The vehicles' doors hissed open, and hunters in black combat gear stepped out, rifles slung across their backs. At the center of them walked a tall man with sharp shoulders and calm eyes. His presence was heavier than the others — disciplined, focused.
Joshua Bancroft.
Among hunters, he was called the Firepower of America. His gift was long-range flame control — artillery-level blasts that could flatten entire districts. An A-rank of terrifying reach, and one of the nation's most reliable heavy hitters.
Bancroft stopped a few paces from Ramiel, studying him with the quiet intensity of a hawk. "How many of you went in?"
"Seven," Ramiel replied, steady but cautious.
"And now I only see you."
Ramiel didn't flinch. "The beast woke up. It tore them apart. I managed to escape through a gap in the chamber."
Bancroft's eyes narrowed. "And the gate? Why did it close the moment you came out?"
Ramiel shrugged, forcing a dry chuckle. "Guess the Hell's chaotic today. Not like I understand how these things work."
Silence stretched between them. Bancroft's gaze lingered on him longer than necessary, as though peeling back layers, searching for cracks. But in the end, he simply muttered, "Strange. Very strange." Then, almost casually, he added, "You'll be under watch. Don't make me find your name on another report."
With that, he turned, signaled his team, and the hunters filed back into their vehicles. Engines roared to life, and one by one, the cars rolled out of sight.
Ramiel stood there alone, the chill of the evening pressing against his skin. A laugh slipped from him — soft, bitter. "Humans… darker than demons. No wonder the world rots."
He adjusted the strap of the pack slung across his back — the loot he'd taken from the crew inside the gate — and hurried off toward home.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Joshua Bancroft sat in the back of a sleek black Maybach, the city lights sliding past the tinted windows. He pulled out his phone, hesitated for a moment, then hit the number saved under "Director Steele."
The line clicked. A rich, amused voice answered almost instantly. "Joshua Bancroft, America's walking artillery piece. You're calling late. Should I assume the world's ending?"
Bancroft kept his tone steady. "Not quite. But there's something off. That gate wasn't C-rank like the report said. Felt closer to A. Six hunters went in. Only one came out. A kid named Ramiel."
"Oh?" Steele's tone sharpened beneath the humor. "And this Ramiel—what's his story?"
"He claims the beasts killed the others, and he slipped away while the chaos bought him time. But the gate closed the moment he stepped out. I don't buy it."
Steele chuckled softly, though the edge in his voice was clear. "So you're telling me the kid probably cleared an A-rank gate alone, without a scratch?"
"That's my guess. He's not what he seems. My instincts say we keep an eye on him."
"Good," Steele said, his tone dangerously relaxed.
Bancroft stayed quiet, listening.
"One more thing," Steele added. "New talent just emerged. Gwen Kingston—Mayor Kingston's daughter. The girl tore through the Imperial Shadow Academy's trials and landed straight at B-rank. The higher-ups are already circling."
Bancroft frowned. "She's that strong?"
"Strong enough that people will fight to claim her," Steele said with a laugh. "Keep your eyes open, Joshua. Between your mystery boy and this girl, the board is starting to shift."
The line went dead.
Bancroft pocketed his phone, jaw tight.
If Ramiel had been listening, he would have recognized the voice immediately—Arthur Steele, head of the Iron Dominion, one of America's largest Hunter organizations… and one of its seven S-rank hunters.