The year was 723 A.D. — After the Dungeons.
The world still limped beneath the scars of the divine wars. Once-glorious capitals had crumbled into labyrinthine ruins where weeds sprouted from marble and monsters nested in the hollow bones of cathedrals. The sky itself seemed older now, its color drained, as if tired of watching mortals rebuild what gods had destroyed.
Where mountains once shone with white frost, they now breathed black mist, seeping endlessly from the old wounds left by divine fire. The guilds called it normalcy.
The survivors called it luck.
And in the midst of it all — amid toppled spires and smoke-stained fields — a single figure clawed his way out of a half-collapsed dungeon gate. His coat was torn, his breath ragged, his body slick with soot and monster ichor that glimmered faintly under the fading light.
He stumbled, caught himself on a cracked pillar, and let out a dry laugh that sounded more like a cough. Another day alive.
That hunter's name was Adrian Valeheart — Rank F.
A title that meant little more than expendable.
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A World Built on Fear
The guildhalls were the beating hearts of every surviving town — dim-lit refuges where blood, gold, and hope were traded in equal measure.
Inside Ashfall Guild, the air was thick enough to chew — reeking of iron, sweat, and ale. Tables were scarred from countless knife games and drunken brawls. A mounted beast skull leered from the wall, its hollow eyes watching over the chaos.
Hunters crowded the counter, bragging over bruises and scars as they dumped bloody trophies onto the oak surface. Coins clinked, tankards slammed, and laughter rose like a storm.
Then the laughter turned.
At the far end of the hall, a young man sat apart — shoulders hunched, his sword cracked along the edge, his hand absently rubbing a purpling bruise on his arm.
When his name was called, it wasn't with respect.
"F-rank Valeheart. No kills recorded. Again."
A few smirks spread through the crowd.
"Guess he fainted before the first monster showed up."
"Maybe he hides behind porters and steals their loot."
"Surprised the guild hasn't kicked him out yet."
The jeers rolled off him like rain on stone. He rose quietly, collected his things, and walked to the counter with measured steps. His boots left faint prints of ash on the wooden floor.
He handed over his quest slip — Dungeon Scouting: Tier-1 Rift, East District — and waited. The receptionist, a woman with ink-stained fingers and kind eyes dulled by routine, counted out a few copper coins.
Barely enough to eat.
"You should really find a team, Adrian," she said softly, her voice almost drowned by the tavern noise. "Solo scouts don't last long out there."
He pocketed the coins without looking up.
"I'll manage."
"You say that every time," she sighed.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met — hers full of worry, his filled with something colder, quieter.
He turned and walked out into the night, the door creaking shut behind him, leaving the warmth of the guild for the endless gray of the world outside.
Outside, the city crouched beneath a blood-red sky, its horizon fractured by towering dungeon gates that pulsed faintly with otherworldly light. Each gate was a wound that refused to close — a vertical scar slashed across the heavens, breathing out mist and whispers that made even seasoned hunters quicken their steps after dark.
Smoke drifted between the skeletal remains of old towers, and the air smelled faintly of iron, dust, and rain that never came.
Adrian walked alone through the maze of alleys — boots scraping against cracked concrete, coat brushing past rusted pipes that hissed weakly from the chill. The neon lights overhead flickered, fighting the dusk like dying fireflies. The hum of generators, the distant laughter of drunks, the occasional growl of a scavenger beast in the dark — all blended into the city's tired heartbeat.
His apartment waited at the edge of the district — a narrow block of gray and rust, more ruin than shelter. The stairwell lights had long gone out, and he climbed by memory, counting steps like prayers.
Inside, the silence pressed close.
He leaned against the wall, breathing in the familiar scent of damp stone and oil, before pulling something from the inner pocket of his coat — a small pendant, its surface dull with age, shaped like a wing folded in prayer. Faint runes traced its edges, their glow barely visible, like embers refusing to die.
He stared at it for a long time.
Once, he had seen halls of gold — ceilings that shimmered like sunlight caught in water, his mother's hand warm in his. Her voice had been soft, steady, like a song that could calm storms. The faint shimmer of her divine magic had always filled their home with warmth.
Now, there was only dust.
And silence.
He turned the pendant over in his palm. The metal felt warmer than it should have — alive, almost.
"Why did you die that night…?" he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips.
The pendant did not answer.
But in the quiet that followed, a tremor passed through his hand — subtle, like a heartbeat not his own. A faint pulse spread through his chest, deep and buried, something ancient and restless awakening beneath his skin.
It was not light.
It was not darkness.
It was memory.
And it remembered blood.