Ethan swung his axe in a wide arc, cleaving into another hound. Its body collapsed alongside the others, twitching briefly before going still. The dim light filtering through the shattered ceiling above cast long shadows across the ruined void—a sunken expanse of broken concrete, bent steel, and fractured support beams.
He breathed hard, surrounded by the mangled corpses of several red hounds.
"I'm not getting any points for these," he muttered, sweat clinging to his brow.
A growl. He turned—another hound lunged at him from the side. Ethan ducked and flipped, narrowly avoiding its fangs, and in the same motion, he brought his axe around, decapitating the one rushing from behind.
The head rolled past his feet.
One down. Again.
He didn't have time to count. Another came charging.
He hurled his axe— thunk —it hit clean between the eyes. The hound collapsed, legs twitching. Ethan sprinted toward it, but more followed, closing in. He moved fast, faster than he thought he could. One hound leapt at him—he flipped mid-run, catching it by the jaw and slamming it down, but a rusted steel bar pierced his thigh as he rolled.
"Shit—" he gasped, pulling himself up, grabbing his axe again.
[SYSTEM: Fatigue level increasing rapidly.]
He was panting now. Blood on his chest. Sweat and grit in his eyes.
"If I keep going like this…" he sliced through another hound's ribs, its blood spraying across him, "…I'll collapse before it matters."
His eyes flicked upward—to the shadow perched on a ledge.
The red-blue hound. Watching. Judging.
Then came the system chime.
[SYSTEM QUEST: Defeat the Leader of the Pack – Red and Blue Hound (BOSS)]
Just as he looked back down, the red-blue hound howled.
The sound thundered through the void, sending tremors across the broken structure. The red hounds backed away, cowering. Ethan stumbled.
[SYSTEM: "Dread Howl" detected – induces fear in all who hear it. Effectiveness depends on listener's willpower.]
Ethan's breath hitched. He felt his limbs tense up, like ice crawling through his veins.
"It's stronger than me," he whispered, trembling, "no doubt now…"
He barely had time to think before the hound lunged.
It moved like a blur, its claw smashing into Ethan's side and sending him skidding across the rubble. He hit a pillar, gritting his teeth as he staggered up. Claw marks raked across his chest, already knitting back together.
His axe… gone again.
He saw it—half-buried in broken stone. Ethan gritted his teeth and ran.
[SYSTEM: Skill activated – Dash.]
The world blurred. In an instant, he was twice as fast. His movements split the air. He grabbed the axe, flipped off a slab of concrete, and launched himself toward the red-blue hound.
But the hound howled again, this time with a shrieking resonance—high-pitched, mind-shattering.
[SYSTEM: Skill "Siren Fang" – Screech attack. Causes temporary paralysis in weaker enemies.]
Ethan's body froze mid-air—his strike missed. The hound slammed into him, sending him crashing to the floor. He rolled and twisted away as it pounced. He flipped backward, barely dodging its crushing weight.
The other hounds howled now—but didn't attack. They just… watched.
Something was off.
Ethan's eyes darted to the walls. Cracks ran deep through the structure. Stones trembled loose.
He ran. The boss hound followed.
He slid beneath twisted rebar—its claws grazed his shoulder—and the beast slammed into the wall behind. The impact shook the entire place. Concrete rained from above.
thud... thud... thud...
Ethan closed his eyes, listening.
"There!" he whispered.
He bolted in that direction, scooping up his axe.
Just as he reached the spot—he felt it. A crushing weight clamped down on his shoulder.
The red-blue hound.
It bit deep, its jaws strong enough to crack steel.
The floor beneath them shattered.
And both of them plummeted into the darkness below.
Silence.
A distant rumble. Then movement.
The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered with reflections—neon signs bleeding across the cracked pavement like smeared paint. Downtown was quieter at night, the kind of quiet that didn't feel safe. Detective Mara Ivers walked with purpose, her long coat sweeping behind her like a shadow. Her heels clicked against the wet ground, steady and sharp.
Beside her was Officer Glen, younger, quieter, trying to match her pace. He glanced around nervously at the faded alleys and flickering streetlights.
"You sure he'll talk to you?" Glen asked, adjusting the collar of his uniform.
"He owes me," Mara said, eyes straight ahead. "And I don't ask twice."
They stopped outside a building with no sign—just a black metal door beneath a flickering red light. The bar didn't advertise itself. It didn't need to. The kind of people who came here already knew where to look.
Mara pushed open the door.
Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the low thrum of jazz on old speakers. Red velvet lights lined the ceiling, casting the place in a warm, dangerous glow. The bar was long, crowded with men in suits, quiet deals happening in corners.
She walked straight to the counter.
"We're looking for Saint," she told the bartender.
The man didn't speak. Just lifted his chin toward the back room.
Mara nodded.
She and Glen passed through a curtain of thick beads, stepping into a darker space. And there he was.
A man was on his knees, bloodied and broken, mumbling something about payment. Two large guards stood behind him. At the table sat a man with slicked-back blond hair, clean-shaven, wearing a dark silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show golden chains. Gold rings glittered on every finger. His face was too perfect to be honest—handsome, symmetrical, the kind of man who smiled like he'd kill you after dessert.
Saint.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching the man grovel.
One of the guards leaned down, whispering into Saint's ear. The crime boss didn't flinch. He snapped his fingers.
"Throw him out," Saint said casually. "We'll come back for our money."
The two guards lifted the man like garbage and dragged him out the side door. Blood left a trail behind.
Mara stepped forward.
Saint looked up—and grinned.
"Well well well," he said, standing. "Detective Ivers."
They embraced—surprisingly warm. Familiar.
Saint looked past her. "And who's this?"
"No one you need to worry about," Mara said without breaking eye contact. "Glen, wait outside."
Glen hesitated. "But—"
"Now," Mara snapped.
Glen backed out through the curtain, jaw tight.
Saint pulled out a chair for her, smiling. "You only come to me when it's serious."
Mara sat slowly, crossing her legs, her tone dipping into something softer… almost seductive.
"It is serious," she said. "And I need your help."
Outside, Glen stood in the hallway, staring at the blood on the floor. The beaten man was wiping his own mouth, his face swollen.
"You good?" Glen asked, stepping forward.
"Mind your damn business," the man growled, shoving past him.
Glen reached for him—just to stop him from falling—but the man turned and cracked Glen across the jaw, dropping him with a single punch.
The conference room atop Obsidian Fang's high-rise was sleek and imposing—glass walls, obsidian-black floors, and a round steel table at its center. It wasn't just a meeting place. It was a battlefield of words, where the strongest hunters in the nation measured power with presence.
Each of the four guild masters sat around the table, dressed in formal attire—not combat gear, but dark tailored suits that spoke of influence, not steel. This was a political war zone, not a dungeon.
Ronan Vale, leader of Obsidian Fang, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His black suit was sharp-edged and pristine, his silver tie clipped with the emblem of his guild—a fang-shaped insignia forged in obsidian steel. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the room.
Across from him, Mira Calden, the commanding force behind Blight Seraph, wore a white blazer lined with silver, her platinum hair neatly tied back. She leaned casually in her chair, elegance masking the venom behind her words.
"What if the boy killed the entire team himself," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "and staged the scene to make it look like a beast attack? No survivors... convenient, isn't it?"
A scoff echoed from her right.
Dagan Krell, the hot-blooded head of Crimson Vow, adjusted the red silk collar of his three-piece suit. His red-and-black tie was slightly loosened, like a man who never truly relaxed. "You always jump to fiction when you run out of facts," he said. "An E-rank kid couldn't kill a squad that strong. He'd be paste before his axe even left his hand."
Mira's icy smile sharpened. "Funny, coming from the man who let a B-rank beast burn through two of his officers."
Dagan stood with a snarl, slamming his hand on the table. "Say that again."
Before the tension could erupt, a calm voice cut through.
Kael Norrin, master of Silent Core, adjusted his black gloves and spoke without looking up. His suit was the simplest—matte black, no patterns, no flair. Just clean lines and quiet menace. "Sit down, Dagan. And Mira, don't bait him."
They obeyed, grudgingly.
Ronan finally turned toward them. "The press can't know. If the public finds out an entire raid party died and a boy walked out—especially with Elias lurking around—it's a disaster."
Mira folded her arms. "Elias is already involved. The kid's bills were being paid from his department."
Kael's gaze sharpened. "And that means the situation is far beyond what we expected."
Silence fell over the room.
Here sat the apex of the hunter world: four titans in tailored suits, arguing over the boy who slipped through their fingers. A boy who might be more than he seemed