Shapiro looked up, cautious. "Ancestor, what is it you’d have do?"
"In my bloodline, besides you, there are others still alive," the shadow said; and the words lit a fire of surprise in Shapiro’s eyes. "They’re right here in South Harbor District. One of them has even awakened their blood’s power."
"Shapiro, after you destroy the Abyssal Lord, find them. They’re the key to reviving our bloodline!"
Joy and raw ambition alike burned bright in Shapiro’s gaze.
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