The heart of Seoul glittered with neon, but far above the crowded streets and noise, an entire neighborhood lived in another world. The air was clearer here, untouched by smog, lined with perfectly paved roads and palatial mansions guarded by wrought iron gates and private security.
This was where tycoons, politicians, and hunters of unmatched caliber lived.
And among them, the loudest tonight was the mansion of Kang Daeho.
The third-best guild in South Korea, the Lion's Guild, had built its reputation on power, brutality, and loyalty only to themselves. Daeho, one of their A-rank hunters, embodied that image perfectly.
He was thirty-five, with a lean, muscular frame that never seemed out of place in combat or in a tailored suit. His hair was slicked back, his smile sharp, and his eyes the gleam of a man who believed the world existed to entertain him.
Inside his mansion, the party was a spectacle. Crystal chandeliers bathed the vast hall in golden light. Music pulsed through hidden speakers, mingling with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint smell of expensive cigars.
Men in sharp suits and women in flowing dresses filled the room, dancing, drinking, and gossiping. Outside, a row of imported sports cars gleamed beneath the moonlight, their engines still ticking from the drive up the hill.
Daeho reclined on an oversized leather chair, a glass of hundred-year-old whiskey in one hand, a model perched lazily on his lap. His guests orbited him like planets around a sun, knowing their host was more than just wealthy—he was one of the strongest hunters the Lion's Guild had.
An A-rank hunter could wipe out a dungeon that would slaughter entire military units, and with that kind of strength came fame, influence, and unchecked arrogance.
"To think," Daeho boasted, swirling his drink, "ten years ago, I was just another thug. Now look at me. When the Lion's Guild calls, the whole country listens. Politicians bow, corporations crawl, and every other guild watches what we do."
The crowd laughed, some clapped, some raised their glasses in agreement. The model on his lap whispered something in his ear, and he smirked, brushing her hair aside.
He loved this. The music, the indulgence, the attention—it was his kingdom. Here, he was untouchable.
But then, his phone buzzed.
At first, he ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again. The screen lit up with a number he did not recognize, nothing but digits, no caller ID. He frowned. No one dared disturb him during his parties, not unless it was guild business.
"Answer it, Daeho," one of his guildmates teased from across the table. "Maybe it's a jealous husband."
The room erupted in laughter. Daeho smirked, raised his glass, and then slid the woman off his lap before answering.
"Who is this?" he demanded, voice edged with annoyance.
The laughter in the room died as soon as the voice answered.
It was not a normal voice. It was golden—not in pitch, but in weight. Deep, resonant, as if it bypassed the air entirely and carved its way directly into his skull. The kind of voice that made every instinct in his body kneel before it.
"Kang Daeho," it said. Calm. Slow. Inevitable.
Daeho froze, his whiskey glass trembling in his grip. He glanced around, suddenly uneasy. Nobody else seemed to hear it. The music went on, the laughter returned, and yet he stood in silence, caught in a world no one else could perceive.
"P-president?" he forced out, hating how small his own voice sounded.
"Your strength is nothing before me," the voice said, each word like a commandment. "You will do as I say."
A cold sweat broke across Daeho's back. His throat went dry. He had fought monsters that roared like thunder, faced death in dungeons where shadows devoured men whole, but never—not once—had he felt fear like this.
"What… what do you want me to do?"
There was a pause. Then the voice echoed like a bell tolling in a cathedral.
"Study the boy. Beom Seok."
The name struck him harder than any blow. Daeho blinked, confused. "A… a boy? Who—who the hell is Beom Seok?"
The golden voice reverberated, louder now, its patience thinning. "Do not question. Do not hesitate. Watch him. Learn him. Remember him."
Daeho's knees nearly buckled. He clenched the chair just to stay standing. The weight of that command was more than fear—it was like chains shackling his very soul.
"I… I understand," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'll do it. I'll watch him."
The voice grew quiet, fading like sunlight at dusk, leaving only one final sentence.
"You exist because I allow it. Forget that, and you will cease to exist."
The line went dead.
For a long moment, Daeho just stood there, his phone still pressed to his ear, the party buzzing around him as if nothing had happened. His reflection in the glass doors nearby was pale, his once smug grin erased. His chest heaved, and his whiskey glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the marble floor.
Heads turned. His guildmates looked at him with confusion. "Daeho? You good, man?"
He straightened, forcing his usual bravado back into his voice. "The party's over."
"What?" one of them laughed nervously. "Come on, you're not serious. It's just getting good—"
"I said it's over!" he barked, and the roar in his tone left no room for argument. The music cut, the chatter dissolved into whispers. Guests began to shuffle uncertainly toward the exit.
Daeho stood alone as the mansion emptied, his once golden night collapsing into silence. He walked slowly to the balcony, staring down at the glittering city far below. The night air was cool, but he was drenched in sweat.
The name echoed again and again in his mind.
Beom Seok.
Whoever that boy was, he had just become the most dangerous name in South Korea.
And for the first time in years, Kang Daeho felt like prey.