Lamia's heels clicked furiously against the marble floor of the auction house's central command tower, her sharp red hair slicing through the air like a whip.
Her aura—crackling with barely restrained mana—set the room on edge.
"Find them! I want to know who hacked into the system and bought us out. I want names, faces, bloodlines—I don't care what it costs!"
She snapped, pacing with predatory grace.
Technicians, admins, and hackers scrambled around her, beads of sweat dotting their brows as they stared at screens flooded with red error logs and access denials.
One of the senior techs stepped forward hesitantly, his voice trembling.
"We… we can't, Miss Vincent. The new owner's credentials are sealed behind an authority level we've never even seen before. Not even the system's root ID can bypass it."
Lamia's fingers twitched, itching to crush something—preferably someone.
"Then what about the catalyst shipment?"
She hissed.
"We tried tracking it… but the data rerouted itself the moment it left the vault. No location pings. It's like the package doesn't exist."
Lamia's eye twitched.
"So you're telling me that someone just scammed the top S-class hunter in the federation, stole her auction house, and walked away like it was a stroll in the park?"
No one dared answer.
With a growl that reverberated in her chest, she turned toward the glass wall overlooking the city.
"Whoever you are… you've made a mistake. No one plays me and walks away untouched."
She muttered darkly.
Across the city, in the quiet confines of his apartment, Fenrir sat cross-legged on the floor of his training room.
The small package that had arrived without fanfare hours earlier sat open in front of him.
Nestled inside was a single shimmering herb, its veins pulsing with concentrated mana.
Its scent was rich and ancient, like moss growing on stone bathed in moonlight.
Fenrir crushed it between his fingers, careful and reverent. He knew what he was about to do could cripple or kill an average person.
But he wasn't average.
He brewed the herb into a thick tea, the liquid glowing faintly as he poured it into a black ceramic cup. Then, without ceremony, he drank it down in one slow motion.
The taste was bitter—sharp and earthy—but Fenrir's expression didn't even twitch.
Moments later, he felt it. The heat.
Not the burn of fire, but the searing force of change.
His body shivered. Muscles clenched. His breath caught as the foreign power began to dig into his veins, scraping against the ancient blocks embedded within his core.
The system, ever eager, chimed in with a blaring red warning.
[ALERT: Body under extreme stress. Mana over-saturation detected.
Recommended Action: Cease circulation immediately.]
Fenrir closed his eyes—and muted it with a thought.
"You're just noise."
He focused inward. His mana curled and stretched like a wild serpent inside him, trying to follow old paths that had long since collapsed.
The catalyst clawed at the blockages, demanding space.
Fenrir responded by pushing his own energy into the cracks, attacking the blockage from both sides.
Pain lanced through him, white-hot and violent.
His vision flickered. Blood trickled from his nose. His body felt like it was being shattered and reforged—again and again.
Time lost meaning.
He felt his heart slow, and at some point, darkness took him.
When he opened his eyes, it was to silence.
The air was cool. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to him, the floor beneath him damp. But he wasn't in pain anymore.
He felt…
Lighter.
His fingers flexed. His eyes scanned the room—and for the first time, the world responded. His sight was sharper, the colors clearer.
He could hear the faint hum of the city, and even the wings of a fly two rooms away.
He sat up slowly and exhaled.
"This… is progress."
Opening the system, he half expected something extraordinary.
[Rank: D-Class
Mana Capacity: D-Class
Potential: D-Class
Danger Rating: Low]
Fenrir stared at the screen.
And laughed.
Not a loud, mocking laugh. Just a quiet, almost amused chuckle.
"Garbage."
He could feel it—just beneath the surface of his skin, below his organs, buried in his bones. The divine pool that lay dormant inside him had barely stirred.
This was merely the first layer, the smallest scratch at the surface.
If he had unleashed everything in one go, his mortal body would've torn apart. But even still, this was proof.
The system didn't measure true strength. It just saw what was. Not what could be.
"I'll awaken it all… piece by piece."
He looked toward the window, the setting sun casting golden light across the skyline.
"And when I do… even the gods will tremble again."
______
Fenrir stood at the edge of the bustling city district that housed the Dungeon Association, a sleek, towering building covered in shimmering runes that pulsed with protective mana.
The sight of it made his fingers twitch with anticipation.
It would be his first real test in this new world—a dungeon.
He had chosen an F-class one.
Not because he believed that was his true level, but because he didn't trust the system's rankings at all.
After all, it had barely given him a D-class rating despite the power simmering inside his body like magma under a crust of glass.
"This system only sees what's visible on the surface, but real talent is far deeper than that."
He muttered, pulling his black hood lower over his eyes.
Tucked beneath his cloak was a recently acquired item—a mask of identity distortion.
It had cost him a hefty 10 million credits from the system shop. A small price for anonymity.
Sure, as the owner of the auction house, he could have pulled some strings and gotten it free.
But Fenrir understood how power worked—how greed and laziness could kill even the mightiest empire.
If he started using his ownership to get favors, the house would bleed value before it even peaked.
So for now, he would act as just another customer.
He stepped into the Dungeon Association, the doors opening with a soft hum of mana.
Inside, it was bright, clean, and sterile—everything designed to make nervous adventurers feel at ease before they threw themselves into unknown danger.
A receptionist greeted him with a polite nod, her eyes lingering only briefly on his shadowed face.
The mask worked well, distorting his facial structure just enough to blur recognition.
He passed her his dungeon license card—the fake one issued by the system with a temporary ID.
"I'd like to register for an F-class solo run,"
He said calmly.
The woman raised a brow, then glanced at the ID again before nodding and typing something on her terminal.
"Very well. Please head to Gate 7. Your instance is being prepared. Estimated wait time—ten minutes."
He thanked her and moved to the side, watching the other hunters as they bustled around.
They laughed, argued, checked their gear. Their chatter was filled with numbers—levels, stats, dungeon types.
To Fenrir, it all sounded hollow.
"They've grown so used to being told their worth by a flawed system, they've forgotten how to feel their own strength."
He thought, lips twitching into a faint smirk.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. Somewhere in his gut, a warning tugged again.
Every time he thought about this body's family—those whose blood now ran through him—his instincts screamed.
"Cut ties. Soon."
He didn't know why yet. But if his instincts from the battlefield had taught him anything in his last life, it was this:
Always trust the warning before the knife falls.
And this time, he wasn't planning on bleeding for anyone else's mistakes.