A pall of dread lay thick over the Hunter Association headquarters like a mourning veil, quiet and suffocating. The obsidian tower, a monolith of mana-forged steel and blackened glass, rose defiantly into the storm-churned sky, its sharp spires cutting through the clouds like blades. Rain lashed the windows in jagged streaks. Thunder rolled in the distance—low, mournful, and too frequent to ignore.
Inside, the fortress no longer felt invincible.
Wards etched into the stone glowed with a strained pulse, flickering as if even the runes themselves were uncertain. Hallways once brimming with confident footsteps now echoed with uneasy silence. Hunters walked with shoulders drawn tight, hushed whispers passing between them like contraband. No one laughed. No one lingered. Even the air tasted different—like static and burnt ozone, the remnants of something powerful and wrong.
In the heart of the tower, deep within its secured sanctum, sat the Crescent Hall.
Here, around a crescent-shaped table forged from black iron, dragonbone, and ancient stone, the surviving National Hunters convened. These were not ordinary men and women—they were legends, walking calamities who had once turned the tide of war with a gesture.
Now, they sat in grim stillness, their silence more thunderous than any spell.
At the table's center sat Aldric Voss, President of the Hunter Association. His silver robes shimmered faintly beneath the enchantment of the Veritas Mantle, a woven miracle of truth-forcing spells layered by generations of Grand Enchanters. Tonight, though, it offered no comfort. His eyes, usually sharp as polished steel, were dull with fatigue—less from sleepless nights and more from the weight of history cracking under his watch.
To his left, Elias Vitalis—the Sacred Restorer—rested his gnarled fingers on an ivory staff inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Once, he had raised cities from ruins. He had healed thousands with a breath. But now, he sat hunched and pale, as if every breath cost him a memory.
He tried to speak.
"What… what is happening?" His voice trembled, dry as old parchment.
No one answered.
A single droplet of condensation formed on the rim of his crystal goblet, then fell with a faint plink into the silence.
He shook his head slowly. "First the Dark Emperor… now the Silent Reaper. These weren't men. They were paragons. Untouchable."
The table remained silent, Elias don't know that the National Hunter were behind the dead of Dark Emperor. They believe he was to pure to know the sickness of how the world works.
No National Hunter had died in a hundred years—not to time, not to war, and certainly not to another.
Until now.
Aldric straightened. He didn't want to speak. But the truth demanded it.
"Dorian was found at the mid of his living room. Alone. Impaled by a weapon of unknown origin—black steel, forged from shadow. His regeneration failed. His heart never healed."
Elias recoiled as if struck. His lips moved without sound. "How… Who could cut through his divine field?"
A chill passed through the chamber.
Some lowered their eyes, others glanced sideways. They had ideas. Fragments. Whispers. But none dared to speak the name aloud—none but one.
Alaric Spellbinder leaned forward, the soft glow of violet runes blooming across his dragon-hide robe. His tone was calm, almost eerily so.
"It matters not who wields the blade," he said. "Only that they dared. And that they succeeded."
A quiet, furious rhythm tapped against the table—Sebastian Stratagem, the Grand Tactician, rolling a carved chess pawn between his fingers. He didn't look up as he murmured, "Perception is power. If word spreads that we can die—truly die—then our deterrence evaporates. The world will descend into chaos."
Ignatius Emberlord exhaled sharply through his nose. Flames licked the edges of his gauntlets, casting erratic shadows on the walls. Then, with a flash of anger, he slammed his fist onto the table. Sparks leapt into the air. The scent of scorched stone and brimstone followed.
"We find whoever did this," he growled. "And we burn them. Loudly. Publicly."
Aldric met each gaze in turn—men and women who had once fought side by side to save the world. Now, they looked haunted. Fractured.
He rose, slow but firm. The sound of chair legs scraping stone was the only reply to the quiet tension.
"Mobilize your guilds. No delay. No discretion. The Association will fund every step. Find whoever killed Dorian. I want no forest, no ruin, no heart to shelter them."
One by one, the hunters nodded. It wasn't agreement. It was obligation. The meeting ended with no words of closure—just the soft fall of boots retreating into darkness.
A year passed.
The world spun on, pretending normalcy. But fractures webbed the surface like ice cracking beneath the weight of a forgotten giant.
Above the skyline of Argent City, where chrome towers kissed the clouds and traffic hummed on rivers of light, a storm brewed.
It wasn't weather.
Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the city's tallest spire—a pinnacle of enchanted glass and arc-steel.
At its summit stood a lone figure, cloaked in shadows and silence.
Lucian Blackthorne.
The wind tugged at his cloak, but it did not move. His presence defied the elements. His black eyes shimmered—not with light, but with the reflections of all he had lost. There was a kind of stillness about him, like the world bent subtly around his breath.
He looked down.
In the elite district below, behind marble walls and golden gates, sat the mansion of Caius Voltaris—Thunder Sovereign. One of the National Hunters. A man who had turned away when Lucian's world was reduced to ash.
Lucian closed his eyes briefly.
He remembered the laughter of his mother, the scent of rain in the garden of his childhood estate. He remembered Seraphina's violin, his father's hand on his shoulder, the echo of Maximilian's laughter echoing across the dueling yard.
He remembered their screams.
Lucian's fingers brushed the hilt of Obsidian Oath strapped to his back. The blade pulsed faintly under his touch, like a heartbeat—slow and ancient. It had fed on monsters. On tyrants. But tonight, it would taste justice.
A sharp crack of thunder split the sky.
It ripple around Caius's mansion, dense enough to warp the rain midair.
Lucian whispered into the wind.
"Tonight, the storm falls."
And then he vanished.
In the velvet-draped bedroom of Caius Voltaris, soft classical music played from a golden gramophone. The walls were adorned with tapestries of dragon-flight, of storms frozen mid-roar, of old glories painted in thread and mana. Caius sat on a chaise, humming quietly, polishing his saber—an artifact brimming with old lightning.
The candles flickered.
Then, in a breath, they died.
The chandelier above trembled. Shadows stretched unnaturally.
Caius stood in one motion, mana flaring around him in a halo of static. His eyes darted to the corners of the room—but it was already too late.
Lucian emerged from the darkness like a memory dragged from the void.
Caius's voice tore through the silence, low and venomous.
"So… you were the reason the world went still. Bold of you—almost as if you're begging for death."
Lucian's reply was quiet. Cold.
"No. I have a name to avenge."
The darkness clung to his skin. Veins of shadow spread down his arms as the room dimmed further, light itself refusing to touch him.
"Shadow Eclipse."
At the utterance, the world itself seemed to shudder—light bled away, swallowed whole by an abyss without end. Darkness spread like a living tide, suffocating every corner, leaving no path, no refuge, no escape.
Dark tendrils erupted outward, silencing even the sound of Caius's breathing. The world dulled.
Caius didn't hesitate. He roared, lightning coiling around him.
"Thunderous Vortex!"
Mana surged. A column of lightning tore upward, devouring furniture and stone alike.
Lucian answered with his blade.
"Obsidian Genesis."
He met the lightning—not with resistance, but with hunger.
The blade drank it whole.
Caius froze mid-step, his body seizing as if invisible claws tore through his flesh. A jagged snap erupted from his wrist, shattering like fragile glass. His veins lit with pain, blood spilling from his nose as his frame quivered under the crushing force. "Impossible… You devour lightning?"
Lucian's smile was slow and terrible.
"I devour everything."
What followed was less a battle and more a storm within a storm.
Caius moved with blinding speed, bolts crackling from each swing. But Lucian's sword art was a dance of void and precision.
Sable Tempest.
He weaved through thunder like smoke through fire.
Caius's scream split the chamber as his left arm was torn away, crashing to the floor with a wet thud. Blood hissed against the carpet like fire consuming silk, the stench of iron thick in the air.
He raised his head, defiance burning through the agony.
"Even if you tear me apart," he spat, crimson flecking his lips, "you'll never resurrect what's already rotted. The Blackthornes… are nothing but dust!"
Lucian's gaze burned.
"Ashes can be rekindled," he whispered. "And you… you're the spark."
"Umbral Dominion."
The blade plunged into Caius's chest.
His body convulsed. Sparks spilled from his mouth as his soul buckled.
"They'll come for you…" he gasped, "From everywhere…"
Lucian leaned close, his voice cold and absolute.
"Let them come."
A flicker of void surged behind Caius's eyes—and he burned from the inside out. Not with fire, but with nothingness. With finality.
When it ended, only ash remained.
Lucian sheathed his sword and stood in heavy silence, the echo of battle still clinging to the air. Caius lay lifeless, of that he was certain—yet a gnawing unease coiled in his chest, a presence he could not dismiss.
Then it struck him—the unmistakable chill of mana, sharp and oppressive, seeping from afar. Another National Hunter was drawing near.
Far from the city, on a cliff battered by salt and storm, five figures stood beneath a fractured sky.
The wind howled. The sea screamed.
At the center, Gideon Silversword, Sword Saint and last of the Dawnbloods, stared into the night. His silver hair was soaked, his blade still sheathed, but his presence was radiant—a promise of unyielding purpose.
Around him stood the Celestial Swords.
None spoke.
They didn't need to.
"The abyss stirs," Gideon said.
Someone murmured, "He strikes from shadow…"
Gideon's fingers brushed his blade's hilt.
"Then we'll meet him in the dark."
"They had been dispatched by the Hunter Association to handle routine matters—yet what they stumbled upon was far more intriguing."
Above them, a silent tremor rippled through the stars, and fate itself shivered.