The great bell tolled again.
Its deep, metallic voice rolled through the city like the heartbeat of some ancient beast.
The festival crowd roared in celebration, raising cranes toward the moonlight as if offering their hopes to the heavens. Songs swelled, drums boomed, and lantern light shimmered off the carved wooden crane at the square's center.
But above it all… there was another sound.
A faint, distorted hiss. A ripple in the air, too subtle for the civilians to notice—yet every hunter felt it in their bones.
Hyde's voice was a low growl beside George.
"They're here."
The first tear in reality appeared above the rooftops—a vertical slash of jagged black, glowing faintly at its edges like a wound struggling to close. A clawed, chitinous hand reached through, gripping the rift's frame before something pulled itself into existence.
A phantom.
Its body was a malformed amalgamation of bone and sinew, its mouth splitting far too wide for its skull. Others followed—some slithering along building walls, others dropping like shadows with wings.
On the rooftops, hunters began calling targets through the comms.
"North quadrant—three incoming!"
"Shadow movement in the south alley!"
"Two airborne types above the clock tower!"
Bertha's voice cut in, crisp and steady.
"All units—engage."
[The First Strike]
The first phantom lunged from a rooftop toward the edge of the crowd—only to be split mid-air by Raven Dark's scythe, her crows exploding outward into twin streaks of black flame to tear through another. She didn't wait to watch them fall—her boots slammed into the roof tiles as she pivoted toward a second target.
On another building, Sean Bill's rifle cracked like thunder. One phantom's head snapped back in a spray of dark ichor before its body crumpled against the festival wall. He was already chambering the next shot.
In the alley, Joana ducked beneath a swipe of claws, her short blades flashing in the moonlight. She carved through her attacker's legs while John leapt over her back, his hammer smashing down like a falling boulder to finish the kill.
[The Crowd]
George's eyes darted across the square. Civilians were still cheering, oblivious—until the first phantom hit the cobblestones near the outer ring of the festival. Screams erupted. Panic spread like wildfire.
"Move them out!" Bertha barked through comms. "B-ranks and below—crowd control! Keep the barrier as stable as you can!"
Connor Striker and Yasmine Miller sprang into action, weaving through the panicked throng, herding people toward the fortified streets. Connor's spear flashed as he impaled a leaping D-rank phantom before it could land on a mother clutching her child. Yasmine's twin pistols spat bursts of concentrated lixar rounds into another, knocking it back into the shadows.
[George Joins the Fray]
Hyde glanced at him. "You're up, kid. Don't hold back."
George took a deep breath.
Ko ignited around his feet, invisible footholds propelling him into the air. He dropped down in front of a cluster of fleeing civilians, intercepting a phantom that had broken through the hunter line. His fist connected with its jaw—bone shattered, and the creature was flung into the clock tower wall.
Another dropped behind him. He didn't turn—his palm lashed backward, lixar flaring, sending it skidding across the square in a burning arc.
He could feel the hum under his skin again—the one from before. The faint, restrained hunger of those green flames.
[The Swarm]
From every shadow, more poured in. The weakened barrier shimmered faintly overhead, its protective web struggling to contain the sudden influx. Phantoms of all shapes—humanoid, beastlike, and entirely alien—filled the edges of the square.
Bertha herself moved into the open, her halberd sweeping in a wide arc. A dozen phantoms were cleaved in a single movement, their forms dissolving into black mist. She didn't stop—her next strike shattered the stone beneath her, sending shards flying into another cluster.
Overhead, Hyde's silhouette blurred between rooftops, kicking one phantom into the air before bisecting it mid-flight with a clean, practiced cut. His voice came over comms.
"South perimeter's holding for now—George, west side's thin. Move!"
[The West Side]
George sprinted through the chaos, leaping over overturned market stalls and weaving between fleeing townsfolk. He arrived at the west edge just as three C-rank phantoms broke through the defensive line.
Ko flared—and then, for the first time since training, the flames answered. Green fire erupted around his right arm, swirling up to his shoulder like a living serpent. The nearest phantom hesitated—a flicker of fear in its hollow eyes.
George didn't waste the moment. He struck once, twice—each hit leaving a trail of green embers clinging to the wounds. The third phantom lunged, but he pivoted, driving his burning fist straight through its chest. The flames consumed it entirely before it hit the ground.
The barrier above flickered dangerously. Bertha's voice sharpened.
"All hunters—push them back now! If the barrier collapses, we'll be in a whole lot of trouble!"
Around him, the festival square became a storm of movement—steel clashing against claws, bursts of lixar lighting the night, the smell of ash and burning air heavy in George's lungs.
He tightened his grip, eyes scanning the chaos.
This wasn't going to be just another fight.
This was survival.
And for the first time since he became a hunter…
he was ready to burn.