Public Reaction – The Viral Footage
By the time the sun crested over the skyline, painting the high-rises in hues of fire and gold, the footage had already gone global.
What had started as a jittery, handheld livestream—shaky, unfocused, recorded by a C-Rank hunter too stunned to run—was now the most-watched combat clip in the world. The fight outside the B-Rank dungeon had become the stuff of legend overnight.
On every major network, the moment the Demon Lord's Champion stepped out of the collapsing rift played on loop: his ten-foot frame wrapped in infernal black plate, the red-cracked greatsword dragging behind him like it could cut the world in half. A dozen headlines blared the same word in different fonts:
"WORLD-CLASS ENTITY SPAWNED FROM B-RANK?"
"SOLO NECROMANCER STOPS DUNGEON OUTBREAK."
"IS THIS THE RETURN OF CLASS-S VIOLATIONS?"
Clips were clipped from clips, content creators layering slow-motion over enhanced contrast filters, pausing the video at key frames.
Online Reactions
In the dark corners of the HunterNet, forums exploded.
[THREAD: "A Necromancer Did WHAT?!" – 3.4M Views]Poster: SkullmancerX
"Bro, rewind to 21:33. Did you SEE that summon coordination? That wasn't just instinct—that was squad tactics."
[RE: Timestamp Analysis – 23:12]
"Look at the mana curve when he flanks—he predicted the Champion's footwork before he even moved. That's not just timing. That's something else."
Even certified combat instructors were dissecting the footage in real-time. One viral clip had a former S-Rank guild tactician running the fight through a virtual grid simulation.
"Look at the spacing. Sorcerer draws aggro with a wide cone. Warrior pins, Leon rotates left with a charged shot. That's triple threat pincer formation. It's taught in military academies, not solo dungeons."
"And the shot? That wasn't mana-coated. That was death-aligned. Corrosive necro-pressure. He's modifying his bullets mid-fight."
In another corner of the net, weapon engineers were speculating about the gun.
"Custom-forged. I count two augmentation lines, maybe three. And that grip? That's hand-stabilized for mana recoil—military issue tech."
But the thing that left everyone speechless?
The final blow.
The Moment That Froze the World
Leon's corrupted cleaver rising. His Deathborn Sorcerer unleashing a perfect soul barrage. Bladewraith emerging from the shadows like death incarnate, spectral blade trailing violet aftershocks.
And Leon—mid-slide, drawing the black greatsword from the dirt, channeling his own raw mana into its jagged edge.
The world watched the moment the blade pierced through the Champion's infernal chest.
Simultaneous strikes. Triple execution.
Abyssal entity—terminated.
Damian Falken Watches
In a high tower overlooking New Boston's inner wall, Damian Falken sat alone in his office, the blinds drawn tight. His desk was littered with reports, field footage, and scattered tactical logs from a recent skirmish in the north.
He hadn't slept.
But the notification had drawn his attention.
[Viral Hunter Footage: Demon Champion Killed Outside B-Rank Gate (FULL FIGHT)]
He played it once.
Then again.
By the third viewing, he leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of his face.
"…That kid got strong."
Falken wasn't one to praise often. But his voice carried weight when he did.
He tapped the screen, freezing the clip on Leon's expression just before he pulled the trigger.
Focused. Measured. Cold.
"He's not just some necromancer anymore," Falken muttered. "He's a battlefield architect."
Global Impact
Guilds across the world were mobilizing.
In Seoul, the Cold Fang Association posted a full bounty audit and ranked Leon's summons for analysis.
In London, whispers spread across the underworld as a black-market broker tried to acquire a copy of the footage from the original streamer. No one could find him—he'd gone silent after the video hit ten million views.
In New Cairo, a Class-A arcanist posted a three-thousand-word breakdown on Leon's Sorcerer, calling it the "closest thing to a sentient undead construct in recorded combat history."
And in the heart of the World Hunter Council—
An internal bulletin was raised.
[SUBJECT: LEON DRAYVEN GRAVES]CLEARANCE STATUS: PENDINGOBSERVATION UNIT: DEPLOYED
In less than twenty-four hours, Leon's name was on everyone's lips.
Some called him a fluke.
Others, a prodigy.
But no one could deny—
The world had just witnessed the rise of a new kind of necromancer.
And whether it was ready for him or not…
Leon Drayven Graves was no longer in the shadows.
Aftermath – A Quiet Resolve
The automatic doors hissed open behind him as Leon stepped out into the crisp morning air.
His breath misted in front of him, fading fast into the early skyline haze. The sun hadn't even broken through the upper decks of the megacity towers, but the streets were already buzzing—news vans, hover-drones, reporters setting up close to the Hunter Association plaza.
He didn't look at them.
Didn't need to.
The only thing on his mind was the notification still lingering in his system log, half-faded from his peripheral.
[$5,000,000 Transferred Successfully]Recipient: Graves Medical CenterPlan Activated: Class-A Recovery + Full Neuro-Repair Coverage
His jaw flexed slightly. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
She was going to walk again. The endless scans, the missed treatments, the nights she cried when she thought he wasn't listening—all of it was over.
For the first time in years, she had a future.
And he had kept his promise.
But even as the quiet victory tried to settle in, the familiar chime of his system ruined it.
A translucent blue window blinked into view, crisp and digital against the fading mist.
[New Messages: 327 Unread][Hunter Association – Urgent Notice][Guild Recruitment Offers – 17 Pending][Media Inquiries – 42 Requests]
Leon stared at it for a second.
"…I didn't even ask for this."
He dismissed the screen with a flick of his wrist, the window vanishing into fading code.
And then—he stepped into the plaza.
The Digital Billboard – Proof of Power
The world met him halfway.
Above him—across the entire side of the Hunter Association tower's digital display wall—a looping reel played for the public to see.
Not just any footage.
His footage.
A frozen frame of him mid-combat with the Abyssal Champion, just before the killing strike.
His corrupted Warrior Zombie locking blades.
His Deathborn Sorcerer unleashing soulflame.
Bladewraith bursting forward like a phantom blade—and Leon himself, charging with a sword glowing with compressed necrotic energy, slicing into the exposed chest of a World-Class entity.
It replayed again. And again.
Each time the Champion fell, the same subtitle pulsed across the bottom of the screen in burning gold font:
"UNKNOWN NECROMANCER STOPS WORLD BOSS."
People gathered in pockets, phones held up like relics, streaming, screenshotting, muttering.
"Did you see how he moved?"
"That was synchronized undead formation. Who even trains that?"
"F-rank, my ass. That guy's Class-A minimum."
Leon kept his head down, pulling his hood tighter over his head as he moved through the crowd like fog. Unnoticed by some, watched by others. Their eyes followed. Curious. Unsettled. In awe.
He didn't stop walking.
The Café Encounter
He ducked into a quiet place three blocks off the plaza—an old-world coffee shop wedged between two glass-paneled towers. Concrete interior, recycled wood furniture, low conversation. The kind of spot used to hosting off-duty hunters and Association analysts in quiet exile from the noise.
A perfect place to disappear.
Leon stepped up to the counter.
"Black. No sugar."
The barista blinked. Then recognized him. She said nothing—just handed over the coffee, nodding once like someone acknowledging something they weren't supposed to know.
Leon took the corner booth by the window. The chair groaned under him as he sat, body sore, eyes heavy.
He took one sip.
Then—
"Holy shit."
He glanced up, unamused.
A young hunter, probably late teens, stood frozen in line. His phone was out. On-screen was the freeze-frame of Leon's blade buried in the Champion's exposed core, his undead converging in a storm of soulflame and force.
"You're that necromancer—bro, the necromancer! From the outbreak! From the abyssal raid!"
The entire café went quiet.
Chairs scraped. Mugs froze mid-air. Heads turned.
Several people pulled out their phones in sync.
Leon sighed.
He downed the rest of his coffee in one long pull and stood, cloak falling around his frame like a silent curtain.
"I should've picked the rooftop spot," he muttered under his breath, brushing past the hunter as he left.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He could feel the weight of their stares through the glass.
Outside, the street buzzed with new faces. Paparazzi drones hovered above rooftops. Guild scouts leaned against railings pretending not to wait for him. Even the birds seemed to fly slower, like the world itself was watching.
And through it all—
Leon kept walking.
Still quiet.
Still alone.
Still moving forward.
Because whatever came next—
He knew he wasn't done. Not even close.
Back at the Hunter Association HQ
The lobby was a warzone.
Reporters clustered near the entrance like a hungry pack of wolves—shouting names, flashing cameras, holding mics with glowing red record sigils. Adventurers in armor and suits leaned against polished walls, whispering into comms and pointing at the looping footage displayed above the reception terminal.
The moment Leon walked in, all noise funneled toward him.
"There he is!"
"Leon! Leon Graves!"
"What rank are you really?!"
"Do you plan to join a guild?!"
Security reacted fast. Two armored officers stepped between Leon and the crowd. One of them, a tall woman with an earpiece, gave him a sharp nod.
"Director Wynn's waiting for you."
Leon said nothing as they led him through a service corridor—far from the chaos. They moved quickly, bypassing elevators, taking a private lift straight to the upper levels of the Association headquarters.
The moment the door opened, Leon was ushered into a small, sterile meeting room with a single long table and white-glass panels humming softly along the walls.
Karla Wynn was already seated.
She looked exactly as expected—short, sharp hair, grey tactical jacket over her black Association uniform, eyes like a ledger that never closed.
She gestured for him to sit.
"Leon Drayven Graves," she said, her tone direct. "On behalf of the Association, thank you. You saved countless lives today—both inside and outside the field."
Leon sank into the chair. He didn't respond.
Karla tapped her holo-pad. A projection of the fight flickered to life beside her—blurry, then clearer. The moment Leon fired the necrotic blade into the Champion's chest while his summons converged, the screen froze.
"That's not an F-Rank," she said.
Leon shrugged.
"That's not even a C, B, or A-level pattern. Your formations were beyond trained. Your undead displayed synergy, adaptation, command-level tactics."
Karla leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"Which brings us to the issue—your current Hunter license still lists you as F-Rank."
Leon lifted an eyebrow. "So?"
Karla reached into her coat and slid a card across the table.
It shimmered with Association seal verification.
"Come back next week. We're doing a formal rank re-evaluation. In truth… we don't know if the system even has a classification high enough to categorize you yet."
Leon picked up the card, turning it between his fingers.
He tucked it away without a word.
"Anything else?" he asked.
Karla's expression softened for the first time. Not warm—but thoughtful.
"Just one thing…"
She stood, eyes locking with his.
"Don't disappear. The public is watching now. The guilds, the press, other countries."
Leon stood too, adjusting his coat.
"I don't care if they're watching," he said. "Let them."
And then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned and left.
Back Home – Preparing for the Future
The door to his apartment shut with a click.
Silence followed.
Dust filtered through a sliver of light coming from the half-covered window. The place was cramped—one bedroom, no kitchen space, three cracked tiles by the entryway. He dropped his gear beside the wall, let his coat slide off, and stared at the same flickering ceiling light that had been broken for over a year.
This wasn't home.
Not anymore.
Not for his mom.
Not for what came next.
Leon sat on the edge of his bed, opened his palm—and the system window pulsed to life in the dark.
Stat Awakening – Leon's Full Allocation
Leon sat still, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked onto the glowing blue system screen hovering inches from his face.
The notification shimmered again:
[Available Stat Points: 1200]Distribute Now?
His lips parted slightly.
That number still felt unreal.
He hadn't just survived the Demon Champion.
He'd leveled beyond anything a solo necromancer had ever touched.
He reached out, breath even, fingers gliding across the interface.
"Let's see what this body can handle."
He began typing in values—quick, clean, confident.
Strength: +150Stamina: +300Mana: +600Agility: +100Perception: +50
He confirmed the input.
The system pulsed with radiant light—runes flaring briefly in the air.
[Processing Distribution…][Stat Allocation Confirmed.]
Then it hit him.
A wave of heat surged through his chest.
His muscles tightened, like steel drawn over bone. The air around him vibrated. For a moment, he couldn't breathe—his body struggling to keep up with the sheer volume of mana flooding his channels.
His vision sharpened instantly. The dim room bloomed with detail. Every crack in the plaster. Every particle of dust drifting through light.
His pulse steadied. And then slowed.
He was calm.
Stronger.
Alive.
His stamina settled like coiled energy in his limbs—like he could run for hours and never break a sweat. The mana… it was different. It didn't just swirl—it listened. Ready to obey the moment he gave it a command.
His hand flexed. Sparks of necrotic energy flickered between his fingers like phantom lightning.
This was no longer just survival.
This was power.
System Notification
[Title Bonus Activated: Champion Slayer]+10% Combat Performance Against Elite Enemies+50% Mana Efficiency (Necrotic Skills)
[Hidden Trait Unlocked: Gravewalker's Will]Description: Your summons are no longer bound to system limits. Battlefield autonomy unlocked at General Tier.
Leon blinked once.
That last line made him pause.
Gravewalker's Will…
He hadn't even evolved his summons yet—and the system was already preparing for the next level.
He glanced at the still-hovering prompt:
[Summon Promotion – General Tier Eligible]- Warrior Zombie [Eligible]- Deathborn Sorcerer [Eligible]- Bladewraith [Eligible]
Leon's hand hovered over the screen.
He didn't touch it.
Not yet.
With this kind of power flowing through him, he needed to plan the evolution carefully—strategically. These wouldn't just be summons. They'd be officers. Anchors for everything he'd build next.
Not just fighters.
Commanders.
And before that… he needed space.
He looked around the room again—the peeling wall, the battered coat rack, the single dim lightbulb overhead.
His mother couldn't recover here. And he couldn't lead from this place.
He closed the system.
Then walked toward the window.
The city stretched far beyond the glass—alive, breathing, watching.
Somewhere out there, a storm was coming.
He could feel it.
And now?
He was ready.