Roderick marched to the far wall of the Hunt's 'War Room' - a moniker which I felt was doing a tremendous amount of heavy lifting. He stopped before a row of battered metal lockers that looked like they'd last been opened in the mid-eighties. He took a steadying breath, then fished a heavy iron key from his pocket. It was a black-iron number that looked like it belonged to a jailer in a gothic novel rather than a kindly little old man man. He weighed it in his palm for a moment, as if checking the heft of a grenade, then shoved it into the lock.

"Right then," he said. "No point in messing about here. If we're going to the London Eye, we might as well go loaded for bear. Or, I suppose, more accurately, loaded for trans-dimensional shadow entities with aspirations towards godhood."

It took a solid five minutes of jiggling, swearing, and percussive maintenance, but finally, the mechanism yielded and he locker door groaned open, revealing an interior that took the laws of physics out back and broke their kneecaps. The space inside receded into a depth that was spatially impossible and looked like the bastard lovechild of Area 51 and that government warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Rows of shelves stretched back into infinity, stacked with crates that I suspected might well contain Roswell debris.

"This is where we keep all of the more esoteric stuff Margaret collected over the years," Roderick said, tapping a crate marked DANGER: DO NOT DROP (SERIOUSLY. AND I MEAN YOU, KENNY). "She spent decades confiscating things that shouldn't be in this realm. Figure now's the time we look to put some of them back into circulation."

I watched as, over the next half an hour, the Hunt began to, slowly, arm themselves for wall. As they did so, I began to feel a strange kind of imposter syndrome. After all, ever since Katya had doubletapped me, I'd had access to a System to back me up. I had, sometimes helpful, UI that told me exactly how hard I could get hit before I died. I had damage numbers, danger senses, and a literal progress bar for my own mortality. In battling against everything I'd come up against on Earth and in Bayteran I had one heck of a safety net between me and all the horror.

These guys had none of that. They didn't have Health bars that they could use Skills to rapidly refill. They just had grit, bad knees, and a refusal to die that was pretty inspiring. For these guys to be up for throwing hands at shadow demon without a System? For them to have spent decades facing down the things that crawl through the Veil armed with nothing but modified firearms and a can-do attitude? Well, that didn't just take courage. That took a species of testicular fortitude that I should show an awful lot more respect for.

Mind you, looking at the way Kenny was lovingly stroking the stock of a heavy modified 10-gauge that could double as an anti-aircraft solution, I wasn't wholly sure that they didn't actually have the better end of the deal. Sure, my Class gave me survivability, but that shotgun was pretty.

I sat on a bench that creaked in protest under my bulk and examined my own gear. Truth be told, it was all a bit of a mess. My latest scrap with the Shadow had left deep gouges in my Carapace of the Defiant Line, and the Mask of the Reluctant Apex had a dent in it that made it look like it was sneering even more than usual.

I opened a Standard Repair Kit Iris had passed me, encouraging me to "polish my things up" like I was getting ready for Sunday school. It wasn't particularly magical. In fact, it was almost aggressively mundane being a ball-peen hammer with a taped handle, some pliers covered in WD-40, and a tin of wax that I was ninety percent sure was just Kiwi shoe polish.

I tentatively tapped one of the dents in my breastplate with the hammer. In the version of the world I'd known before, this would, obviously, have done absolutely nothing. But apparently here, under the weirdly gamified logic that now controlled my life, the metal immediately groaned and popped back into a perfect curve. I gave it a wipe with the rag and the System purred its approval.

[Action: Field Repair]

[Carapace of the Defiant Line: Durability 100%]

[Mask of the Reluctant Apex: Dent Removed. Smugness Intact.]

Feeling encouraged, I picked up a dark bottle that came with the Repair Kit. It was called Oil of the Anvil, apparently, but it looked more like motor oil mixed with glitter. I uncorked it and poured a generous amount over the spiked head of my Morningstar. The heavy metal drank it up greedily, but then the weapon began to hum. And it certainly felt heavier. Meaner.

[Weapon Enhancement Applied: True Strike]

[Duration: Pending Combat Start]

[Note: Weapon now counts as 'Siege' class]

"Nice!" I said. "Siege class. I have no idea what that means, but I like the sound of that."

Across the room, Kenny snapped the breach of his pseudo-bazooka closed. He'd finished sawing the barrel down to a length and had started to carve a rune into its walnut stock with his pocket knife.

"What's in the shells, Kenny?" I asked, nodding at the bandolier he was draping over his cardigan.

"Rock salt, iron filings, and chopped up pieces of a credit card that got declined at a funeral home," he said. "I wouldn't usually bring out the big guns like this, but it sounds like this will be some nasty business. These shells hold grudges. And grudges hurt shadows."

I concentrated for a moment and stared at the space about Kenny's head.

[Entity: Kenneth 'Kenny' Clarke]

[Class: None (Legacy)]

[Weapon: 'The Negotiator' (Modified 10-Gauge)]

[Damage Type: Kinetic / Banishing / Tetanus]

"Tetanus," I nodded."That's get the job done."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"I always like to aim for the knees," Kenny said, patting the weapon. "If they don't have knees, aim for where the knees should be. It confuses them."

In the corner, Iris sat in a wicker chair, her knitting needles clicking like the mandibles of an industrious spider. Then she cast off the final stitch with a whip crack and held up her creation for inspection. It was a net, woven from wire that shimmered with a consecrated silver light.

"All things being equal, this should put a dent in the big bad's day," she said, folding it neatly into a floral tote bag. "If he tries to turn into smoke or mist or bad memories, this will help make him feel very solid. Then very sorry."

She pulled a whetstone from her bag and began to resharpen the knitting needles which were cold iron, about a foot long, and looked sharp enough to pierce plate mail.

[Item: The Grandmother's Embrace]

[Type: Binding Net (Legendary)]

[Effect: Prevents 'Phase Shift' and 'Mist Form' abilities.]

"Containment," she said sweetly, testing the point of a needle against her thumb. A bead of blood appeared instantly. "Margaret always said you can't catch a Shadow with a fishing net, but you can certainly piss it off iron."

Over by the sink, Cyril appeared to be conducting a series of chemistry experiments and then filling a row of Super Soakers with a glowing yellow liquid from a large plastic jerry can.

"What's the vintage, Cyril?" I asked, leaning away from the fumes.

"Well, your standard Holy Water is all good and all," Cyril explained, screwing the cap onto a water pistol. "But I've always found that Holy Water mixed with industrial bleach and garlic concentrate is more persuasive. And it sticks to Shadow beings like billy-o. And the smell lingers. I've always found it's hard to be menacing when you smell like a chip shop floor."

He handed me a few vials of the sludge he'd fed me earlier from his thermos. "If you're planning on being our Tank out there, you'll need to keep these in your inventory. 'But you need to only use them if you're dead or thinking about it. Oh, and I reckon you're the only one of us who should go into battle carrying these."

[Item: Flask of Retribution]

[Effect: High Acid Damage + 'Regret' Debuff on Undead.]

"What's a Regret debuff?" I asked.

"It's when you wish you'd stayed dead," Cyril clarified.

While the pensioners continued to arm themselves with magical WMDs, I caught up with Mooney in the corner, taping two magazines together with duct tape. He looked up as I approached, cricket helmet askew on his head.

"Don't say a word," he warned. "I'm told this helmet provides something called +8 Endurance. No idea if that's a good thing, but I'll take everything I can at this stage"

"Sounds pretty helpful to be honest, mate," I said. "What's in the bag?"

He zipped up a large cricket bag. "Logistics, Undershaft. While you lot are fantasising about heroic last stands, I've raided the kitchen and the hardware store."

He listed his inventory: spare batteries ("Because darkness is scary"), chocolate bars ("For stamina, obviously"), a crowbar ("Keys are for people with time, Undershaft"), and a first aid kit that contained actual bandages and antiseptic, not just witchcraft.

"Are you actually planning on coming with us?"

"I'm marked, aren't I?" He shuddered. "Roderick says if I leave the pack, the Shadow's going to pop up and eat me. So, I'm staying in the middle of the pack. Preferably behind you. While pointing and shouting 'don't hurt me. Eat the big guy. The one with the hair.'"

"Solid choice."

Something caught my eye and I looked over to where Roderick was pulling on a heavy coat that looked like it belonged at Agincourt. I focused, letting the System peel back the layers of reality to see what the old man was actually packing.

[Entity: Roderick Vance]

[Equipped: The Old Guard's Greatcoat]

[Armour Rating: Medium-Heavy]

[Properties: +8% Shadow Resistance | +5% Impact Mitigation]

[Status: Worn (Durability 62/100). Like its owner, it has seen too many winters but refuses to tear.]

It might not have been quite the Carapace of the Defiant Line. It didn't have the stat-bloating grandeur of my set bonuses or the sheer, brute-force mitigation of my Ironclad build. But for a piece of kit that didn't rely on a System interface to function? It was pretty damn impressive.

"We didn't beat the Luftwaffe by asking nicely, lad," he said when he saw me looking, reaching back into the locker and pulling out a long object wrapped in oilcloth. "We beat them by being bloodier-minded than they were."

I watched as he unwrapped the cloth to reveal a long sword. A Claymore. But, the longer I looked at it, the more I realised that the metal was wrong. It was black, matte, and wasn't reflecting any light, creating a hole in the visual field of the room.

[Weapon: The Null-Edge]

[Type: Two-Handed Sword (Void-Forged)]

[Damage Type: Physical / Ethereal]

[Effect: Bypasses 'Shadow Form'. Strikes true against that which has no substance.]

"Iron for the fae, steel for the men," Roderick said, giving the heavy blade an experimental swing. It didn't whoosh. Rather, it hissed, like air escaping a tyre. "And void-metal for the things that shouldn't be here. Margaret gave me this in '72. Said I might need it for a rainy day."

He looked back outside where the first drops of rain were distorting the view of the dark field beyond. 'Forecast looks wet."

Max the Dog trotted up, wearing his "GOOD BOY - LEVEL 6" vest, and sat at Roderick's feet and then the System flickered, finally acknowledging the reality of the situation.

[System Notification: Raid Party Formed]

[Party Name: The Hunt]

[Party Synergy: 'Respect Your Elders']

[Effect: +10% Damage vs. Entities younger than the party average age.]

[Note: Given the party average age is roughly 74, this applies to almost everything.]

I looked at my new team, remembering what Aunt M had said to me about not trying to fight the Shadow along. These guys weren't scared and this certainly wasn't any sort of desperate last stand for them. It was just another Wednesday. They'd ridden into battle against the Shadows before, many times, in the dark and the quiet, and while the rest of the world slept.

And they were up for doing it again.

I realised then that while I had the stats, the Class and the title, and the flashy interface, these people had the experience. I felt safer standing next to Kenny's shotgun than I ever did next to Griff.

"Right," I said, swinging my morningstar so that it clanked reassuringly against my hip. "We're dressed to kill. Let's get…"

But then the air tore open with the sound of a heavy curtain being drawn back. A wound in sky appeared and I saw something shifting in the grey twilight of the field beyond. Shapes. Long, sinuous, and entirely too familiar.

The newcomers poured out of the tear like oil from a cracked pipe and there were dozens of them. Tall, humanoid figures with scales where skin should be, and flat, cobra-hooded heads where faces belonged. They carried the same wrist-mounted flechette rigs as the assassin that had chased me through the market, but there were more of them now. Lots more.

"Right," I said, looking at the reassuringly armed Hunt. At Roderick with his void-blade, Kenny with his boomstick, Iris with her silver net, and Mooney cowering behind Max.

"Looks like the away team has arrived."

Kenny racked the bolt on a weapon that shouldn't exist. "Let's show them the hospitality of the house."

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