The morning sun was harsh, cutting through the blinds of Damien's apartment like a spotlight interrogating a suspect. It was the day. The day the world held its breath. The day Damien Vicenzo Leone would finally march to his death.
Damien stood in his garage, the air cool and smelling of concrete and motor oil. He wasn't taking the Nissan GTR today. A low-slung sports car had no business in the Nevada desert, and besides, he didn't want his father's legacy gathering dust and radiation in a military exclusion zone.
Instead, he stood before a matte black SUV—a heavily modified tactical vehicle that looked more like a tank than a car. It was unpretentious, rugged, and reliable. Just like a soldier.
He opened the trunk. It was already packed with military-grade rations, water canisters, and basic survival gear—habits from a lifetime of service that he couldn't quite shake, even on a suicide mission.
Damien reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black case. He popped the latches with a satisfying click-clack.
Inside, resting on black velvet, lay a weapon that looked out of place among his utilitarian gear.
It was a Glock 19. But it wasn't standard issue. The slide was plated in pure, lustrous gold, engraved with delicate floral patterns that caught the light. On the grip, inlaid in mother-of-pearl, was a signature.
Melissa Thompson.
Damien ran his thumb over the signature, feeling the ridges of the letters.
"Hey, buddy," Damien whispered, his voice echoing softly in the garage. "It's been a while, huh? I mean... not really a while, since I used you yesterday night to shoot some asshole's head off. But that was business. This... this is personal."
He remembered the day she gave it to him. It was his birthday, three months before the Twin Dungeon incident. She had thrown it at him in a box wrapped in messy newspaper, blushing furiously while claiming she "just found it lying around." It was a lie, of course. She had commissioned it months in advance.
"I should stop rambling," Damien muttered, shaking his head. "You're a gun, not a therapist. And we have a schedule to keep."
He expertly checked the chamber, verified the magazine was full of mana-infused hollow points, and slid the gun back into its case. With a thought, he activated his [Space Inventory]. The air rippled, and the case vanished into the pocket dimension.
Damien slammed the trunk shut. The sound was final.
He walked around to the driver's side, hand on the door handle, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Buzz. Buzz.
He paused. Who would be texting him? Michael knew the plan. The squad thought he was gone. Ricky was likely drowning his sorrows in a bar.
He pulled the phone out. The screen was bright in the dim garage.
[Unknown Number]
Damien frowned. He unlocked the screen.
???:Don't go to that Dungeon.
???:Listen to me, it's not your time to die yet!
???:Just listen to me!
Damien stared at the messages. The texts popped up one after another, frantic and urgent.
He raised an eyebrow. "A prank? At a time like this?"
He tapped the screen, scrolling up, but there was no chat history. The number was encrypted, a tangled mess of digits that changed every time he looked at them.
'Is this Jane?' he thought, thinking of the squad's hacker. 'Did she find a way to bypass my blocks? Or maybe Ricky got drunk and bought a burner phone?'
He scoffed, a dry sound. "I bet they want to convince me not to go. But the thing is... I'm already dead serious on my choice. You guys should know that by now. Texting me like a ghostly ex-girlfriend isn't going to work."
He thumbed the power button, turning the phone off completely. He tossed it onto the passenger seat.
"Whatever," he muttered, climbing into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl. "Let's go now. The end of the world isn't going to wait for traffic."
***
The drive to Nevada was a three-day descent into madness.
As Damien crossed state lines, leaving the urban sprawl behind for the open veins of the American highway system, he saw a country on the brink of collapse.
The highways were clogged with convoys—military trucks heading West, civilian cars heading East. Panic was palpable in the air, thick as the smog. The radio was a constant stream of emergency broadcasts, religious sermons predicting the apocalypse, and conflicting reports from the Hunter Association.
He saw billboards defaced with anti-Hunter graffiti. He saw National Guard checkpoints where soldiers looked tired and scared. He saw the world realizing that the monsters weren't just in the dungeons anymore; they were in the panic of the unchecked masses.
By the afternoon of the second day, Damien needed fuel. He pulled into a dusty, isolated gas station off Route 66. The heat was oppressive, shimmering off the asphalt in waves.
He kept his head down, cap pulled low, as he walked into the convenience store. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully—a stark contrast to the grim faces of the few customers inside.
He grabbed a basket and started loading it with jerky, water, and caffeine pills.
In the aisle next to him, a man and a woman were arguing in hushed, frantic whispers. They were standing by the canned goods, loading a cart as if preparing for a siege.
"Hey, did you hear about the Hunters across the Country?" the man whispered, glancing over his shoulder. He looked like a trucker, unshaven and bleary-eyed.
"I heard they discovered an SSS+ Rank Dungeon here," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Right here in Nevada. Area 51 type shit."
The woman, his companion, dropped a can of beans. It clattered loudly on the linoleum.
"What?!" she hissed, eyes widening in horror. "They discovered a what?!"
The man flinched, gesturing frantically with a calloused finger to his mouth. "Shh! Shh! If someone hears ya, it will cause so much chaos to this whole place! Or worse, to the whole of Las Vegas! Do you want a stampede?"
He sighed, rubbing his face with a dirty hand. "But yeah... what I said is true. Goddamnit. What the hell is happening to the whole world? If the previous generation of Government didn't hide this... maybe we would have found a solution already."
The woman shook her head violently in disagreement. She picked up the beans, her hands trembling.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "We still couldn't find a solution if the whole world knew about the existence of Monsters and Dungeons back then. Think about it, Earl. Even if the previous generation of government told us about their existence... it would have caused so much chaos. Protests, corruption, wars over resources... nations weaponizing monsters against each other. It would be a lot worse than what they did before when they kept it a secret. We would have nuked ourselves before the monsters even got out."
The man paused, holding a jar of pickles. He looked at the floor, defeated.
"You're right," he muttered. "Maybe it was the right choice. But... they could just at least tell our ancestors before, right? If they at least let them know... maybe, just maybe, they would have found some solution? Instead of leaving us with this mess?"
They continued to argue, their voices a mixture of fear and philosophy, debating the ethics of a secret that was now eating them alive.
Damien stood on the other side of the shelf, listening. He gripped a packet of beef jerky tight enough to crinkle the packaging.
'She's right,' Damien thought cynically. 'Humans are corrupt by nature. If we knew about mana crystals fifty years ago, we wouldn't have built defenses. We would have built bombs. We would have sold the dungeon keys to the highest bidder.'
He looked at the man. 'But he's right too. Ignorance didn't save us. It just delayed the execution.'
Damien shook his head. To him, the debate was useless. It was academic.
'The past will always stay in the past,' he thought, walking toward the counter. 'It won't be changed no matter what. Those Constellations... the ones watching us from the stars... they won't let us rewrite the script. We are just actors on a stage that's burning down.'
He placed his items on the counter. The store clerk, a teenager with acne and a nametag that read 'Brad', looked at him nervously.
"Is this all, Sir?" Brad asked, eyeing Damien's tactical clothing.
Damien nodded. He didn't reply. He pulled out a wad of cash and placed a $500 bill on the counter—remnants of the cash he had taken out for the kids.
Brad's eyes bulged. "Sir, the total is only forty—"
Damien waved his hand, grabbed the bag, and walked out. He didn't wait for the change. He didn't wait for the thank you. Money had no value where he was going.
He threw the snacks into the trunk, locked it, and got back behind the wheel.
As he pulled back onto the highway, driving into the bleeding sunset, he felt the weight of the gold Glock in his inventory.
"One more day," he whispered.
***
Night had fallen by the time Damien reached the coordinates.
The exclusion zone was massive. Floodlights turned the desert night into a harsh, artificial day. A perimeter fence, electrified and reinforced with mana barriers, stretched for miles. Inside, a temporary city had sprung up—tents, hangars, tanks, and helicopters buzzing like angry hornets.
This was the staging ground for the end of the world.
Damien flashed his credentials at the checkpoint. The MPs, seeing his rank and the special authorization code from the Prime Minister, saluted sharply but looked at him as if he were a ghost.
He drove through the maze of military hardware and parked near the command center. He stepped out, stretching his stiff limbs. The air here tasted of ozone and fear.
He looked around. He saw soldiers—thousands of them. Infantry, artillery, spec-ops. But he didn't see the Wombat Squad.
A pang of relief hit him, followed by a wave of loneliness. 'Good. They listened. Or Ricky tied them up.'
"Damien!"
A voice boomed across the tarmac.
Damien turned. Walking toward him, dressed in desert fatigues, was a man with a buzz cut and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite.
It was Simon. His batchmate from the academy. A friend.
"Finally, you arrived!" Simon shouted, grinning as he approached. He looked around Damien, checking the blind spots. "Annnnddddd... where's your squad? Where are the Wombats? I expected Ricky to be making noise by now."
Simon stopped, his grin fading as he realized Damien was alone.
"The Commander didn't tell you?" Damien asked quietly.
Simon blinked. "Tell me what? That old man just told me to prepare a landing zone for the 'Special Asset'. I assumed that was your whole team."
Damien sighed. He leaned against the hood of his SUV and explained. He told him about the meeting. About the order. About the solo mission.
Simon's face went through a journey of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and finally, rage.
"So let me get this straight," Simon hissed, stepping into Damien's personal space. "You said you wanted to go alone? You want to commit suicide because you know this is a suicide mission and the Hunters will use us as human shields again? Are you fucking retarded?!"
Simon grabbed Damien by the shoulders. "You know how dangerous this mission is! How did you even—"
Simon stopped himself. He looked at Damien's eyes—those black, empty voids. The realization hit him.
"Right," Simon whispered, letting go. "It must be because of the Prime Minister. That's how you convinced the Commander and the whole Pentagon you will do a Solo Mission. You played the political card."
Simon sighed, taking off his cap and running a hand over his head. "Sigh... I can't blame you, Damien. I really can't. You chose a suicide mission rather than seeing your comrades die in front of you again. Even me... if I were in your shoes, I'd probably do the same thing."
Simon looked out at his own battalion—young men and women cleaning their rifles, writing letters home, laughing nervously.
"If I had a connection like you have," Simon murmured, his voice heavy with guilt, "maybe I would be the only one sent here from my unit. Even me too, Damien... I don't trust these Hunters saving our asses. They'll throw us into the meat grinder to save their own mana reserves."
Damien and Simon stood in silence for a moment, united by the grim reality of their profession. They watched a group of SSS-Rank Hunters walk by, surrounded by an entourage of assistants carrying their gear. The Hunters were laughing, treating the battlefield like a red carpet.
"Whatever," Simon spat, putting his cap back on. "Let's just go. Also... you should salute the General of the United Fucking States. She's watching us."
Damien followed Simon's gaze. Standing near the entrance of the main command tent was a woman with steel-grey hair and a posture that could cut glass.
"Still hate the General?" Damien asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. "After rejecting you for a date? You know it's not allowed, Simon. Fraternization and all that."
"Not allowed my ass," Simon grumbled. "Also, she literally publicly shamed me in the mess hall. Called my pickup line 'a tactical failure'. That's why I hate her."
Damien shrugged. "Tactical failure sounds about right for you."
"Shut up."
They walked over to the command tent. Damien snapped to attention and saluted General Lucy McClane.
"Good afternoon, Captain of the Wombat Squad," General McClane said. Her voice was crisp, cold, and devoid of the warmth one might expect for a man walking to his death. She held out a thick file. "Here is the brief report about the Dungeon."
Damien took the file. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.
"I expect a scolding from you, General," Damien said. "Aren't you going to tell me I'm reckless? That I'm abandoning protocol?"
McClane looked at him with ice-blue eyes. "I have no time for that, Captain Leone. Your psychological profile is already red-flagged. Scolding you would be a waste of oxygen."
She pointed to the tent. "Just read the brief reports so we can go and continue to have a meeting between the US Army and the World Hunter Association."
"W.H.A?" Damien asked, surprised. "I thought there was no need to have another meeting anymore after they did a meeting between our governments days ago. Also, why the WHA? I thought they would just send all SSS Class Hunters across the world and be done with it?"
The General didn't bother to reply to Damien's questions. She turned her back on him.
"You will know the contents in the brief reports and the meeting that is scheduled for this evening. Dismissed."
Damien watched her walk away. He sighed and saluted her retreating back.
"Charming woman," he muttered.
He looked down at the file in his hands. It was stamped TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY.
'What in the fucking fuck is inside of this report?'
Damien walked over to a stack of crates and sat down. He flipped open the file.
It was full of mana readings, topographic scans of the dungeon entrance, and threat assessments. Standard stuff.
But then, on the last page, there was a section highlighted in red. It wasn't typed. It looked like it had been transcribed from an ancient text or a prophetic skill.
[Prophecy Intercepted from the Oracle of Delphi - 48 Hours Ago]
Damien's eyes scanned the text.
[The Seals are Broken.]
[The Old Laws are Nullified.]
[The Demon God Will Finally Be Unsealed and Manifest to this World!]
Damien dropped the report paper. It fluttered to the dusty ground.
Suddenly, a spike of pain drove itself into his skull.
"AAH!"
Damien grabbed his head, grimacing. It felt like someone was drilling into his brain with a hot iron. The world around him—the desert, the soldiers, the tanks—dissolved into static.
Vision blurred. Reality twisted.
He wasn't in Nevada anymore. He was in a void. A dark, cold place that smelled of blood and old magic.
"...Rudeus..."
A voice. A woman's voice. Desperate. Broken.
Damien forced his eyes open in the hallucination.
He saw silhouettes. Two of them.
One was kneeling, a woman with long, flowing hair the color of deep violets. It looked like Melissa. No, it looked like Sasha. But the clothes were wrong—robes, ancient and torn.
She was holding a man in her arms. A man with stark white hair. His eyes were covered by a blood-stained blindfold. He was clutching his stomach, where a massive wound was pouring light instead of blood.
"Rudeus, please stay with me!" the violet-haired woman screamed, her tears glowing in the dark.
"Stay with me!"
The white-haired man coughed, reaching up to touch her face with a trembling hand. He whispered something Damien couldn't hear.
"STAY WITH MEEEE!!!!" the woman shrieked, her voice echoing with the force of a banshee.
The pain in Damien's head intensified, a crescendo of agony that mirrored the woman's grief. He felt her loss as if it were his own. He felt the man's life slipping away as if it were his own dying heartbeat.
And then, just as quickly as it came, the hallucination snapped.
Damien gasped, pitching forward off the crate. He caught himself on his hands and knees, dry heaving into the dust.
"Huff... huff..."
Sweat poured down his face. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked around. The desert night was back. The soldiers were still walking by, oblivious to the vision he had just witnessed.
Damien wiped his mouth, his hand shaking uncontrollably.
"What..." he whispered, staring at the sand. "What the fuck was that?!"
He looked at the report lying on the ground. The words [Demon God] seemed to pulse with a dark energy.
"Who is Rudeus?"