The world was on the brink of chaos.
It looked as if half the population had been wiped out overnight. Streets were deserted. Stores abandoned. Cars sat idly, some with engines still running, doors flung open—frozen in time. The streets were eerily empty, like no human had walked them in years.
Everyone was locked inside, clinging to whatever safety their homes could provide. Families huddled together, shielding themselves from the catastrophic events unfolding across the globe.
It was impossible to tell what time of day it was. The sky had been cloaked for over a week by unnatural weather. Thick clouds of unfamiliar color blotted out the sun, making it impossible to know if it was morning, midday, or night.
Even though the streets were barren, a strange wind drifted through the city—not strong or howling, but peculiar. Everything left outside—tow trucks, traffic lights, even a stubborn dog barking up at the sky—was eventually swept away by it. As if gravity itself had been compromised.
News channels continued broadcasting—at least those that hadn't been taken off the air.
"As you can see behind me," a reporter said shakily on live television, "no one knows the cause of this... The sky has turned red and portals—what people are calling 'Caves'—have been appearing all over the world. All available hunters, regardless of rank, have been deployed to try and contain the leaks for over a week now."
---
In a high-rise office far from the chaos, a man in an expensive suit stood silently by the window. His hands were tucked into his pockets as he stared at the sky—dark red clouds loomed over the city. Within those clouds echoed a sound no one could place. Not thunder. Not lightning. Something entirely unknown.
He watched buildings crumble. He heard distant screams. A portal sucked half a skyscraper into its maw like a vacuum devouring light.
Behind him, a large screen displayed the news feed. A radioactive scanner now mapped the planet's hotspots—nearly the entire globe was lit in red. It looked less like scattered anomalies and more like the remnants of humanity itself.
"Chairman Cryer, are you seeing this?" one of the executives asked nervously.
The man by the window—Chairman Cryer—exhaled slowly and turned to face the room. He walked over to the conference table, where a dozen or so executives sat in silence, their eyes glued to the screen.
He didn't speak right away. Instead, he stared at the map.
"How bad is it?" he finally asked.
No one responded. They just exchanged uneasy glances. Some avoided his eyes altogether.
Cryer understood. The silence said enough.
He sighed. "That bad, huh?" He paused, then continued, his voice lower. "How many did we lose?"
A young executive sitting near the end of the table trembled as he opened his laptop and began typing.
"Do you mean civilians or hunters, sir?" he asked carefully.
"Both," Chairman Cryer replied, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
The executive—Christian—typed faster than most could follow. His fingers were a blur across the keyboard.
"Chairman… if I gave you the exact numbers, I'm afraid it might cause you a stroke or a heart attack," Christian said, his voice dry and strained.
Cryer raised an eyebrow. "What, you want to sing it to me instead?"
"No, sir. But… may I give it to you in percentages?"
Cryer waved a hand. "Go ahead."
Christian hesitated, then delivered the blow.
"Civilians… we've lost about eighty-five percent. Globally."
The room fell completely still. Faces went pale. Cryer's jaw tensed.
"And the hunters?" he asked, though he already regretted it.
Christian swallowed. "Compared to global numbers—including China, Japan, South Africa, Brazil, the UK, and every other country combined—we've lost ninety-five percent of all registered hunters."
The room erupted.
"What?! That's impossible!" shouted one of the older executives.
"This boy is exaggerating! There's no way our hunters fell that easily!" another protested.
"Just because he used to be a D-rank hunter doesn't make him an expert!" a woman snapped.
The entire board began to bicker. Accusations flew. Christian tried to defend himself, but their outrage drowned him out.
Chairman Cryer rubbed his forehead, his patience wearing thin. Then—BANG—he slammed his fist against the crystal table.
CRACK!
The room went silent.
"Enough," Cryer growled. "Have you all forgotten I possess the Third Eye? I know when someone is lying—and Christian isn't."
No one dared respond. Their eyes drifted to the crack now running across the desk.
Christian quickly slid his laptop away from the break.
Cryer looked directly at him. "Tell me there are still hunters left."
Christian's voice wavered. "We've lost almost all of them. That includes both official and freelance hunters. Seventy percent of those losses came from our own association."
Chairman Cryer sank into his chair, the color draining from his face. It looked as though his spirit was leaking out of him.
Then—BZZZZT—a radio crackled to life in the corner of the room.
BZZZZT.
"What is that?" several executives murmured at once, heads snapping toward the noise.
BZZZZT. The static cracked again, louder this time. Christian was the first to notice its source.
"There!" he pointed. "The TV!"
All eyes turned to the massive screen on the wall.
The image shifted from the newsroom to a grainy live feed—revealing a battlefield. A small group of hunters, no more than five or six, were locked in brutal combat against monstrous creatures. They looked like twisted goblins, their greenish-blue skin glistening, their deformed limbs moving unnaturally fast.
The hunters were outnumbered. Outmatched. The goblins, though weaponless, fought using hardened fists and claws that cracked steel and stone with ease.
"Wait… is that Dinotello's unit?" one executive gasped in disbelief. "The S-Rank?!"
Chairman Cryer leaned forward. "Dinotello, can you hear me, boy?"
On the screen, one of the hunters shouted, "Boss! Boss! I think I've managed to connect with the Association!"
"Are you sure?" Dinotello called back, his voice hoarse.
"Yes, sir!"
Dinotello was surrounded, fighting off three goblins at once. Though known for his strength, he looked battered—his armor shredded, one eye bleeding. With a final roar, he delivered a devastating blow.
"FINAL SLASH!" he shouted, cutting all three goblins in half.
Without wasting a second, he stumbled toward the camera. Blood trickled down his cheek, his breathing ragged.
"Chairman Cryer, can you hear me?!"
"Yes, I can! Where are you? What's happening?" Cryer demanded, nearly rising from his chair.
Dinotello glanced back nervously. "We lost all the hunters we came with. The Caves... they've changed. While we were battling the boss—Kryos—we were moments from defeating him when the Cave began to rupture. It opened a second portal inside itself."
"A cave... inside a cave?" a female executive echoed in shock.
"Yes ma'am," Dinotello replied. "The moment it appeared, our entire squad was pulled in. Now... I don't even know where we are."
Chairman Cryer's grip tightened on his chair. "This isn't possible..."
Onscreen, Dinotello's teammates were still battling, but something had changed. The goblins began coughing up thick, purple blood—staggering, gasping, and dying without reason.
"Dinotello!" a female hunter screamed. "Something's happening to the goblins!"
Dinotello turned away from the camera to investigate.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"We don't know," the female hunter replied. "We were just trying to hold them back when they suddenly started collapsing... like something invisible struck them."
Back at headquarters, the tension shifted.
"If they're dying, then maybe this is a good sign. Maybe they're winning," one hopeful executive suggested.
But Christian frowned, staring at the screen. His voice was quiet. Cold.
"I don't think they're winning," he said. "I think… something else is in there with them."
ROAR!
The sound shook the entire cave—and echoed into the conference room like a living nightmare.
Dinotello rushed back to the camera, fear written across his face. "It found us... Chairman Cryer, please—send help before it's too late! Before—"
The screen turned to static.
"Dinotello? Dinotello!" Cryer called, but the signal was gone.
Silence fell.
It wasn't the normal kind of silence. It was heavy, as if some unseen force had entered the room. Every executive felt it—a suffocating, inhuman aura pressing down on their souls.
Christian dropped his laptop. His hands were trembling violently.
"What… was that thing?" one executive asked, voice barely a whisper.
"I-I don't know," a female executive replied. "But… did you see its smile?"
Christian shuddered. "See it? No... I felt it."
Chairman Cryer remained staring at the static screen, unable to tear his eyes away. His face was pale. Drenched in sweat.
Because while the others may have only caught a glimpse...
He had seen more.
Just before the transmission cut, something stepped into view—partially hidden by the shadows. A grotesque hand reached forward, long and twisted. And then... a crooked, impossible smile formed beneath the red gloom of the cave.
A smile that didn't belong in this world.
"Whatever that thing was," one of the executives said, breaking the tense silence, "we need to send aid—immediately."
"To who?" another replied grimly. "All of our hunters have already been dispatched."
A beat passed. Then—click-clack, click-clack.
Christian's fingers flew across his keyboard once more. The tremble in his hands had vanished. Determination had replaced the fear in his eyes.
"That's not entirely true," he said quietly.
Chairman Cryer turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
Christian didn't respond immediately. Instead, he spun his laptop around for everyone to see.
On the screen was a file. A name. A face.
A long-forgotten profile glowing softly in the dim room.
"Him," Christian said, eyes locked on Cryer. "There's one hunter left."
[End of Chapter]