The top floor of the Crutian Guild's Headquarters was no longer a room; it was a kiln.
The luxury penthouse suite, once adorned with velvet drapes, mahogany furniture, and priceless art, had been reduced to a swirling vortex of orange and violet fire. The air shimmered with heat haze, distorting vision and boiling the moisture straight out of the skin.
Visibility was near zero, choked by thick, oily smoke that smelled of burning plastic, melting gold, and searing flesh.
Inside this inferno, the elite Hunters of the Crutian Guild—men and women who had survived A-Rank dungeons and fought monsters twice their size—were coughing and huffing, desperate to drag oxygen into their lungs. But there was no oxygen left. The Pyroclast Regalia had consumed it all.
Their reinforced lungs, capable of holding breath for ten minutes underwater, were failing. Their mana barriers, designed to deflect steel and magic, were flickering out like candles in a hurricane.
"What's wrong? Can't breathe properly?"
A voice cut through the roar of the flames. It was calm, almost conversational, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of dubstep bass bleeding out from wireless earbuds.
Damien stepped through a wall of fire, the flames parting around him as if afraid to touch their master. He stood before a group of three S-Rank escorts who were huddled together, trying to shield Steven Crutian.
"Here," Damien whispered, his black eyes gleaming with madness. "Lemme help ya."
He raised the heavy nozzle of the flamethrower.
-ROAR!
He didn't spray them; he bathed them.
"AAAAAHHHHH!!!"
The screams were unified, a harmonized chorus of absolute agony. It wasn't just the heat; it was the erasure. The violet flames latched onto their mana auras, turning their own defensive energy into fuel.
One escort, a Tanker with diamond-skin, watched in horror as his invincible arm turned to ash, crumbling away into the wind.
"HELP US! BOSS! HELP!"
Steven Crutian scrambled backward, crawling on the expensive marble floor that was now bubbling like soup. He watched his most loyal men—warriors he had paid millions to secure—vanish.
They didn't just die. They unraveled. Flesh stripped from bone, bone turned to dust, dust turned to nothingness. Within seconds, the three S-Rank Hunters were gone. No bodies. No loot. Just shadows burned into the wall behind them.
'Goddamnit! Goddamnit! This can't be happening!'
Steven backed up until he hit the floor-to-ceiling window. The glass was reinforced, designed to withstand a missile strike, but it was already spiderwebbing from the heat.
He was trapped. The elevator was melted slag. The stairs were a chimney of fire. And in front of him stood a demon wearing a tactical shirt and listening to Skrillex.
Steven's mind raced. He had one card left. A trump card he had been saving for a national emergency, or to overthrow a rival guild.
'The Contract!'
He remembered the offer. A Constellation from the Evil Faction—a god-like entity that watched their world from the abyss—had approached him in a dream weeks ago. It had offered power in exchange for a vessel. Steven had refused then, wanting to keep his autonomy.
But now? Now he would sell his soul, his body, and his entire bloodline just to survive.
"I ACCEPT!" Steven screamed at the ceiling, ignoring the smoke filling his lungs.
"[The Monarch of Festering Wounds]! [The King of Rot]! I call upon you!"
Steven clawed at his chest, ripping his shirt open to expose the tattoo of a bleeding eye over his heart.
"I will sign your goddamn contract! I don't care what you do to my body afterwards! Just promise me... promise me you will kill this bastard!"
He poured his mana into the tattoo. He cried his lungs out, begging the void to answer.
Usually, the System would chime instantly. A golden or crimson window would appear, confirming the pact. Power would flood his veins.
But the air remained silent. The fire kept roaring.
Damien stopped walking. He tilted his head, watching Steven with amusement.
Steven stared at the air in front of him. A System window finally flickered into existence. But it wasn't the contract. It was a message.
[System Notification]
[The Constellation 'The Monarch of Festering Wounds' has looked at your current location.]
[The Constellation 'The Monarch of Festering Wounds' senses the presence of a 'Strategic Extinction Armament'.]
[The Constellation 'The Monarch of Festering Wounds' is hesitating.]
"What?" Steven gasped. "Hesitating? YOU'RE A GOD!"
Then, a new message appeared. A direct communication.
[...]
[The Constellation 'The Monarch of Festering Wounds' has refused your call.]
[Reason: "I do not wish to be erased by Primordial Fire. Good luck, mortal."]
[Connection Terminated.]
The window shattered into pixels.
Steven sat there, his mouth agape, tears streaming down his soot-stained face.
"Wha... what do you mean out of your league?!" Steven shrieked, clutching his head. "You're a fucking Constellation! A fucking god! Why the fuck won't you help me?!"
He was distraught. Abandoned. The universe had looked at him and turned away.
Damien chuckled. He reached up and tapped his earbud, pausing the music. The silence that rushed in was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the dying building.
"Seems the Constellation you wanted to sign a contract with didn't give you the response you wanted, huh?"
Damien stepped closer, the heat radiating off the flamethrower making the air ripple.
"Can't blame that bastard," Damien mused. "He can't go against this flamethrower. After all, the fire inside it is primordial. It burns concepts. It burns divinities. Even a god doesn't want to risk getting their fingers singed by a weapon meant to end worlds."
Damien looked at the heavy tank strapped to his back. A red light was blinking on the gauge.
[Fuel Depleted]
"Oops," Damien said, shrugging. "I guess time's over. The tank is dry."
The violet flame at the tip of the nozzle sputtered and died. The terrifying roar of the extinction weapon faded.
Damien unclipped the straps. With a heavy thud, he let the Pyroclast Regalia drop to the floor. The metal hissed as it touched the superheated concrete.
He cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders.
"Tell you what, Steven," Damien said, his voice dropping an octave. "How about hand-to-hand combat? Just you and me. No gods. No flamethrowers. Is that a good offer?"
Steven stared at the discarded weapon. Then he looked at Damien.
Hope, hot and violent, surged back into Steven's chest.
Without that weapon, Damien was just a man. An arrogant man who had exhausted his mana and his trump card. Steven, on the other hand, was an SS-Rank Berserker. He was one of the top ten strongest physically in the country.
"Fuck you!" Steven roared, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the handle of his massive greatsword, which had survived the heat thanks to its dragon-bone construction.
"Your time's running out, kid!" Steven spat, his aura flaring a toxic green. "You just gave me a chance to kill you! You arrogant fool!"
Steven's muscles swelled, ripping through his suit. His eyes glowed with mana.
Damien didn't move. He stood relaxed, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
"Steven Crutian," Damien said softly. "SS-Class Hunter. Leader of the Crutian Guild. Rapist. Slaver. Murderer. Am I correct?"
Steven roared in anger, the sound shaking the weakened floorboards.
"YES! That's my damn name! And remember it until you arrive in hell, you goddamn bastard! I swear I will fucking kill you and parade your fucking head to the whole of Washington!!!"
Steven charged. He moved faster than sound, his greatsword tearing through the air, aimed directly at Damien's neck.
Damien smiled. It wasn't a hero's smile. It was the smile of something that lived under the bed.
"This is why Hunters are fucking monkeys," Damien whispered. "Fucking monkey hunters deserve to be burned and brutally killed. Y'know..."
[Trait Activated: Black Death (L)]
[Lifespan Sacrifice: 15 Years]
Time seemed to stop.
Black markings erupted from Damien's neck, crawling up his face like living ink. His amber eyes, already black, shifted. The pupils elongated into vertical slits, like a viper, and the sclera turned vantablack.
An aura of pure death exploded from him, not wild like Steven's, but heavy. Compressed. Suffocating.
Damien vanished.
He didn't teleport. He just moved faster than Steven's SS-Rank senses could process.
"—Your eyes are literally beautiful."
The whisper came from right next to Steven's ear.
Steven's swing hit nothing but smoke. He stumbled, shock overriding his rage.
"What?" Steven gasped, spinning around.
Damien was standing there, leaning casually against a burning pillar.
"It's just a waste the owner is trash," Damien continued, admiring Steven's face.
"Was that a compliment or—"
"Both," Damien interrupted abruptly.
He pushed off the pillar.
"Doesn't matter. I will fucking gouge your eyes out and add them to my collection beside your men's eyes."
"You goddamn bast—"
Steven swung his greatsword again, a horizontal cleave meant to bisect Damien. It was a strike that could cut a tank in half.
Damien didn't dodge. He raised his bare left hand.
-CLANG!
The sound of bone hitting steel rang out like a bell.
Damien caught the blade. He caught an SS-Rank Hunter's full-power swing with his bare palm. His fingers dug into the dragon bone, cracking it.
"How—"
Before Steven could process the impossibility, Damien stepped in.
-PHWACK!
Damien's right fist buried itself in Steven's stomach.
It wasn't a normal punch. It was a pile-driver delivered with the force of a collapsing star. Steven felt his ribs shatter. He felt his organs rupture.
"COUGH!"
Steven vomited a torrent of blood onto Damien's face.
Steven's eyes bulged. He looked down at the fist embedded in his gut, then up at Damien.
'How could this be?!' Steven's mind screamed. 'I didn't see him appear in front of me! I swear he was busy holding my sword! How is he this strong?! He's supposed to be a rank below than me!'
Damien twisted his fist.
"COUGH!" Steven coughed another pint of blood, his knees buckling.
"You fucking crazy psycho!!!!" Steven wheezed.
"I will fucking kill you!" Steven screamed, trying to summon his aura for a blast.
"I will kill you!"
"I WILL FUCKING KILL YOUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!"
As his last effort, Steven let go of his sword and threw a desperate left hook at Damien's face. It was a punch reinforced with all his remaining mana.
Damien didn't block it. He let it hit him.
-THUD.
Steven's fist connected with Damien's cheek.
Damien's head barely moved.
Steven, however, screamed. His hand shattered upon impact, as if he had punched a wall of adamantium.
Damien slowly turned his head back to center. The black obsidian eyes, now fully slit-formed, stared into Steven's soul. He smiled. Blood from Steven's cough dripped down his chin, making him look like a vampire who had just fed.
"Up close... your eyes are literally beautiful," Damien purred. "It's literally a waste you are trash. How about this..."
Damien pulled his fist out of Steven's stomach. Steven collapsed, gasping for air, unable to stand.
Damien grabbed Steven by the hair and lifted his head up.
"I will destroy your eyes as an offer of kindness? Does that sound good, Steven?"
Steven trembled. He saw the fingers coming.
"It sounds good, right?! Right?! Right?!!!!" Damien shouted, his voice cracking with manic glee.
Steven shook his head frantically, struggling weakly against the iron grip.
"No... no, no please no... I have money! I have secrets! No, no... NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
Damien laughed. A hollow, terrifying sound.
"Here comes the airplane!"
-SQUELCH!
Damien's thumbs drove into Steven's eye sockets.
"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!"
The scream was primal. It was the sound of a man being dismantled.
Damien dug deep, twisting his fingers, destroying the corneas, the lenses, the nerves. He turned the beautiful green eyes into a bloody ruin.
Horrible. It was horrible. An A-Rank Soldier brutally torturing an SS-Rank Hunter while enjoying his screams like a crazy psychopath.
That thought crossed Damien's mind for a split second. Then he erased it. He wanted to enjoy this. He needed to enjoy this.
"Please... let me go..." Steven whimpered, his voice broken. He was blind, bleeding, and defeated. "I promise... I will change... just let me go... please."
Blood streamed from the empty holes in his face, mixing with the tears. He looked pathetic. A god brought low.
Damien looked at his own hands, coated in red viscous fluid. He wiped some of it off his cheek.
He looked down at Steven's miserable state.
"You should say that to the people you killed," Damien whispered. "To the people you tortured and raped. To the kids you enslaved in the Chilean mines."
Damien let go of Steven's hair. Steven slumped to the floor, curling into a fetal position.
"And including..."
Damien deactivated the Black Death mode. The markings receded, leaving him feeling drained and hollow.
He reached into his [Space Inventory].
He pulled out a heavy-caliber handgun. A Desert Eagle, modified for mana bullets.
He racked the slide.
-CLICK-CLACK.
"To the dead Soldiers you used as Meat Shields five years ago."
Damien aimed the barrel at the back of Steven's head.
"Goodbye, Monkey Hunter. See you in hell."
Steven opened his mouth to beg one last time.
-BANG!
The gunshot was final.
Steven's body jerked once, then went still. The SS-Rank aura faded, leaving only a cooling corpse on the melted floor.
It was over.
The fire. The fight. The chaos. The euphoria that Damien felt... it all evaporated instantly.
The adrenaline crashed.
All that was left was the crushing weight of guilt and loneliness inside his heart. Damien lowered the gun. He sighed, looking around the ruin he had created.
Flames still licked at the walls, but they were dying down now. The silence returned.
Damien reached into his pocket and picked up a small, metallic device. A portable warp gate generator. One-time use.
Before he could click the button, the System notified him.
[System Notification]
[Ding! Trait Deactivated: Black Death]
[Time Elapsed: 3 Minutes]
[Penalty Applied: Minus 15 years of lifespan]
Damien grimaced. He clutched his chest as a spasm of pain shot through his heart. He coughed, and blood splattered onto his hand. It wasn't Steven's blood this time. It was his own.
Fifteen years. Gone. Burned away in three minutes of rage.
His body felt heavy, older. His joints ached. His vision blurred for a second.
'Doesn't matter,' Damien thought, wiping his mouth. 'All of it was worth it anyways. Sigh... I'm really a goddamn crazy psycho. Steven was right. I am a monster.'
He looked at Steven's corpse one last time. He felt no satisfaction. Just emptiness.
Damien clicked the device.
-ZAP.
A blue portal swirled open in front of him. He stepped through, leaving the burning tower behind.
Damien stumbled out of the portal and into the cool, dark sanctuary of his bedroom.
He didn't bother undressing. He didn't bother washing the blood off his face or hands. He just collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow.
The smell of smoke clung to him. The echoes of screams played in his mind.
He stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance.
"Let's just sleep," he whispered to the empty room. "Tomorrow morning... I'll watch the news. I bet it will be a big one. After all, the Crutian Guild HQ was destroyed by flames and an unknown Maniac."
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, he slept without dreaming.
***
-BRRTTTZZZ!
-BRRTTTTZZZZZ!
The alarm clock screamed.
Damien groaned, slamming his hand onto the snooze button. He peeled his eyes open. It was morning. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, insulting his hangover-like exhaustion.
He sat up, his body protesting every movement. He walked towards the living room, stripping off his blood-crusted shirt as he went.
He turned on the TV.
"BREAKING NEWS" flashed in bold red letters across the screen.
The news anchor looked pale, her voice trembling slightly.
"...unprecedented attack in the downtown district last night. The Headquarters of the Crutian Guild has been completely destroyed. Firefighters are calling it an 'inferno of unknown origin.' Preliminary reports confirm that Guild Master Steven Crutian and the entire executive board have been found dead."
The screen switched to footage of the smoldering ruin. Then, it switched to a press conference.
"Furthermore, in a shocking turn of events, anonymous sources have leaked terrabytes of data to the press and the Hunter Association. These files confirm the Crutian Guild's involvement in human trafficking, the Chilean Mine slave trade, and political bribery. The Police Commissioner has issued warrants for over fifty thousand associates worldwide..."
Damien watched, leaning against the wall.
"Authorities are searching for the assailant, described only as a 'Vigilante' or 'Terrorist' depending on who you ask. However, all CCTV footage of the attacker has been corrupted or erased. No identification has been made."
Damien sighed in relief, his shoulders dropping.
"Thank God," he whispered. "Michael covered my identity. Gotta thank that old man. He really pulled the strings."
He looked at his reflection in the TV screen. He looked tired. He looked like a man running on fumes.
"Seriously... I should do it before going to shower. Since after that... I need to prepare to die. The dungeon opens today."
Damien picked up his cellphone. He typed a message to Michael.
Damien:Hey. Thanks. Thanks for everything. Also take care of the kids.
He hit send. He stared at the screen for a second, then put the cellphone down on the coffee table.
"Sigh."
He turned toward the bathroom.
"Let's just go to shower."