As Aren continued to walk, he finally stepped beyond the chaos of the battlefield, the residual roars and sizzling magic fading behind him like an afterthought. A small police blockade awaited ahead, stretching across the cracked street like a makeshift fortress. Several officers immediately snapped to attention, their firearms raised—some trembling slightly as they pointed in his general direction.
"Civilian!" one cop barked, voice laced with authority and panic.
Before anyone could escalate the situation further, two hunters vaulted clean over the barricade. Both were clad in light combat gear lined with glowing support glyphs, and judging by the aura of healing magic clinging to them like warm mist, they were clearly clerics—similar to Steph.
One of them, a taller hunter with swept-back auburn hair and tired eyes, slowed down first. His gaze locked on Aren.
"Are you okay…? Wait… Aren?"
The second hunter—a shorter, more intense young man with cropped silver hair and a scowl made permanent by years of stress—lunged forward. His hands seized Aren by the shoulders like a mother catching her toddler on a freeway.
"Did… why the hell did you walk across that without any gear!?" he snapped, voice rising with a mixture of panic, anger, and something dangerously close to concern. He shook Aren with the fervor of a soda can in a paint mixer. "You could've died, you bastard!"
The police, still holding their weapons in half-raised confusion, glanced at each other as the scene unfolded. They slowly began to lower their guns. After all, when two licensed hunters were berating a supposed civilian like he'd left the oven on during a raid, it raised more questions than it answered.
Behind the barricade, a swarm of reporters began to pivot their cameras away from the recently opened rift. Their lenses now zoomed in on the bizarre, very public scolding of Aren by what appeared to be his guildmates. Several civilian bystanders peeked over the barricades, phones already out, streaming the encounter live for their five followers and three cousins.
"I'm fine, okay? Not even a scratch," Aren replied flatly, voice deadpan as his head swayed under the continued shaking. His eyes—dull, bored, slightly annoyed—remained locked on the silver-haired healer, as if silently asking Are you done yet?
The taller healer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering between relief and disbelief—as if he still couldn't quite believe Aren was alive.
"Just let him go..."
"Go report to the Guildmaster. We've been wondering where you've been."
The shorter healer released Aren with a final grumble, only to smack him—firmly—on the back of the head.
"Don't do anything like that ever again," he said, the reprimand landing heavier than the slap.
Aren blinked once, then gave a half-shrug and a lazy chuckle. "No promises."
Without another word, he sauntered past the police blockade, hands in his pockets, coat swaying behind him, and walked straight through the press line. The crowd parted—not out of respect, but sheer bewilderment. Reporters and civilians alike stared at him like he'd just walked barefoot through lava.
Because really—who in the sane, screaming hell decides to walk across an active dungeon breach completely unequipped?
"Nice perimeter," Aren muttered, giving a quick finger-gun salute to the cops stiffening up like it was a big deal.
As if on cue, the two healers returned to the blockade, drawing attention back to themselves and away from Aren's casually vanishing silhouette.
"The situation is under control," the taller healer addressed the reporters with a sigh, clearly used to covering for bizarre incidents. "He's a hunter—part of our guild."
The words lit a fuse.
Cameras turned. Microphones thrust forward.
"Wait, what? Why would one of your hunters walk through an ongoing dungeon breach without armor or weapons?"
Questions flew like arrows, but Aren was already out of earshot, the noise fading into the ambient static of city life.
At last, he arrived at the foot of a modest five-story structure nestled between a pharmacy and a fast-food outlet. The building had a bold, old-school fantasy-style sign bolted above the entrance, letters engraved in stylized gold:
Rising Gold Guild
Aren let out a low whistle as he took it in.
"Not half-bad for an E-rank guild's headquarters," he said aloud, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at his lips.