I sat back in my chair, a warm smile spreading across my face as I looked at the notification. Four hundred powerstones. The number seemed almost surreal.
They actually did it.
"Thank you," I spoke softly into the quiet of my writing space, knowing these words would reach those who mattered. "Each of you who has joined Xavier on this journey, who has theorized about the Arcan's true nature, who has supported this story with your powerstones and comments – you've made this possible."
I traced the worn edge of my leather notebook, where the initial character sketches still lived. "A bonus chapter feels like too small a reward for such dedication, but I promise to make it worth your time. You've earned more than just extra content; you've earned my sincere gratitude."
The silver watch on my wrist caught the light. "Some of you have been here since the first chapter, others joined along the way. To all of you – the theorists, the silent readers, the passionate commenters – thank you for making this story more than just words on a screen."
I cracked my knuckles, a small grin playing at the corners of my mouth.
Let's get to cooking.
======
The moonlight painted silver streaks across the row of headstones as Miguel knelt in the dry grass. He placed four beer bottles in a neat row—one by each grave. Abuelo's favorite Mexican lager. Dad's preferred domestic. The craft IPA his brothers had discovered together on a camping trip before everything went to hell.
"Been a minute since we talked alone," Miguel said, settling back on his heels. "Construction's been busy. Lots of overtime." He twisted the cap off a fifth beer and took a long pull. "Chuck's still riding my ass about taking too many bathroom breaks. Man doesn't understand that some of us have actual metabolisms."
The cemetery remained silent except for distant traffic and the rustle of palm fronds overhead. Miguel liked it better this way—just him and his ghosts. He'd brought Mama a few times, but she'd cried so hard he couldn't bear to watch. Some wounds never fully closed.
"So, big news." He tapped his bottle against his father's headstone. "Got a gig tomorrow. Not construction. Hunter work."
The words hung in the air, almost visible in their weight.
"I know, I know. Porter job, technically. Not actual hunting. But it's a gate." Miguel ran his thumb along the bottle's label, peeling back one corner. "With Xavier—you remember, the white-haired kid from work? The one who sees through everybody's bullshit? We're supporting some C-Rank hunter named Tenten."
He glanced at his brothers' shared headstone, their names etched side by side like they'd always been in life.
"Mama doesn't know yet. Gonna tell her tomorrow morning." Miguel laughed, the sound hollow against the marble markers. "Might be the last conversation we ever have, so... if I show up here permanently tomorrow night, you'll know why."
He took another swig of beer.
"But I can't lie to you guys. I feel it. That pull. That... calling." Miguel's fingers tightened around the bottle. "Same one you felt, Dad. Same one that took Marco and Javi. Like there's something inside the gates that knows my name."
A breeze swept through the cemetery, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and city exhaust. Miguel closed his eyes, letting the familiar contradictions of Los Angeles wash over him.
"Xavier feels it too. Different, maybe, but the same kind of pull. Like we're meant for something more than pouring concrete and hanging drywall." He opened his eyes, staring at the three headstones lined up before him. "Runs in the blood, I guess. Us Gonzalez boys always did love danger."
He emptied his bottle and set it beside the others.
"I promised you I'd take care of her, Abuelo. And I have. Every month, half my check goes straight to Mama's account. The house is paid off. She's got health insurance." Miguel traced the engraved letters of his grandfather's name. "But what if this is how I'm supposed to take care of her? What if I could make real money doing this? Hunter money?"
The question lingered, unanswered.
"Entry-level hunters make triple what I earn slinging concrete. Triple. And if I've got actual potential..." He shook his head. "Could set Mama up proper. No more double shifts at the hospital. No more worrying about retirement."
Miguel stood, brushing grass from his jeans.
"I need you guys tomorrow," he said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. "All of you. Whatever's waiting in that gate, whatever's been calling me all these years—I need to know I'm not facing it alone."
He touched each headstone in turn—a ritual he'd developed over years of these one-sided conversations.
"And if Mama kills me before I even get to the gate," he added with a half-smile, "put in a good word for me upstairs. Tell them I was just trying to follow the family tradition."
Miguel stepped back, offering a small salute to the row of graves.
"Same time next week. I'll bring better beer if I survive."
As he walked away, the weight that had pressed against his chest all day seemed to lift slightly.
His phone buzzed as he reached his truck. A text from Xavier:
Still good for tomorrow? Meeting at the gate entrance, 1:30. Bring water and comfortable shoes.
Miguel typed back:
Hell yes. Already packed my lunch. Might be my last meal if Mama finds out.
He started the engine, glancing once more toward the graves before pulling away. The bottles gleamed in the moonlight, a silent toast to the men who'd gone before him.
The drive home took him through familiar neighborhoods—past the park where his brothers had taught him to play baseball, past the church where they used to go to every Sunday, past the community center where he still volunteered on weekends.
His apartment building loomed ahead, a squat structure with peeling paint and security bars on the windows. Not much, but it was his. The only place that was truly his alone.
Inside, he dropped his keys on the counter and stood before the small altar in the living room corner. Candles surrounded photos of his father, grandfather, and brothers. Saint Michael stood guard over them all—the warrior saint his mother had named him after.
"Watch over me tomorrow," Miguel murmured to the altar. "And maybe distract Mama when I break the news."
He checked his phone again—11:47 PM. Late, but not too late.
He dialed.
"Mijo?" His mother's voice, warm and worried. "Everything okay?"
"All good, Mama. Just checking in." Miguel moved to the window, looking out at the city lights. "You working tomorrow?"
"Night shift. Why?"
"Thought I might stop by in the morning. Breakfast?"
A pause. "Miguel Gonzalez, what are you up to?"
He laughed. "Can't a son want to see his beautiful mother?"
"At 6 AM on your day off? Not without reason." Her tone sharpened. "Tell me now."
Miguel took a deep breath. "My friend got us a job. Just for tomorrow. Good money."
"What kind of job pays good money for one day?" The suspicion in her voice was palpable.
"Porter work," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "For a gate clearing."
Silence stretched between them, heavy as lead.
"Mama?"
"No." The word fell like a stone. "Absolutely not."
"It's just porter work. Not actual hunting. I'll be outside the gate the whole time."
"That's what your brothers said. That's what your father said." Her voice trembled. "Porter today, hunter tomorrow."
Miguel closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. "It's good money, Mama. Seven hundred and fifty for one day."
"I don't care if it's three thousand." Her voice cracked. "I cannot lose you too, Miguel. You're all I have left."
The familiar guilt twisted in his stomach. "I know, Mama."
"Then why? Why would you even consider this?"
"Because..." Miguel struggled to find words that wouldn't hurt her more. "Because sometimes I feel like I'm just going through the motions. Building things for other people while my own life stays stuck."
"Being alive is not 'stuck,' mijo. It's a blessing." Her voice hardened. "A blessing your father and brothers no longer have."
"I know that." Miguel's free hand curled into a fist at his side. "But what if this is what I'm meant to do? What if this feeling I've had since I was sixteen isn't just going to go away?"
Another long silence.
"The gate call," she finally said, her voice barely audible. "That's what your father called it."
"Yes."
His mother sighed, a sound so weighted with grief it made Miguel's chest ache.
"You're a grown man," she said at last. "I cannot stop you. But I can pray for you, and I will. All night."
"Mama—"
"Come for breakfast," she interrupted. "6 AM. I'll make your favorites. And Miguel?"
"Yes?"
"Bring your friend. I want to meet the man who's taking my son into danger."
Miguel blinked in surprise. "You want to meet Xavier?"
"If he's going to be responsible for bringing you home safely, I should know his face." Her tone brooked no argument. "6 AM. Don't be late."
The call ended before he could respond.
Miguel lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen. That had gone... not exactly well, but better than expected. No screaming. No crying. Just that quiet resignation that somehow hurt worse than anger ever could.
He texted Xavier:
Change of plans for tomorrow. My mother wants to meet you before we die. Breakfast at her place, 6 AM. She's making chilaquiles. Say yes if you value your life.
The response came almost immediately:
Your mother wants to meet me? At 6 AM? What did you tell her exactly?
Miguel typed back:
That we're doing porter work at a gate. She took it about as well as expected. Now she wants to size you up. Make sure you're worthy of protecting her only remaining son.
Three dots appeared as Xavier typed, disappeared, then reappeared.
Fine. Text me the address. Should I bring anything?
Miguel smiled despite himself.
Just your charming personality. And maybe body armor. Mama's aim with a chancla is legendary.
He set the phone down and moved to his bedroom, pulling a duffel bag from under his bed. Time to pack. What did one bring to their first gate job? Running shoes, definitely. Water. Snacks. A first aid kit seemed sensible. The pocketknife his grandfather had given him on his sixteenth birthday.
As he gathered supplies, Miguel felt that familiar pull in his chest—the one he'd been fighting for years. Like a hook behind his sternum, tugging him toward something vast and unknowable. The gate call.
Tomorrow, for the first time, he would answer it.
"Hope you're watching," he said to the empty room, to the ghosts that followed him everywhere. "It's gonna be one hell of a show."
He zipped the bag and set it by the door, then fell into bed without bothering to undress. Sleep took him quickly, and for once, the dreams of dark passages and distant voices didn't come.
Instead, he dreamed of his grandfather's deathbed words: "Die surrounded by others."
In the dream, Miguel wasn't afraid. In the dream, he understood what those words truly meant.