"COUGH!"
The sound was wet, ragged, and violent. It tore through the oppressive silence that had descended upon the arena only seconds before.
"COUGH! Haa... Haa..."
A chorus of hacking coughs erupted from the spectator stands, rippling through the crowd like a contagious wave. The air inside the dome was no longer air; it was a thick, suffocating soup of pulverized concrete, ionized mana, and the acrid stench of ozone. The dust cloud was so dense that it blotted out the artificial lighting above, casting the entire stadium into a twilight of grey particulate matter.
Visibility was reduced to absolute zero. The elite Hunters, the government officials, the foreign dignitaries—people who held the fate of nations in their hands—were currently reduced to clutching their throats, eyes streaming with tears as they tried to breathe. They couldn't see the combatants. They couldn't even see the person sitting next to them.
The terror was palpable. The shockwave from the last clash hadn't just broken the arena floor; it had rattled the very foundations of their sense of safety.
"Everyone! Stay calm!"
A voice cut through the chaos, clear and resonant as a temple bell. It was Morgane.
The Saintess had snapped back to reality faster than anyone else. While others were paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the destruction, her instincts as a healer and a protector took over. She slammed the butt of her white staff onto the crumbling ground.
"By the grace of the Sanctuary—Aegis of the Seraphim!"
A blinding golden light exploded from her position. It wasn't an attack; it was a desperate embrace.
She cast an SSS-rank Shield, a dome of translucent golden energy that expanded rapidly, pushing back the choking dust and stabilizing the trembling infrastructure of the stadium. But she didn't stop there.
"Benevolence of the High Priestess."
An SSS-rank Mass Healing spell washed over the crowd. The golden light seeped into their bodies, clearing their lungs of dust, mending ruptured eardrums, and calming their racing hearts. She layered buffs upon the shield, reinforcing it with physical resistance and magical dampening to prevent any aftershocks from harming the civilians.
"Hold... hold it together..." Morgane whispered to herself, sweat beading on her forehead. The mana drain was astronomical, but the arena withstood the pressure. Every single person survived the clash.
Slowly, painfully, the dust began to settle.
The first thing the crowd saw was a crater. It looked less like a fighting ring and more like the impact site of a meteor. And in the center of that devastation stood Rikiya.
The Battle Junkie was smiling.
It was a grotesque, terrifying smile, stained crimson. Rikiya stood hunched over, his body shaking violently.
"Heh... cough... hahaha..."
He coughed, and a spray of blood painted the rubble at his feet. It was a sign of total exhaustion. He had overused his mana to a critical degree, burning through his reserves and dipping dangerously into his actual life force. His skin was pale, his eyes manic but dimming. He looked like a man who had nothing left to give, yet was still high on the adrenaline of near-death.
"Is it... is it over?" Morgane asked, her voice trembling. She lowered her staff slightly, her chest heaving from the exertion.
She prayed to whatever gods were listening that it was finished. The destruction was too much. If they continued, there would be no arena left—perhaps no city left.
But then, the dust shifted on the opposite side of the crater, shattering her expectations.
A silhouette emerged from the grey haze.
It was ragged. It was swaying. But it was standing.
Morgane covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes widening in genuine horror. "No... impossible."
It was Damien.
He looked less like a human and more like a corpse that refused to lie down. His clothes were shredded, revealing skin that was bruised black and purple from internal hemorrhaging. Blood ran freely from a gash on his forehead, blinding one eye. His right arm hung limp at his side, clearly dislocated or broken.
'How is this possible?!'
The thought screamed in unison through the minds of every spectator. The silence returned, heavier than before. This went beyond resilience. This was madness.
Even Michael, watching safely from the VIP box via a high-definition hologram, felt a chill crawl up his spine. He leaned forward, gripping the railing of his projection. He had calculated the odds. He had trusted Damien's skills. But that last attack from Rikiya carried the weight of a natural disaster. It was power capable of leveling a continent if left unchecked.
"He should be dead," Michael muttered, his calm facade cracking. "That power should have obliterated him. Not just killed him—erased him."
Yet, Damien stood there. He had shattered everyone's expectations, defying the logic of the awakened world.
From across the crater, Rikiya's eyes focused on the swaying figure. His smile widened, stretching the drying blood on his face.
"Hahahaha! I knew it! I knew you would survive that!" Rikiya wheezed, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "You are another version of me, after all."
Unlike the crowd, who viewed Damien as a variable to be calculated, Rikiya viewed him as a kindred spirit. He didn't expect Damien to turn to ashes. He expected the psychopath across from him—the man whose eyes held the same darkness as his own—to find a way.
Rikiya knew. In terms of raw power, he might have had the edge. But when it came to versatility, brutality, and sheer experience in hand-to-hand slaughter, Damien was his superior.
"COUGH! COUGH!"
Damien bent double, hacking up a clot of dark blood. Every nerve ending in his body was screaming. His lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass.
[Warning: User is in Critical Condition. HP is below 5%. Immediate medical attention required.]
The System's bright blue notification window popped up in his vision, blinking urgently.
Damien swiped it away with a mental command. He didn't give a damn.
'Shut up,' he thought, his internal voice cold and jagged. 'It doesn't matter.'
Pain was irrelevant. Survival was secondary. The only thing that mattered was the objective. As long as he could take that Monkey down, as long as he could stand one second longer than the trash in front of him, he would win.
He had to prove it. He had to prove to Michael, to the world, and to Melissa—God rest her soul—that he could win this pathetic fight.
Damien tried to raise his right arm to ready his dagger.
Nothing happened.
He frowned, looking down at the limb. It was dead weight. The muscles were torn, the nerves unresponsive.
'Tch. Useless,' he thought.
Without a flicker of hesitation on his face, he awkwardly tossed the handle of his poignant dagger into the air and caught it with his left hand. His grip was weaker, but it would have to do.
'Sigh. I really don't even use my left arm for combat, but...'
Damien looked up. Across the debris field, Rikiya was swaying. The Battle Junkie was finished. He was running on fumes.
Damien smirked, a bloodied, feral expression.
'It doesn't matter. I need to finish this fast!'
His mana, dark and oppressive, began to flare around him one last time. It wasn't the explosive golden light of a Saintess or the fiery aura of a Berserker. It was a suffocating, inky blackness that seemed to drink the light around it.
'BLACK DEATH!'
The atmosphere in the arena dropped ten degrees instantly. Shadows stretched toward Damien, unnatural and hungry.
'SECOND STATE: THIRD FORM'
He lowered his stance, the dagger in his left hand humming with a terrifying vibration.
'ABSOLUTE DOMINION OF DEATH!'
There was no sound of movement.
One moment, Damien was standing on the edge of the crater. The next, he simply ceased to exist in that space.
He disappeared from Rikiya's sight entirely.
-ZOOM!
Instantaneously, Damien reappeared directly in front of Rikiya, the dagger already in motion, aiming for the jugular.
Rikiya's eyes widened, but his body refused to move. He couldn't react. He couldn't dodge. His mana was gone, his muscles seized. He could feel the cold breath of the reaper against his neck.
'Ah... so this is it.'
Rikiya didn't look at the dagger. He tilted his head back slightly, looking up at the sky. The ceiling of the arena had been blown away by their clash, revealing the artificial sky of the Dungeon, now flickering and glitching.
Instead of fighting back, instead of trying to retaliate in a futile last stand, Rikiya let his shoulders drop.
He accepted his end.
'I will finally be going together with you, Master,' Rikiya thought, a sense of profound peace washing over him. 'And I'm sorry, Ruuka. It seems this is where my road ends. I couldn't keep my promise.'
Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
Just before the blade made contact, Damien saw something that made him pause for a fraction of a microsecond.
Rikiya was crying.
A single tear tracked through the blood and grime on the man's cheek. It wasn't a tear of fear. It was a complex mixture of emotions—acceptance of death, the happiness of nostalgia, and a deep, crushing sadness.
For the briefest of moments, Damien hesitated. The killing intent wavered. He saw a human being, not just a target.
He closed his eyes, his grip on the dagger tightening as he forced himself to follow through.
"I'm sorry."
Damien whispered the words.
-SWISH!
The blade slashed forward.
"RIKIYA!" Morgane screamed.
She lunged forward, her hand outstretched, desperate to cast a shield, a heal, anything. But her mana pool was dry. She had used everything to save the audience. She was exhausted. If she tried to cast now, she would burn her own life force and likely fail anyway. She couldn't save him.
The dagger bit into the air, inches from Rikiya's throat.
And then, the world stopped.
-BOOM!
A shockwave exploded outward, not from an attack, but from an arrival.
A hand, large and calloused, appeared from nowhere. It caught Damien's wrist—the one holding the dagger—with the gentleness of a father stopping a child, but the firmness of a mountain.
The force of the interception was paradoxical. It was gentle on Rikiya's side, but for Damien, it was like hitting a speeding train.
Damien was launched backward, flying through the air until he skidded to a halt near where he had started, his boots carving deep grooves into the stone.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!"
The voice was deep, authoritative, and brokered no argument.
A man stood between the two fighters. He was tall, imposing, an African-American man with broad shoulders and a presence that made the air feel heavy. He wore a simple coat, but the mana radiating off him was dense enough to distort the light.
He ignored Damien for a moment, turning immediately to Rikiya. He pulled a small vial from his pocket. The liquid inside glowed with a vibrant, verdant green light.
"Drink this," the man ordered, pressing the vial into Rikiya's trembling hand. "This is a potion derived from the sap of Yggdrasil."
A gasp went through the crowd. Yggdrasil sap. A legendary elixir capable of curing all sickness, mending shattered bones, and restoring internal organs instantly. It was a treasure worth more than entire countries.
Rikiya blinked, his vision blurry. He uncorked the vial with shaking fingers and downed it. Instant relief washed over him. The color returned to his face.
"Is... is that you, Nicholas?" Rikiya asked, his voice stronger now.
The man nodded solemnly. "Yes, it's me, Rikiya."
He turned to face the cameras and the crowd, his expression stern.
"I am Nicholas. The Rank 2 Hunter of the world."
The arena erupted into murmurs. Nicholas. The Shield of the Wild West. The man who had supposedly retired from the front lines.
Damien slowly pushed himself up from the rubble. He wiped the blood dripping from his split lip, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the newcomer. He was shocked—not by the man's strength, but by his presence here.
'Why is he here?' Damien thought, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. 'I expected anyone else. But him?'
Damien knew Nicholas. He expected the man to stay far away from this raid. Nicholas had retired. He had walked away from the life of a Hunter, disgusted by the corruption and the crimes that his colleagues committed in the name of glory. He was supposed to be living a peaceful life.
Damien stood fully upright, swaying slightly but refusing to show weakness.
"I thought you retired?" Damien called out, his voice rasping. "You still choose to be a Monkey, huh?"
The insult hung in the air, sharp and vitriolic.
Nicholas looked at Damien. His eyes didn't hold anger, only a deep, weary sadness.
They knew each other. Their history wasn't written in battle records or guild registries. It was written in a graveyard.
Flashbacks flickered through Nicholas's mind. He remembered a rainy day, years ago. He had attended the funeral of Melissa K. Thompson, the Prime Minister's daughter. But amidst the dignitaries and the press, his eyes had been drawn to a child.
A young Damien, standing alone. He wasn't crying over her girlfriend. He was staring at the coffin of his parents, his eyes hollowed out by a grief no child should know.
Nicholas had approached the boy then. He knew of Damien's hatred—the hatred born after Melissa's death. But he had been curious before when he attend his parent's funeral.
"Do you hate us?" Nicholas had asked the child, kneeling down to be at eye level. "Do you hate the Hunters for failing to save them?"
The boy, Damien, had shaken his head slowly. He looked at Nicholas with eyes that were too old for his face.
"No," the young Damien had said, clenching his small fists until the knuckles turned white. "I really don't blame them entirely. It's not really their fault. They tried. It's those monsters' fault. The dungeons."
Nicholas had been shocked. Most children in that situation lashed out. They screamed, they blamed the heroes for not being fast enough or strong enough. But this kid... this kid possessed a terrifying level of understanding. He didn't shout. He internalized it.
"I see," Nicholas had replied, looking up at the grey, weeping sky.
He had placed a large, comforting hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair.
"I-I'm sorry, kiddo. I truly am."
"Thanks," the kid Damien had whispered. And then, finally, the dam broke. He looked down at the wet grass and started to cry, silent, racking sobs that shook his small frame.
Nicholas had pulled him into a hug, shielding him from the rain and the cameras.
Back in the present, Nicholas sighed, the memory fading.
"You still call Hunters 'Monkeys' even after all this time, huh Damien?" Nicholas asked, his voice tinged with regret. "I know they're the reason for your girlfriend's death—indirectly or not—but you should stop saying that. Before it literally becomes a habit you can't break."
Damien shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that contrasted sharply with his broken body.
"It becomes a reflex, y'know?" Damien spat to the side, clearing blood from his mouth. "I call it like I see it. And all I saw just now was two Monkeys helping each other out."
Nicholas sighed again. He knew the root of Damien's hatred. He couldn't blame the boy—no, the man. But it distraught him. The innocent kid he had met that day, the one with high wisdom and a capacity for forgiveness, was gone. In his place stood a broken man fueled by vengeance, bearing hatred toward the very people Nicholas had dedicated his life to leading.
Before Nicholas could try to scold Damien further, movement from behind caught his attention.
Rikiya stood up. The potion had worked wonders; his breathing was steady, though his uniform was still a ruin.
Rikiya looked at Damien, then at Nicholas, and finally at the stunned Morgane. He raised his hand.
"I yield," Rikiya said loudly. "I surrender."
The declaration stunned the arena. The Battle Junkie, surrendering?
Everyone was in shock—everyone except Gayeol, Michael, and Nicholas. They understood. The fight was effectively over the moment Nicholas intervened.
Damien stared at Rikiya for a long moment. There was no triumph in his eyes, just a cold, flat acknowledgement. He nodded once.
Damien turned around and began to walk away, his boots crunching on the debris. He didn't look back at the cameras or the cheering crowd. He just wanted to leave.
But after a few steps, he paused. He turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at the Rank 2 Hunter.
"You are still the same as ever," Damien said, his voice carrying across the silence.
"A goddamn bastard who protects those Monkeys."
With that, he walked into the shadows of the arena tunnel and disappeared.
Nicholas watched him go, his shoulders slumping slightly. "And you're still a stubborn brat."
Morgane rushed to Rikiya's side, grabbing his arm. She began checking him over frantically, her hands glowing with diagnostic magic.
Rikiya tried to wave her off with a grin. "I'm fine, Morgane. The potion—"
"Alright my ass!" Morgane snapped, tears welling in her eyes. "You are still in critical condition! That potion heals the body, not the strain on your soul! If you had just listened to me, this... this wouldn't even have happened to you!"
She continued to scold him, channeling her Saintess power to stabilize his mana core, her anger born of terrifying worry.
While Rikiya tried to reassure the frantic Saintess, awkwardly patting her shoulder while wincing at his internal injuries, another figure approached Nicholas.
It was Gayeol. The young prodigy walked up to the towering man, bowing respectfully.
"Good morning, Master."
Nicholas turned, his expression softening instantly. A warm smile broke through his stoic mask.
"Oh, if it isn't my student!" Nicholas laughed, pulling Gayeol into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. "You've grown strong."
He set her down, looking her over with pride. But he noticed the look in her eyes. It wasn't just happiness to see him. It was burning curiosity.
After a moment of hesitation, Gayeol looked up at him.
"Can you tell me, Master?"
"Tell you what?" Nicholas asked, confused.
Gayeol glanced toward the dark tunnel where Damien had vanished.
"Why... why does that guy hate us Hunters so much? Why does he call us Monkeys?"
Nicholas's smile faded. He looked at the tunnel, then back at his student. He sighed, a long, heavy exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of years.
"It will be a long story," Nicholas said quietly. "It's not a happy one. Do you still want to hear it?"
Gayeol hesitated. She knew it wasn't really her business. Damien's past was his own, and prying into the trauma of a man like that felt dangerous. But she wanted to know. She needed to understand the monster she was allied with.
After a minute of internal struggle, she raised her head, her eyes determined. She nodded.
"Yes, I want to know, Master," she said firmly. "All of it."