In Seoul, the Korean Hunter Association headquarters was busy. Phones rang non-stop. Hunters ran through halls. Chairman Go Gun-hee sat in his office. His face was grim.
He watched screens showing the chaos. "This is bad," he said to his assistant. His voice was low and tired. He felt anger and fear. Korea's pride was at stake. If they failed, other countries would laugh at them.
An aide rushed in. "Sir, reports confirm. The ants are mutating. The Gate is unstable. Civilians are dying by the hundreds." Go Gun-hee slammed his fist on the desk.
"We can't let this spread. Jeju is our land. If foreigners fix it, we look weak. We lose the dungeon rights. All spoils go to them. Mobilize everyone." He stood up, his eyes hard. "Call all hunters. S-rank, A-rank, down to E-rank. This is all hands on deck."
The aide nodded, feeling the weight. "Yes, sir. I'll send the orders." Messages went out. Hunters' phones lit up. "Report to Jeju now. National emergency."
One S-rank hunter, Cha Hae-in, read it in her home. She felt a chill. "This is worse than any dungeon outbreak before," she thought. Worry filled her. But she grabbed her sword. "I have to go." She felt determined.
Word reached other countries fast. Governments called each other. Hunter associations got alerts.
In America, at the Federal Bureau of Hunters in Washington D.C., Director Jay Mills was in the middle of a routine strategy meeting when his secure phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen—a classified line from the Pacific desk—and picked it up.
"Korea? Jeju Island outbreak," the analyst on the other end said, voice tight. "S-rank Gate gone haywire. Ants mutating in real time. Civilian casualties already in the thousands. The Korean Association is mobilizing everything they've got."
Mills leaned back in his chair, brow furrowing. Curious and worried on the surface, yes—but deeper down, a sharper feeling stirred. Opportunity.
"Mutating ants? That's new," he said calmly, keeping his tone neutral for the room. He motioned for his advisors to stay quiet. Around the long table, his senior staff—deputy directors, intelligence leads, and top raid coordinators—watched him closely.
He ended the call and set the phone down with deliberate care.
"Listen up," Mills said, voice steady and commanding. "Korea's in deep trouble. Jeju Island Gate has turned into a full-blown disaster. The ants aren't just breaking out—they're evolving as they kill. Korea's throwing every hunter they have at it."
The room stirred. A few exchanged glances.
"We should help," Mills continued. "It's the right thing to do. Allies and all that." He paused, letting the words hang. Everyone knew there was more.
Deputy Director Harris spoke first. "Sir, if we go big, Korea won't like it. Jeju is their territory. They'll see it as us stepping on their toes."
Mills nodded slowly, as if weighing the concern. "Exactly. So we don't go big. Not yet." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "We send scouts first. Offer support. Show we're ready to assist if they ask."
Inside, his thoughts ran colder. Korea was proud. Too proud. If they failed—or even if they barely succeeded—the world would see them as vulnerable. And a dungeon this dangerous? The spoils would be massive.
High-grade essence stones, rare materials, artifacts. Whatever was inside that Gate had powered ants strong enough to overrun an entire island. Clearing it would level up American hunters faster than any red gate back home.
More than that: if the U.S. stepped in at the critical moment and turned the tide, Korea would owe them. Big time. Political favors. Exclusive raid rights on future gates. Intelligence sharing. Maybe even basing rights for American hunters in Seoul.
All wrapped in the flag of friendship.
"Respect for their sovereignty," Mills said aloud, voice warm with practiced sincerity. "But we get eyes on the ground. Mobilize Team Alpha. Top scouts only. Tell them to gear up for immediate deployment. They're on standby to fly out within hours."
Harris hesitated. "And if Korea says no to our help?"
Mills smiled—a small, knowing curve. "Then we wait. Politely. Right up until the moment they can't afford to say no anymore."
The room understood. Nods all around. No one said the quiet part out loud: they weren't just offering help. They were positioning to profit.
"Get the State Department on the line," Mills added. "Draft an official offer of assistance. Make it generous. Humanitarian support, medical teams, whatever they need." He stood, signaling the meeting was over. "And tell Alpha Team to pack heavy. Just in case Korea invites us to the party."
As his staff hurried out to carry out orders, Mills lingered by the window, looking out over D.C. Pride and concern were real enough on the surface. But beneath it, ambition burned steady and bright.
This wasn't just a crisis for Korea.
It was a chance for America.
And he intended to make sure they didn't miss it.
In India, at the Indian Hunter Guild headquarters in Delhi, the place buzzed with activity. Guild Master Ravi Singh was in his office when he heard the news on TV.
The screen showed chaos on Jeju Island—ants tearing through villages, people screaming. His heart sank. "So many are dying," he said to himself. Sadness filled him, heavy like a stone in his chest.
He stood up fast and called a meeting. Hunters gathered in the main hall, their faces serious. Ravi stepped to the front. "Brothers and sisters," he said, his voice strong but sad. "Korea needs aid. The ants are evolving. We can't sit here and do nothing."
Most hunters nodded, but a few looked unsure. One hunter, a tall man named Arjun, spoke up. "Why help them, Master? Korea is far away. We have our own gates to handle. Why risk our lives for their problem?"
Others murmured agreement. "Yeah, survival comes first," another said. "We look after our own people before others."
Ravi raised his hand for quiet. He looked at each of them, his eyes steady. "I understand," he said. "In matters of survival, everyone wishes to survive first and care about others later. That's human. But think bigger. This is our responsibility as humanity—we help because if we don't, the monsters win everywhere.
And public interest? If we stand by and let Korea fall, what message does that send? India looks weak, selfish. But if we aid them, we build alliances. We gain respect. We show the world India leads in tough times. That's how we protect our future too."
The room went quiet. Arjun nodded slowly. "You're right, Master." Anger at the monsters showed on their faces now. "Let's go," one said, fist clenched. "Mobilize our best.
Elephants Team, prepare." Ravi felt a strong sense of duty. "We help our allies," he said. They packed gear, feeling excited and scared, ready to fight for more than just Korea.
In China, at the China Hunter Association in Beijing, Chairman Liu Zhigang sat in his office watching videos on his screen. The ants mutated, killing everything. His face was like stone, no emotion showing.
But inside, he felt an alarm. "This could spread to us," he thought. Worry gnawed at him, sharp and cold. If the ants got out of Jeju, they could hit the mainland next.
He stood up quickly. "Call the leaders," he said to his aides. His voice was firm, like an order. Aides hurried out. In the meeting room, top hunters and officials gathered. Liu paced. "We send help to Korea," he said.
One aide frowned. "Sir, why? Korea might claim the whole dungeon. And what about them? If they fail, it's their problem."
Liu stopped and looked at them all. His eyes were hard. "We don't care what happens to Korea," he said plainly. "We are going to gain control over Jeju. Stop this before it spreads to our land. If those ants cross the sea, our cities can be the next targets. We show strength, take what we can from the dungeon, and make sure China stays safe."
Pride swelled in the room. Hunters nodded. "To Jeju," one shouted. They felt ready to fight. Emotions were high: fear of loss for their own country, eagerness to win control. No one mentioned helping Korea—it was all about protecting China.
In Japan, the Japan Hunter Association in Tokyo reacted quickly. Chairman Shigeru Matsumoto was at his desk when the fax came in. It detailed the Jeju outbreak.
"Jeju this time, huh," he said, his voice low. Memories of past joint raids with Korea hurt him deep—Japanese hunters had come before to help in other raids and failed miserably and even lost a lot of hunters. Regret filled his eyes, like an old wound opening.
He crumpled the paper a bit. "We failed before. Not this time," he muttered. He felt shame from the past, burning hot. Resolve grew in him. This was a chance to fix it. He called his team. "Mobilize all S-ranks," he said. "We are going to Jeju."
His team gathered fast. "Why now, Chairman?" one asked. "Korea can handle their own mess."
Matsumoto shook his head. "We owe Korea nothing," he said firmly. "We do this for us. To fix our reputation. Last time, the world saw Japan weak. Our pride was broken. Now, we go and win. Show everyone Japan is strong again. For honor—our honor."
His team cheered. "For honor," they said back. Faces showed determination, not kindness. They boarded planes, hearts pounding with purpose. It wasn't about helping others. It was about healing their own shame and rebuilding pride.
In Europe, the European Hunter Union in Brussels held a video call. Leaders from Germany, France, and the UK appeared on screens. The German rep, Hans Becker, spoke first. "Jeju is falling," he said. Worry creased his brow. "Reports say the ants are evolving fast. We must act."
The French rep, Marie Laurent, nodded. "Send mixed teams," she said. "From all our countries." Emotions varied in the call: sympathy for the victims showed in their words, but strategic thoughts hid behind their eyes.
The UK rep, John Hale, leaned in. "Mobilize now," he urged. Fear of global spread pushed him—his voice had an edge. "United we stand." But inside, each had their own agenda. Hans thought of how helping could get Europe better trade deals with Asia.
Marie saw a chance to test new weapons and gain dungeon tech. John wanted to position UK hunters for fame and levels. "Let's save them," one hunter said later, as teams formed.
His voice was strong, but his eyes scared. Hunters from different countries met, packing gear. They talked of unity, but each dreamed of their own gains—spoils, alliances, power.
Back in Korea, at the Korean Hunter Association headquarters, Chairman Go Gun-hee sat in his office. His phone rang non-stop. Calls came from all over the world. One was from America. "We offer help," the American voice said—Director Jay Mills himself. "Our teams are ready. Scouts first, but we can send more."
Go listened, his face calm. But he felt grateful on the surface, firm inside. "Thank you," he said. "But Jeju is ours. We handle it." He paused, thinking. He knew America's hidden intentions.
They always talked of alliance, but deep down, they wanted Korea indebted. Owe them favors. And a dungeon this big? They eyed the spoils—essence stones, artifacts—to level their hunters fast. Go had seen it before. America helped to gain leverage, not just kindness.
"If you come, support only," Go added. "No lead." Mills agreed smoothly, but Go heard the calculation in his voice. Other countries called too—India, China, Japan, Europe. All offered aid. Go said the same to each. Inside, he worried about looking weak. If foreigners took charge, Korea's reputation would suffer. They would lose rights to the dungeon and spoils. "We can't let that happen," he thought, anger rising.
Korea's hunters flew to Jeju right away. Planes full of them—S-rank to E-rank. "For our home," they chanted on board. Fear mixed with bravery in their hearts. They landed amid screams and smoke. The fight began. Ants charged from tunnels. Hunters swung weapons—swords flashed, skills lit the air. Blood spilled on both sides. But Korea led the charge, to keep their pride and the dungeon safe from foreign hands.
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