"Emergency. Emergency. This is Guild Forward Squad 4 — requesting immediate tower-grade reinforcement!"
"We're dealing with multiple Class-A and possible SS-level monsters. Estimated casualty risk: 90%. Location: Midgard Zone-7 Academic Sector!"
The comm crystal in the lead hunter's hand flickered.
Sweat poured down his face. His blade trembled in his grip.
He wasn't new.
He was A-Rank. A seasoned squad leader.
But what stood before them…
Wasn't a normal break.
A dozen Blue Ogres tore through the remains of the school campus. Their steps cracked stone. Their regeneration shimmered in warped blue mana. Blood dripped from tusks too large for their mouths.
And behind them—
A larger one.
Twice the size. Cobalt skin. Horns fully formed.
Its eyes showed awareness.
Like it knew what fear was.
And liked the taste of it.
"This isn't an A-Class break," a hunter whispered, backing away.
Another clutched his broken arm. "No shit, it's not. It's a monster stampede. They're too coordinated. This is a mutated nest burst."
"When the hell is backup coming? We need a goddamn Tower Ranker—!"
"SS-Class! This is SS-Class!"
And then—
The monsters stopped.
Every single ogre, mid-charge… turned.
Their noses twitched.
Their ears raised.
Their bodies went still.
"…W-Why are they—"
"Something's coming," said the squad leader.
And then they felt it.
The wind died.
The sky dimmed.
A white beam tore through the air like a pillar of judgment, descending from the heavens onto the campus.
The mana itself bent toward it.
Hunters turned to see him.
A man walking through smoke.
Alone.
Barefoot.
No armor.
No badge.
No guild mark.
Just long white hair. A faded shirt. A body wrapped in quiet scars and glowing silver tattoos. And eyes like the first moon after war.
He looked up at the monsters.
Then he exhaled.
"Blue Ogres."
His voice wasn't loud.
But they all heard it.
"Didn't think I'd see you bastards here again."
He took one more step forward, silver light beginning to pulse beneath his skin.
"In my old world, we called your kind 'Death Marchers.'"
His fists clenched.
"They trampled cities. Dragged children through blood. Healed through fire. Never forgot a scent."
The ogres growled, but didn't charge.
They could feel it.
They knew.
"YOU DARE…"
The man's voice deepened.
A second heartbeat pulsed in the air.
Hunters dropped to one knee instinctively.
Ogres staggered.
He shouted again — Qi rushing into the atmosphere like a bomb priming itself—
"YOU DARE HARM INNOCENT SOULS WHILE I'M HERE—"
"YOU FILTHY, F*CKING BEASTS—"
"YOU DARE!!"
The world snapped.
A pillar of white-silver aura exploded outward from his body, tearing the clouds above the school.
Mana-sensitive hunters screamed and covered their ears.
Some threw up.
One S-Rank hunter fainted from pressure alone.
The ogres turned to flee.
Too late.
The man raised his hand.
The ring glowed.
And for the first time on Earth—
He opened it.
Light poured out.
And from that eternal storage, the first weapon descended:
The Spear of Redemption.
Eight feet of carved, divine metal.
A spear forged with the screams of tyrants and the tears of orphans.
It glowed with scripture from a world long dead.
Even the wind paused to bow.
The lead ogre roared.
Charged.
Fangs out.
Too slow.
The man vanished.
Appeared mid-air, silver aura spiraling from his shoulders like a crown.
He gripped the spear in both hands.
And roared:
"KNEEL. WHILE. YOU. REBUKE."
He came down like a falling god.
The spear hit the first ogre, and time stopped.
The monster's skull shattered.
Its ribcage burst.
Its regeneration failed to even begin.
The shockwave blasted the other ogres backward.
One tried to get up.
The man spun once, spear in hand, and cleaved its neck from forty feet away with a burst of Qi shaped like a blade.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a sentence.
Three more came.
He didn't stop walking.
Just raised his hand — and five silver spear copies erupted from the ground, impaling them mid-run.
Another leapt from the rooftop—
The man turned, whispered a command in a language no longer spoken…
And the monster's body exploded in mid-air.
The world was quiet again.
The dungeon gate flickered.
Then shattered.
Without being touched.
It was over.
The hunters stood there.
Eyes wide.
Breathing shallow.
No one clapped.
No one cheered.
Because no one felt brave enough to move.
The man walked to the school ruins.
Pulled a boy from the wreckage.
A child named Nico.
Brehn collapsed as he saw his son.
Held him.
Wept.
Looked up to say something.
But the man was gone.
Later, the Hunter Association reviewed the footage.
Zoomed in.
Paused at the face of a man wrapped in white light.
No name.
No license.
No explanation.
Just a single note left in a hunter's notebook, scrawled with shaking hands:
"This was no hunter."
"This was a King."