The realm of shadows stood silent—an eternal void beneath a starless sky. Eight thrones of black obsidian encircled a vast altar where the kings of shadow sat, their eyes glowing faintly like dying embers. Each carried the weight of countless eons, rulers of forgotten wars and keepers of the abyss.
The silence broke when the Second King spoke, his voice low and grim.
"The battle has begun."
Before the others could respond, the First King's voice cut through the chamber like a blade drawn from darkness.
"Quiet," he commanded. "Watch."
Their gaze pierced the veil between realms—where the first war of the new age was about to unfold.
Below, on the surface of the mortal world, chaos had already erupted. The ground trembled as the sky turned crimson, firestorms sweeping across the ruins of a once-proud city. From the shattered gates of the underworld, hordes of demons surged forth—armies forged in despair, guided by hatred.
At the vanguard stood Sivrath, the demon general. His horns shimmered like molten iron, his blade dripping with the essence of slaughter. With a wave of his clawed hand, he unleashed half of his legion while the rest remained behind, their roars shaking the very air.
"Go," Sivrath thundered. "Let the hunt begin."
The hunters met them head-on. Blades clashed. Magic exploded. The first wave of battle screamed across the battlefield like a storm of fury.
Kuro, Daiki, Yume, Haru, and Althric led the charge—five shadows standing at the edge of annihilation. Their movements cut through the sea of monsters with precise coordination, each strike echoing the discipline drilled into them by countless wars. The hunters spread out, forming a wide perimeter to contain the demon swarm.
At first, victory seemed possible. The hunters' formations were holding, their synergy seamless. Demons fell by the dozens; the scent of burning flesh mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
But then Sivrath raised his hand once more.
A surge of crimson light erupted from his palm, spreading like wildfire across the battlefield. The ground shook as every demon howled, their power skyrocketing—muscles expanding, eyes glowing red with maddened rage.
The hunters' brief advantage shattered instantly.
Screams filled the air as demons tore through the front lines. Buildings crumbled under their assault, and the world itself seemed to split under their fury. The once-organized defense fell into chaos.
Far from the frontlines, Misaki and the Shadow Snipers took position atop the ruined skyscrapers that overlooked the city. Their rifles glowed faintly with dark energy as they aimed into the smoke and fire below.
"Target the ones near the hunters," Misaki ordered, her tone steady but cold.
"Roger that."
Bullets of condensed shadow shot through the air, piercing demonic skulls from hundreds of meters away. They fought not just for victory—but to protect what was left of their world.
The battle was being broadcast live across every screen. Reporters screamed into cameras as explosions tore through the horizon behind them. The world was watching—citizens, soldiers, and children—all frozen in terror.
A small child clung to her mother in a crowded shelter.
"Mommy… what's happening out there? I'm scared."
Her mother wrapped trembling arms around her.
"Don't worry, my child. The Shadow Bounds are out there… they'll protect us."
Across the command center, Ichiro and the other organization leaders watched the monitors in grim silence.
"Everything depends on them now," Ichiro whispered. "All of humanity is counting on them… please, win this battle."
On the battlefield, Ren Akatsuki stood amidst the storm—a figure of pure calm surrounded by chaos. His eyes glowed faintly blue beneath the darkened sky, his aura rippling with restrained power.
Even using only a fraction of his strength, every movement carved devastation through the enemy ranks. Dozens of demons were erased in a single swing, their bodies dissolving into ash.
But despite his efforts, the endless waves of enemies pressed forward, overwhelming the hunters. Their lines began to collapse.
Ren's expression hardened.
With a single step, he disappeared into shadow—and reappeared at the heart of the battlefield. The next instant, hundreds of demons disintegrated in a blinding eruption of darkness.
He turned toward the retreating hunters, his voice echoing like thunder across the field.
"Do not rely on your blades," he commanded. "Use the shadows that live within you. That is where your true power lies."
The hunters, bloodied and exhausted, stared at him in awe. Slowly, they obeyed. Drawing on their inner darkness, their shadows began to ripple, growing more vivid—alive. Their aura intensified.
Ren extended his hand. A surge of black mist flowed from him, merging with theirs, empowering them beyond their limits. His own essence—his shadow—was shared among his soldiers.
The air trembled as their strength multiplied. Once more, they rose, shouting their war cries, their blades cutting through the demonic tide.
Ren joined them—his movements fluid, lethal, unstoppable.
Sivrath watched from afar, unmoving. His eyes glowed faintly as he observed Ren's growing dominance. The hunters' numbers were dwindling, but their spirit burned brighter than ever. Even as their bodies bled, even as their mana waned, they refused to fall.
Each kill cost them dearly—draining their shadow mana, tearing their muscles, fracturing bones—but still, they fought.
Ren saw it all. The exhaustion. The pain. The despair hidden behind their clenched teeth.
He clenched his fist—and released another wave of his power. It spread across the battlefield like a silent wind.
Those touched by his shadow felt their wounds knit together, their breath steady, their hearts reignite with strength.
Ren's own energy drained rapidly, but he didn't stop. His duty wasn't to reign—it was to protect.
"Stand," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Rise again."
And they did.
Althric appeared beside him, his armor cracked, blood staining his cheek.
"My king," he said, panting. "You're burning your power too fast."
Ren smirked faintly. "Then lend me yours."
Althric nodded, and their shadows intertwined—two beings of pure darkness uniting as one. Together, they charged forward, a whirlwind of death and silence. Every strike they unleashed left trails of black fire; every movement was poetry in chaos.
Side by side, they became unstoppable—a storm given form.
Far in the distance, two figures watched from the abyssal cliffs: the Demon Lord and his younger brother.
The younger one smirked.
"Our forces have the upper hand, brother. Victory is inevitable."
But the Demon Lord did not reply. His golden eyes were fixed on the battlefield—on Ren and Althric cutting through thousands like reapers of death.
"Brother?" the younger asked again. "What's wrong?"
No answer.
Only silence.
Then, finally, the Demon Lord spoke, his tone low and measured.
"Two warriors… wiping out legions as if they were nothing. That one… the human with the eyes of night—he is the Ninth King, isn't he?"
After a pause, he answered himself.
"Yes. And the one beside him—his servant." He narrowed his gaze. "They are not merely strong… He is fighting, commanding, healing, and empowering at once. None of the previous kings ever mastered such control."
A tremor passed through his voice.
"This is not just a king…" His eyes widened slightly. "He is the Ultimate Monarch."
The Shadow Realm trembled faintly as the eight kings continued to watch the unfolding chaos through the mirror of abyssal mist. The air around their thrones rippled with ancient tension — the same energy that had once birthed empires and extinguished worlds.
"The Demon Lord has realized it," murmured the Third King, his voice carrying across the chamber.
"He should," replied the Fifth, leaning back on his throne. "Only a fool would ignore the shadow of a monarch rising before his eyes."
The First King's voice cut through their whispers like a blade drawn in silence.
"Do not be so quick to name him that. The abyss tests all who walk its path. If he survives what comes next, then — and only then — shall he be worthy of the title."
Their gaze turned again to the mortal battlefield below, where smoke and blood thickened the air.
On the surface, the warfield burned.
The screams of both demon and man echoed through the ruins. The once-grand city had become a graveyard of shattered stone and crimson light. Every gust of wind carried ash; every heartbeat felt like thunder against the world's silence.
Even so, the hunters still fought.
Kuro's knees trembled beneath him, blood dripping down his temple. He swung his blade again and again, every motion slower, heavier, but he refused to fall.
Daiki's armor was cracked; Yume's arm hung limp, yet her eyes still burned with fire. Haru's body moved on instinct alone — willpower replacing strength.
They were losing ground, but not hope.
Their breaths came ragged. Their shadows flickered weakly beneath them. Still, their resolve didn't break. Because above the smoke — like a dark comet descending upon the field — came Ren.
He landed with a burst of shadow energy that shook the ground. The demons near him disintegrated before they could even scream.
He turned, his voice commanding but calm.
"Stand. I've given you my strength. Now fight with it."
The hunters lifted their weapons once more. The weak light in their shadows flared anew — dim but alive. They pushed forward again, side by side, blades drenched in blood and determination.
From afar, Sivrath watched, his expression unreadable beneath his demonic helm. His crimson eyes followed Ren's every movement. He didn't move yet — only observed, calculating.
"So this is the Ninth King," he muttered, a cruel smirk spreading across his face. "Interesting. Let's see how long you last before your power burns you from within."
His voice was low, but it carried across the chaos like a whisper of doom.
Ren and Althric stood side by side, their backs to one another, surrounded by corpses of demons and shattered earth. Althric's armor was dented, his sword nicked from countless blows.
"Monarch," Althric said, panting, "they just keep coming."
Ren's eyes glowed faintly violet beneath his blood-streaked face. "Then we keep cutting them down."
The two launched themselves forward again — a blur of motion in the storm. Their blades moved faster than sight, carving through hordes that surrounded them. Every step they took became a ripple of power; every swing echoed through the hearts of the hunters still standing.
Meanwhile, in the control tower above the shelters, Ichiro watched the broadcast screens — the battlefield shaking, flames swallowing buildings. Around him, the other commanders stood frozen.
"Everything depends on them," he whispered. "All of humanity rests on their shoulders."
The faint cries from the shelters reached their ears again.
"Please… win for us."
"Please protect our world."
Those words spread through the communication channels, carried across every hunter's earpiece — reminders of what they were fighting for.
And on that desolate battlefield, something began to shift.
The hunters moved slower now — their mana nearly depleted, their armor cracked, their hands trembling. Yet their eyes still burned. They fought not for glory, but for existence.
Every swing of the sword was defiance.
Every breath drawn in pain was rebellion.
Every drop of blood spilled was a declaration that they would not yield.
Sivrath stepped forward at last. The ground beneath him cracked with each step, molten energy leaking through the fissures. His aura spread, immense and suffocating.
Far from him, Ren stood unflinching, his blade dragging through the dust. His shadow flickered, its edges unstable, his body weary — yet his will was sharper than ever.
The two locked eyes. The storm around them grew silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
But in that silence, the promise of their true battle was forged.
The first war between shadows and shadow demons had only just begun.
All around them, the hunters were falling — injured, battered, burned. But still, they moved. Still, they fought.
Daiki stumbled, his sword arm shaking, yet he swung.
Yume's blade broke, but she picked up another from the ground.
Kuro's knees gave way, but Haru's hand pulled him up again.
Beat up.
Torn down.
But yet — still going.
And in the flickering light of that dying battlefield, the shadows trembled — whispering of what was yet to come.
But still, the demons kept coming, as if the battle would never end — and yet, only half of Sivrath's army had been unleashed.