The desert wind howled outside the temporary command tent, rattling the heavy canvas with a persistent, rhythmic thud. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and stale coffee, but Damien barely noticed. His mind was miles away, trapped in the echo of a hallucination that felt more substantial than the sand beneath his boots.
"Who the fuck is Rudeus?" Damien thought, his fingers digging into his temples. He was trying to catch a thread of memory that felt increasingly slippery.
'Rudeus Blackfyre... from that Otome Yuri Harem game I played back when I was a teenager? The Chronicles of Adelina?'
The memories started to surface, dusty but distinct. In the game, Rudeus Blackfyre was a student at the prestigious Imperial Academy. He was a textbook mid-tier boss encountered during the Chapter 1 "Academy Arc." He was a character designed to be hated—an arrogant noble with dark green hair and piercing crimson eyes who used his family's prestige to bully those he deemed beneath him. In every single story route, Rudeus was fated to lose, and in the more brutal paths—like the one belonging to the elusive Princess of the Empire—he was usually executed or exiled before the second act even began.
Damien shook his head, the cognitive dissonance causing a dull ache behind his eyes. It was impossible. The man in his vision hadn't been a bratty student in a school blazer. That man had hair as white as fresh snow and wore a tattered, blood-soaked blindfold. He looked like a martyr, a warrior who had been hollowed out by a thousand years of war.
'That doesn't make any sense,' Damien mused, his brow furrowing. 'And who the fuck was that woman? I didn't see her once in the game. She had violet hair and eyes that looked like they held the weight of the universe. She wasn't the Winter Monarch, and she certainly didn't look like any description of the Princess. Sigh. There are probably a thousand characters named Rudeus in fiction. I shouldn't overthink this matter. I have enough real-world ghosts to deal with.'
He forced his focus back to the physical file in his hands. It was a heavy, leather-bound folder stamped with the dual seals of the United World Alliance Against Monsters (UWAAM) and the World Hunter Association (WHA).
As he flipped through the pages, the sheer scale of the nightmare began to unfold. The file contained an exhaustive intelligence report on "The Unknown God"—a Constellation of such terrifying power that it had forced a temporary truce between the Good and Evil Factions of the Star Stream. According to the ancient mana-dating, the entity had been sealed by the collective effort of dozens of lower-tier gods who had set aside their ideologies just to keep this "Demon God" from consuming the planet.
Damien scanned the descriptions of the monsters sighted near the breach. They weren't just standard dungeon beasts. The report detailed "High-Order Harbingers"—creatures with sentient minds, capable of speech and complex strategic planning. Most alarming were the "Cult of the Demon God" sightings: humans or human-like entities who worshipped the sealed god, actively working to weaken the planetary anchors.
The second half of the file was a chaotic mess of diplomatic schedules. It listed back-to-back meetings between the WHA, the Pentagon, and various international governments. Most of the agendas weren't about survival; they were about "Post-Raid Resource Allocation" and "Mana-Core Taxation Rights." They were arguing over how to split the skin of a bear that was currently in the process of waking up to eat them.
"Shit, this is really a big goddamn problem," Damien whispered. "No wonder the WHA and the whole Army are required to have another meeting alongside the US Government again. This isn't a simple gate. This is an extinction event waiting for a doorbell."
Damien tilted his head, the joints in his neck popping with a satisfying crack. "Whatever. Let's just do what we need to do."
He looked down at his current outfit—dark tactical gear that was perfectly fine for a drive through the desert, but entirely out of place for a formal military staging area. He had forgotten to change into his desert fatigues. Damien sighed, the weight of his exhaustion settling in, and hurried toward the officer's locker room.
The locker room was a modular structure, smelling of gun oil and industrial soap. After he finished changing into the sandy-colored camouflage, he stepped out toward the common area to check his equipment one last time.
It was there he saw her.
A woman stood near the exit, checking her reflection in a small hand-mirror. She was unmistakably Korean, with long, raven-black hair that cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. Her features were symmetrical and refined, possessing a cold, ethereal beauty that seemed to radiate from her very skin. She looked like a goddess walked among mortals, but for Damien, the sight didn't trigger even a flicker of attraction.
To him, beauty was something raw and earned. Melissa, with her scars and her fierce, burning eyes, was a thousand times more breathtaking than this polished doll.
The woman was speaking into her phone, her voice melodic but tinged with a sharp, professional edge.
"Understood. I will do my best to assist the WHA and the SSS-Class Hunters. After all, it's also my job as an SSS-Rank Hunter of Korea and one of the Top Hunters Worldwide. I will ensure the perimeter is held, regardless of the quality of the local support."
Damien's eyes narrowed. Instinctively, he activated his [Stealth] skill.
Thanks to his [Black Death] trait, the skill didn't just hide his body; it masked his intent, his heat, and his mana signature. The skill had recently evolved to SS-Rank, making him a literal ghost in the room. He leaned against a locker, listening to the conversation with a growing sense of irritation.
"Damn fucking Monkey Hunters," Damien muttered under his breath, though his lips didn't even move. "Even they use our locker rooms now? This is why I hate Hunters so much. The arrogance is practically a secondary trait for them."
The woman continued her call, her tone dismissive. Damien raised an eyebrow as he analyzed her. 'She said she's one of the Top Hunters? Is she Gyeum Gayeol?'
He had read about her. Gyeum Gayeol was currently ranked Top 3 worldwide. She was a legend in the Hunter community, famous for single-handedly slaying a Sovereign-level Constellation from the Evil Faction during the Great Seoul Break. She was so lethal that even the Top 2 from America and the Top 1 from France reportedly treated her with extreme caution.
'No wonder she's here,' Damien thought. 'I bet they sent her here on what they think is a glory mission, but the UWAAM and the Koreans are dreaming if they think a sword can cut through a God. I can feel the pressure of her mana from here—she's a monster, no doubt—but the Demon God is on another level. If all the Factions had to team up just to lock that thing away, what chance does a group of arrogant humans have? I bet they will fail.'
Damien sighed and turned his thoughts away from the Sword Empress. 'Let's just go and attend that damn meeting.'
He deactivated his Stealth. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of gratitude toward the [Black Death] trait. Even though the system claimed it was focused on sniping and long-range lethality, the passive amplification it provided to his auxiliary skills was staggering. It had taken a standard A-Rank stealth skill and pushed it into the realm of the divine.
'Gotta thank that trait. I wonder what the secret behind it really is. Why does it demand my life in exchange for this kind of power?' He shook his head, erasing the dark thought before it could take root. 'Sigh. Let's just go.'
***
Damien arrived at the designated meeting hangar twenty minutes later. The room was a chaotic blend of military discipline and Hunter extravagance. He spotted Simon in the center of the room, surrounded by his battalion commanders, deep in a heated conversation about logistical lines. Damien moved past them like a shadow; he didn't want to distract Simon from the heavy burden of command.
As he scanned the room, he saw the flickering holograms of the world leaders and the High Council. In the center was the projection of his father-in-law, Michael Thompson.
Damien let out a frustrated sigh. Michael wasn't wearing his formal Prime Minister's suit. Instead, he was dressed in a loud, casual Hawaiian shirt, leaning back in his chair as if he were at a beach resort rather than a war council.
'That damn old man really has the head of a damn coconut,' Damien thought, hiding a smirk.
The Council of UWAAM, represented by several stiff-looking bureaucrats in high-collared uniforms, were currently in the middle of scolding Michael for his lack of decorum. Michael, being Michael, didn't offer a word of apology. He simply took a slow, deliberate sip from a tumbler of expensive whiskey, staring at them with a look of bored indifference while they droned on.
Eventually, the actual meeting began. It was a grueling three-hour marathon of bureaucracy. The Pentagon representatives argued with the WHA leaders over who would provide the primary healing support, while the UWAAM council members haggled over the rights to any "Divine Artifacts" recovered from the site. The air in the hangar grew stagnant as the arguments circled back on themselves. Soldiers stood at rigid attention, their eyes glazing over, while the lower-ranked Hunters began to slump in their seats, some even nodding off.
Damien checked his watch. It was 01:30 AM. The desert chill was seeping into the hangar, but the heat of the arguments showed no sign of cooling.
After another hour of grueling debate, a silence finally fell over the room as the leaders reached their consensus.
The Head of the WHA, Morgane Sylvine Obeline—the World's Rank 1 Hunter and the "Saintess of Light"—stood up. Her voice was magically amplified, echoing through the hangar with a forced, benevolent warmth.
"Very well," Morgane began, her eyes scanning the room. "I have a grasp on our plan. I understand your frustrations, but we cannot sacrifice our Hunters unnecessarily. They are our key figures for the final phase of this raid. Therefore, it is natural for the Soldiers to take the Frontlines. That is, after all, their role."
The statement was like a match dropped into a powder keg.
The hangar exploded into a cacophony of rage.
"IT'S UNFAIR! EVEN IF WE ARE SOLDIERS, THAT DOESN'T MEAN WE ARE YOUR MEAT SHIELDS!" a Colonel screamed, slamming his fist onto a map table.
"FUCK THAT! I WON'T SACRIFICE MY MEN TO DRAW AGGRO WHILE THESE USELESS HUNTERS HIDE IN THE REAR! WHAT'S THE USE OF THEIR RANK? IS IT JUST FOR DISPLAY?!" a Sergeant bellowed from the back.
The air was thick with the resentment of men who were being told their lives were less valuable than a Hunter's mana pool.
Damien clenched his hand into a tight fist. The words triggered a surge of trauma he had fought to bury—the memories of his childhood, the scent of smoke, and the betrayal of five years ago. He could see the same pattern repeating. The "assets" were being protected, and the "trash" was being thrown into the fire.
While the soldiers continued to scream at the unmoving holograms, a man sitting next to Morgane stood up. He was Rikiya Nishikawa, the Top 4 Hunter from Japan, known as the "Demon Sword."
Rikiya didn't say a word at first. He simply released his aura.
It wasn't just mana; it was pure, unadulterated [Killing Intent].
The effect was instantaneous. The air in the room seemed to freeze. Soldiers who had been screaming a second ago suddenly clutched their throats, gasping for air as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Men fell to their knees, their bodies trembling under the weight of an SSS-Rank's malice. Even the UWAAM council members looked shaken, their holographic images flickering with static.
Only Damien remained standing, his expression flat and unreadable. His [Black Death] trait hummed under his skin, acting as a natural shield against the external pressure.
After a long, suffocating minute, Rikiya retracted his aura and spoke. His voice was a raspy, mocking drawl.
"If anyone disagrees with Morgane and the WHA's decision... then come. Fight me and show me that you trash are right."
He looked around the room, his eyes filled with pure disgust as he gazed at the kneeling soldiers.
"Anyone?"
The silence was absolute. Simon and Lucy McClane stayed on their knees, their faces pale. They were elite, but they knew the math. Fighting an SSS-Rank Hunter was like a housefly trying to fight a hurricane.
Rikiya spat on the floor, a look of utter boredom crossing his face as he sat back down. "That's what I thought. Useless American dogs."
"I Shall Fight You."
The voice was quiet, but in the absolute silence of the hangar, it sounded like a thunderclap.
Every head in the room snapped toward the source. Simon and Lucy widened their eyes in horror. Michael Thompson, on his screen, sat up straight, a spark of genuine interest lighting his eyes.
It was Damien.
"I Will Fight You," Damien repeated, stepping out from the crowd of soldiers and walking toward the center of the room. His eyes were locked onto Rikiya's, dark and unwavering.
Rikiya froze for a second, then his face split into a wide, jagged grin. He cracked his neck, a sound like breaking dry wood. In a blur of motion that the human eye couldn't follow—-ZWOOP—he teleported.
He appeared inches from Damien's face, his SSS-Rank aura flared to its limit, creating a visible distortion in the air.
"Boo!" Rikiya hissed, his face twisted in a mocking sneer.
Damien didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply stared back, his pupils like two black holes that refused to reflect Rikiya's light.
"Hah! You didn't even flinch? For a pathetic A-Rank Level?" Rikiya's voice was filled with a mix of surprise and growing bloodlust.
"A RANK?!" The soldiers in the room whispered in terror. They knew Damien was a legend among the Rangers, but to hear his rank confirmed as A in the face of an SSS was a death sentence. Simon looked like he was about to vomit from the stress.
"Fine," Rikiya said, his smile widening until it looked painful. "If I win, you will be my personal Human Shield. I will walk you through every trap and every monster until there's nothing left of you but a red smear."
Damien tilted his head slightly, and for the first time, a smile touched his lips. It was a cold, predatory expression that made even some of the nearby Hunters shift uncomfortably.
"Then if I win," Damien said softly, his voice carrying a terrifying weight, "I will gouge those beautiful red eyes of yours out and cut your right hand off, you disgusting Monkey Hunter."
The hangar went deathly silent once more. Even Morgane looked taken aback by the sheer vitriol in Damien's voice.
Rikiya threw his head back and laughed—a high, manic sound that echoed off the steel rafters. "Hahahahaha! Finally! A fellow Crazy Psychopath like me! WOoweehh! and here I thought I would die of boredom in this sandbox!"
"Rikiya, this is not the time—" Gyeum Gayeol started, her voice cold and authoritative.
"Shut up, Gayeol!" Rikiya snapped, never taking his eyes off Damien. "Let me have my fun with this insignificant A-Rank." He leaned in closer, whispering so only Damien could hear. "I can't wait to use you as my shield. I'll make sure you last a long time."
Rikiya walked backward toward the open area of the hangar, spreading his arms wide in an invitation to slaughter. "Well, if of course I win... but we already know who will win. Hahahahaha!"
Damien didn't bother to retort. He stood his ground, watching Rikiya with a predatory stillness.
Lucy and Simon rushed toward him, grabbing his shoulders.
"Are you fucking insane?!" Lucy hissed, her voice trembling with anger and fear. "You know that guy is an SSS-Rank! Even if you are an elite, you will just lose your arm or worse—your goddamn head! You can't fight him!"
"She's right, Damien!" Simon pleaded, his grip tightening. "Even if you have such a big connection like the Prime Minister, you know you can't win against a monster like him! We can still talk about this. Just say it was a goddamn joke, alright?"
Damien didn't look at them. He gently brushed their hands off his shoulders and sat back down in his chair, crossing his legs with agonizing calmness. He looked up at the hologram of Michael Thompson.
Michael was laughing, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the room. He leaned into the camera and gave Damien a quick, sharp wink—a sign of absolute confidence.
Damien scoffs off and laughs quietly to himself, ignoring the panicked scolding from Lucy and Simon.
'Thanks, old man. Needed that.'
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the "Demon Sword" of Japan. The game was finally beginning.