Two Days Later.The Nevada Exclusion Zone.Sector 4: Forward Operating Base.09:00 Hours.
The silence of the desert was gone. In its place was a low, mechanical hum that vibrated in the marrow of every living thing within a fifty-mile radius. It was the sound of an army holding its breath, mixed with the unnatural, tectonic grinding of the SSS+ Dungeon Gate as it fully stabilized.
The sky above Nevada had turned a sickly, bruised purple. Clouds didn't drift here; they spiraled, sucked into the vortex of the gate like water down a drain. The sun was merely a pale, filtered spotlight that offered no warmth, only illumination for the slaughter to come.
Thousands of soldiers stood in rigid formation on the staging grounds. They were a sea of digital desert camouflage, kevlar, and grim determination. Tanks sat idling in rows, their barrels pointed toward the anomaly. Artillery batteries were entrenched on the ridges, ready to rain fire on a god.
But beneath the discipline, there was fear. A palpable, suffocating fear that tasted like copper and ash.
"Hey... are you ready?"
The whisper came from the third rank of the 7th Infantry Battalion. A young Private, his face smeared with dust and sweat, nudged the soldier standing next to him.
The older soldier, a Corporal with a scar running through his eyebrow, didn't look at him. He stared straight ahead at the swirling red abyss of the Gate.
"Yeah," the Corporal replied, his voice rough. "But to be honest... I'm... really nervous. Like, look at my hand."
He held his rifle out slightly. The barrel was shaking. It wasn't a subtle tremor; his hand was vibrating as if he were freezing to death, despite the searing heat of the desert.
"I mean, who wouldn't be?" the Corporal whispered, his eyes wide and unblinking. "We're about to walk into a place labeled 'World-Ender.' We're fighting monsters beyond comprehension. Things that don't just kill you—they erase you. The briefing said the mana density is high enough to melt skin. They said one of those things could destroy an entire continent if it got out."
The young Private swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He gripped his rosary beads through his glove. "My mom... she thinks this is just a standard containment op. I didn't tell her. I couldn't tell her."
The Corporal finally turned his head. He looked at the kid, seeing the terror mirrored in his own soul. He wanted to lie. He wanted to say, 'We'll be fine. We have the Hunters. We have the tanks.'
But he couldn't. The lie wouldn't come out.
Instead, he just patted his buddy on the shoulder. A heavy, hollow thud against the ceramic plate carrier.
"Just stay behind me, kid," the Corporal said. "If the shield goes down... just run. Don't look back. Just run."
It was a promise he knew he couldn't keep. He knew the statistics. For the vanguard—for the "meat shields" meant to draw the initial aggression of the Cult of the Demon God—the projected survival rate was effectively zero percent.
A few meters away, standing near the command vehicle, Damien Vicenzo Leone watched the exchange.
He was leaning against the hood of the Humvee, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't wearing a helmet. He didn't need one. If something in there could kill him, a piece of plastic wasn't going to stop it.
"Seems those men of yours... are not ready to die yet, Simon," Damien said softly, his obsidian eyes scanning the trembling lines of the battalion.
Simon was standing beside him, reviewing a holographic datapad that was scrolling with endless logistical errors and red warning flags. He looked aged. The stress of the last forty-eight hours had carved deep lines into his face.
"I... I can't blame them, Damien," Simon sighed, lowering the pad. He rubbed his eyes, which were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "After Morgane, the Top 1 Hunter of the World, revealed the threat level of that dungeon during the final briefing... morale hit rock bottom. It didn't just drop; it fell off a cliff."
Simon gestured vaguely toward the massive tent where the WHA elite were gathered.
"She used her visions," Simon continued, his voice laced with bitterness. "She said that we have a low chance of survival if the Demon God is unsealed. But if she's not unsealed, then we still have a chance to survive... though she explicitly stated there would be 'massive casualties.' Do you know what that means in Hunter-speak, Damien? It means the army gets wiped out to buy the S-Ranks time to cast their spells."
Damien remained silent, his gaze fixed on the shimmering barrier of the exclusion zone.
"Who would not have any hesitations onto this operation?" Simon asked, kicking a rock across the tarmac. "I mean... me too. I'm not ready to die, man. I have a mortgage. I have a fiancée I haven't seen in six months. You know... your squad is lucky that they are not joining on this operation. Though except you, that is."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Damien muttered. "I threatened the Commander. It was the only way."
Damien looked toward the VIP sector. The landscape of the raid had shifted drastically since his duel.
Two days ago, the fight between him and Rikiya had shaken the foundations of the coalition. Rikiya Nishikawa, the SSS-Rank "Demon Sword," had formally quit the operation. The official statement was "internal injuries sustained during training," but everyone in the high command knew the truth. Damien had broken him. Not just his body, but his pride. The backlash from Damien's [Black Death] enhanced strikes had poisoned Rikiya's mana circuits, rendering him combat-ineffective for weeks.
His departure had caused chaos. The UWAAM council had screamed at the WHA. The Pentagon had panicked. Losing a Top 4 Hunter was like losing a nuclear deterrent.
But then, the solution had arrived in a private jet plated in gold.
Nicholas. The "Titan of the West." The World Rank 2 Hunter from America.
He had arrived yesterday, a mountain of a man with blonde hair and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. His presence had calmed the Hunters, assuring them that American firepower was superior to Japanese technique.
'Nicholas is strong,' Damien analyzed, watching the Titan flex for a camera crew near the barrier. 'Stronger than Rikiya physically. But he's too competent. He thinks his defense is impenetrable. That dungeon... it eats arrogance and his beliefs of.'
Damien knew something was off. The mana readings were fluctuating in a pattern that looked less like a natural phenomenon and more like a heartbeat. A countdown.
"Hey, man, are you alright?" Simon asked, noticing Damien's thousand-yard stare. "You've been quiet. Quieter than usual."
Damien blinked, snapping back to the present. He forced his muscles to relax.
"It's nothing," Damien replied. "Just thinking about how much I hate sand."
He reached into his pocket to check the time. He pulled out his phone.
-ZZZZT.
The screen glitched violently.
It wasn't a normal malfunction. Pixels bled red and black across the display, forming jagged, tearing patterns. The phone grew hot in his hand, burning against his palm.
[System Intrusion Detected]
A message box popped up, forcing itself over the lock screen.
???:You really are hardheaded, huh? Sigh. Whatever. Do whatever you want to do.
???:But... I will find a way for you to not die yet. After all—
Then, the text dissolved. The English characters twisted, breaking their bones and reforming into something ancient. Something wrong.
???: Ἐ̸̧̢̡̡̢̛̛̗̝̞͎̬̞̼͕̰͍͈̲͈͕̳̭͙͍͓͈̬̙̳̪͍̜͉̱̩͓͖̣̲̩͉̻̪̗͖̔͛̆̉̎̈́̀̐͌̌̅̌̑͂̆̂̄́̑͐̌̉̀̾͒̔́̿͒͐̄̓̃̋̂͒̿͘͘͘̚̚͠͠͠ͅγ̸̧̻̼͚̝̬̞̬̻̬̳͉̦͔̻͔̦̯̬̲̜̠̻̋̒̀̈́̉͜ῲ̸̧̡̨̧̧̢̰͇̪͕̥͕̤̬̯̳̻͎̱̬̭͔͔͈̥̹̱͍̼͙̳͔̱̮̻͎̀̐͝ ̶̧̡̢̟̖͙̻̟̜̥̟̻̩̻̬̲̬̩͍̟̥̘̦̞̗̥̝̻̹͒̿͊̾͆͑̄̈́̾̉͂͌̀͂͑͑̚̚͝ͅσ̵̨̘̭͕̦͖͇̝͙̦̪̯͍͓̞̩̣̳̘̖̖͖̙̯̝͖̺̺̭̱̜̬̈́̋͌̈͛̏̑̍̓̐͒̔̍͑̐̉̄̀̃̓̂̽̄̍̎̓́̓͑̔̓͆͛̂̏͗̆͊̉̒̾͂̚͘͘͠ͅͅᾳ̵̡̢̠̞̙̰͈̦̪̭̘͕͓͙̖̰̠̯̳̮̅͐̿́̈́̒̈́̄͐͂̔͑͗̓͂̏̊͂̌̇͒͌̈̇̀̊̓̅́͊̓͘̕̕̕ͅͅύ̸̢̨̧̥̭̺̠̫͉̹̻̳̰͔͔̯̗͓̩̼̼̲̣̲͎̤͎̩̞̭̱̟͚̭̫̮̜̰͚̱̞̯̥̱̈́̈́̌̃̍̇́̊͗͊͆͋̈̈̄̄͗̄̓̇̌͒̃̄̈́̈́̾́̕̕̚͜͜͝τ̵̢̧̨̛͉̦͈͉̮̞̫͈̘͔̗̤͓̭̭̝͕̝͉̪̲̠̦̩̼̱̬̫͇̥̹̬̻͚̥͉͙̝̜͖̲͓̖̀̉̋̈́̔͋̐̋͂̑͂͊̂͑̅̂̓̒́̃̔͂̀̐̽͛͛̌͌̍̌̔̋̐͗͂͛̿̀̌͘̚͠ͅͅͅͅͅὸ̶͎̫͇̖̥̻͓̯̻͇̼͔̬̼͙͚̬̰̯̦͒͜ͅν̴̡͉̯̖̼̮̦̞̳͉̱̯̊̋̑͛́̅̇̿̑͐͋̓̿͌̾̌̈́̒̑̅͘͜ ̸̠̂̋̀͑̓͐̊̒͒͋̒̉͛́͆͂͊́̾̿̅͂̀̾͌́͋̋̀͆̈́͆̃̕͘̚̚͝͠͠γ̸͉̤̌̊̈́̐̒̃͊͌̋̄̑̒́̔̂͌̕̕͘̚ί̶̡̛̜̪̬͚͍̣̥̗͔̮̣̳̻̻̮̳̤͚͖͚͙͓͈̼̖̦̥̲̙͓͙̠̼͉͓̲͉͙͒͊̀̈́̐̀́́̑̑̄̄̏̆̚͜͠ͅγ̴̨͔͛̿̒͊̓̂̑̿̆̅́͒͗͑́̾̓̀̈́̒̈́͐̄͂̅̾̽́̀̇͛̇̀̎͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝ν̴̧̧̢̢̨̹̩̗̟̘̭̺̞̹̼̯̘͈̳̳̭͔̯̹͙̫̤͙̱͕̻̬̟̬̼̠̳̝͙͕͕̤̭̬̹͉̩̱̿ὁ̸̡̥̣̦͇̃͒̐͆̀̏͌͆̏͆̅ͅμ̶̛̥̭̲̦̔͊̊̈́̇͒͛̈́̿̅͂̏̐̋̓͋̈͛̀̒͂̍̉͐͐͒̈͋͌̅́͊̚͘͝͠͝ᾲ̵̨̡̼̫͓̙̺̻͎̟̘̹̯̻̳̫͎̠͓͓̼̖͔͔͉̲̥̙̳̟̞͔̗̖̙̬̫̳̟͒̍̍̇̊̌͑̒̈̑̈́͘ι̴̡̨̨̬̻̻̝̞͈̖̪̲̞̲͎͈͎̬͓͚̣̬̲̩̻͎̯̺͉͙͎͇͖̿̊̓̏̒́̋́̂̄̽͋̀́̃̌̀̅͒̔̑͊̓̿͛̀̋́̾̈̿͛̏͗͗̕͘̚̚͝͝͝͝.̴̧̻̮͎̺̳̻̏̽̊̊̎̑̂͊̾͆̉̈́̚
Damien stared at the screen. A sharp pain spiked behind his eyes, a sudden migraine that felt like a needle being pushed into his frontal lobe. The text... it wasn't just gibberish. It felt like it had weight. It felt like the phone was heavier.
'What?' Damien thought, his brow furrowing as he tried to decipher the chaos. 'I can't understand a thing on the last text. It looks like... Greek? But corrupted. Corrupted by mana.'
'Also... who the fuck is this?!'
Rage flared in his chest. He was about to march into hell, and someone was playing games with him? Someone was treating his life like a joke?
He typed furiously, his thumbs hitting the glass hard enough to risk cracking it.
Damien:Who tf is this?! I let it slide last time on that prank you pulled but this time, i swear i'm gonna kill you.
He hit send.
The response was instantaneous. It didn't arrive like a text message. It simply appeared, rewriting the pixels on the screen.
???: ᾈ̵̡̛̛̟̦̱͙͓̹͙̙̰̩̯̝͚̲̦͕̜͚̩̲̰̗̟̫̞͎̱̳̹͔͙̹̖̗̤͕͙̜̻̗͙̭̮͉̫͑̎̓̔̓͛̎̂̆̆̿̀̽̀̂͛̍̈́̊́͌̑̾̾͗̈́̈̌̇̄̀̓͒̔͒̽̎͗̏́̎̚̚͜͜͠͠ͅλ̷̨̢̨̧̡͎̼̱͇̤̣̮̣̤̜̩̜͉̯̭̟̳̖̭̼̳̠̳̰̮͕̺̻̲͚͎̬̬͚̻̤̰̭͚̻̈̄̀̊͗̕͜͜͜ͅͅἠ̵̡̮̤̠̟͚̮̗̟̼̺͎̹̟͔̮̩̳͓̯̗̓̒̀͐̒̊͌̈͜θ̷̧̡̧̢̛̩̯̼̭̙̥̦̱̬͍̳̞̟̩̦͇͈͈̦̞͎͎͛̈́̔͗̆̋̈́́̈́͆̋̌̈́̌̅͌̍̽́̋́̉̈́̈́͒̑͐͗̿̈́͆̑̋̌̔͌̈͑̉͘͘̚͘͝͝͝ῇ̶͖̳̺̗̺̞̗͖̭̹̯̯͎͇̦̲̱̬͑͋̃̋̔͂̑̔̀̍̈̆̽͆̓̾̽̀̂͂͐̆̿̋̾̈́̀̀̇̀̿́͒́̒̏̑̾̽̌̕͘̕̕̕̕̚͝͝ ̷̡̡̨͕͙̝͇̣̲̼̟͔̬͍̭̯̭̳̟̗͍̗̯̻͙̩͉̬̝̪͓͖͚͎̥̭̜̺̝̹̘̏̅͋̑̄́͗́͌̿́̏͌͆̒̏̔̏͋̋̈́̌͐̒̀̀̃͐̔̊́̿͊̔̐͂̔͝ͅλ̶̢̼͉̥͖̱͕̮̹̗̻͍̬̩̞̺͔̥̥̦̳͉̯̼̞̹͚̙̼̜̖̠̣͔̗̼̑̐͂̃̅̂̽͆͑̈́͑̾́͛̒͊̈́̿̈́͒͌̅̾̈́̈́́̒͑̍͜͠͝ͅέ̷̨̡̜̥̖̼̪̼͖͇̠̫̰̮̠̦̖͙̠̣͋̊̌͑̽̿͛̇͛͂̀͑͌̌̎͋̉̾͗̒̆͗̐̕͜͝͝γ̶̢̨̡̡̧̳͙̬̼̫̯̫̯̟͉̘̺͍̳͈̹͖̱̠̞̭̟͇̖̩̖̲̗͙̺̳̩̤̩̩͚̪̗̙̆̎̀̀̀̋͆̅̀̊̿̆͜ε̶̧̧̨̧̢̘̳͍͔̣̩̻̻̺͖̩̱̖̥̤͖̪̗̙͚̞͚̺̟̹̯̳̻͙̋̏̈́̋̏̾̓̑̀͜͜ι̵̢̡̢̻̳̝̪̗̫̬̥̦̞͕͔̝̣̼̪̥̣̞̤̥̩̰̙͍̲̼̼̖̜̪͍̙̺̱̟̳̰̣͙̎̈̽́̀͐́̾̽̆̿͑̽͐̒͆̍̑̏͗̈͊̓̿̇̈́̈̕̕͜͜͝ς̶̢̡̨̛̛̛̛̜̹͙̜͍̭̺̞̙̭̰̋̓̐̉͆̄̋͗̓͒̌̾́͊͆͗́͂͆̈̾͐͗̓́̚͘͘͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅ;̸̩͍̦̪̮̲̙̼͍̼̬̪̹̿̿͆͊̑̆͜ ̵̧̨̢̡̡̨̡̜̞̰͚̠͕̱͎͇̻̯͇͍͎̘̥͎͓̰̯̥͚̱̥̲͓̥̺̯̠̞̦̫̯͉͉̞͚͕͎̓̾̈̒̎͗̎̑̓̒̉̇̊̂̋̇̂̿̄͑̓͋̑͗͌̀̀͗̋͘̚͝͝͝͝Κ̶̛͙̫͇̠̖̬̻̯̬̾̀͒̏̓̄͂̂̓̋̈̄̽͛̒͒̈́͌͂̈́̇̇͑̔̊̚͘ͅᾳ̶̢̦̩̺̰͔͇̯̙̟͙͈̩̬̜̦̳̻̪͍̽̓̄̒͊̃̂̊̉̂̅̏͊́͂̽̓͑̌͊̋̊̓̈́̑̆̔͜͝ί̵̧̢̢̡̫̹̻̗͙̫̠̯̬͈̼̯͉̻̺̮͚͈̦͇̦̺̻̼͓̠̥͖̙͙̰͇͈̹̹͂̄̓̽̂̌͌̔͜͝τ̶̩̰͖͙̦̺̤̅̈̿̈̽̀̿͂̈́̀́̕ο̸̢̛̳̩̙̩̙̖̟̝͔̩̺̫͍͍̂͋͂́̇̊̔͐͋͊̇̊̅̂̉̏̾̌̇̊̓͐̏͆͌̿̍͂̓́̈͋̄̾̊͛̓́̚̚̚̕̚͜͝ι̵̨̧̡̥͙̠͙͈̼̣̘̬͕̿̈́͋͜ ̴̡̢̡̨͖̮̯̘̹͙̘͓̠͔̗̯͓̻̹̬̳͎̗̀̃͌̇̄͒̔̀̇͑̎͗̊̈́̉̀̔͂̔͆͝ἐ̸̨̧̻̬̖̖͙̦͔̫͚̘͙̹̝̮̲̠̦̙̪̮͈͔̳̳͈͖͈͈͉̤̯͖͙͓͓̙̘͎̳̖͍̑̀̾̀̀̃̐̔̇̉̿̿̊͑͂͋͌͝ͅͅλ̷̨̧̨̨̨̱̜̪̜̞͈̱͇̱̹̘̣̜̞̟̣͔͕̣͈͕̗̻̱̪̪̹̯̮̦̳͙̬̬̞̮̜͍̋̈π̷̨̛̺̳̞̳̥͚̮̥̥̯̘̹͙̞̝̼͉͈͇̬̲̦̫͇̦̠̘̈́͂͐̽̃̒̒̏̓̒͌̇͂͋͛̾̆́͂͆͐̄̐͂̏͝͝͝͝͝ί̷̡̢̛̺̳͔̦̤̟͐͑̾́̾́́̄̃̿̿͋̾̂̊̏̄͂̂́͐̅̑̑͒̽͑͌̇̿̏͘̚̕̕͝͝ζ̶̡̧̢̪͖͕̮̭̗̩͕̣̱̻̖̺̱̟̣̪̹̦͔͙̪̹͕͉͔̞̤͕̹͎̣͕̙͖̪͙͙͎̱̲̈́̾͛̐͒͑͒̈́̕͜͜͜͜͜ω̴̡̨̲̼̳̼̯̱̪̯̜̙̙̥͔̯͕͔̖͈͖̝͖̹͖̇͆́͒̑̀̍͐̌͑̀̅͒̌̂̒͒͂͠͠ ̶̛̥̓͊͒̎̇̓̏̏̋̊̃̋̄̊̎̒̋̅͆͆̈̅͒́͛̌́͝͝σ̸̡̛̛̠͎̻̥͚͖̬̼̮̯͈̪̳̈́͌̅̿̈́́̋̎̀́̀́̄̽͊̇̉͂̓̓̅̎̓̄̂̅̃̒͛̕̚͝͝ε̷̡̡̰͚̣̹͈͚̘̻̣̪̩̫̲̦̬̭̻̜̘̼̩̖̰̫̳̦̦̺͔͆̐͘͜ ̴̠͍̞̝͓̠̮̳̫̣͎̥̺͕̭̲̗̩̳͔̻̪̓̔̀͋̽͆̿̈́̈́͒̎̅͗͛̇͘͜͝ὕ̶̨̢̨̡̺̠̝̟̯͕͇̝͓̤̙͔͙͕̳̪͖̹͍͙̦̘͖̩̝͉̦͚̖͔̫̗͙̜͓̦̜̖͇̪̰̹͙͛̌͐̏͆̒̊̽̄̑̓͆̐̅̕͘̚͜ͅͅσ̷̢̢̻͇͍̰͍͍̦̖̮͚̩̦̖͇̫̟̤̥̟̘̯̬̱̾͊̒̿̽͛͆̂̋̏̄̾̒͑̀̑̚̚̚̚͝τ̴̡̡̛͕̙̘̝̜͔̯͎̹͉̥̱̤͆̏̑̅̔̑͊̏̄̀̎̂̐̃̆͒̊͋̒̀̓̄̃̉̓̀̌̍̃̐̔́̈́̍́́̓̂̿̆̕͘̚͘̚̚͘͜͠͝ͅε̵̧̤̗̦̩̪̼̟͓̜̿̓͛̓́̏̇̀͆̌̓̃̓͐̑̈̓̇̊̆̓̅̾̆̈́̃͑̿͗̽̐̔̃͠͠͝͠͠ρ̸̨̡̛̥̭̙̭͍̹͈̤̮̦͍͓͈̬̹̟̩̹̳̮̬̙́̆͒̂͑̓̄̇̆̋̂̓͆̃͗̇͊͗̑̍̔͂̈̐̀͊̍̄̀̋͒̌̂̆͊̂̆̽̾͛̚̕͜͠͠͝ͅͅο̴̡̧̛̛̛͍̠̯̳̬͕̭͖͔̘͖̩͓̘͈̺͇͙̭̙̤̖̝͕̘̝̹͚͇̼̥̠͚̤̲̯̙̬͙̟̎͑̐̏͊̂̅̄̌̓̄̉̈́̒͑̏̅̉̊̋̍͗͊̑͂̏̓͆̆͋̔́̈̈́̑̌̿̚̚͘͘͜ν̸̛̳̦̬̟͊̀̂̉͗́̾̋͛̑̌͑̅̑̓̋̀̏͒̈́͋̎̄͒͋̇̈́̄̆͘ ̷̛͈̰̘̙̮̘̪͍͚̲̗͉̺̞̜̬͎̟̳̪͕͕̦̜̱̤͓̩̥̜͓̮̟͔͎̀̊̍̇̉́͐͐̌̓͌̈̑͂̅̔̉̈́͊̈̆̍̒́̏͂̉̃͒̃̽̈́̒͒̒͊̒̽̉͗̏̕̕̕͘̕͜͝͝͠τ̷̧̨̨̨̨̢̛͉̻̪̰͚̜̼͇̟̫̺̹͕̮͕̭͇̯͈̝͗̍̌̽̂͌͆͋̽̍̇̓͆̔̐͒̈́̒͋̍̒̉̐͊̈͛͒̒̅̈́̍̓̏̕̚̕̕̕͝͠͝͝͝͝ἀ̸̧̨̢̧̼͇̰̭͖̘̬̖͇̹͉̝̞̹̺̗̭̺̘̪̞̟̗͎̤̔͜͜͝λ̴̧̘̳͇̟̠̹͙͎̬̹͇̺̰̜̝͉͎̺͎͕̭͕̫̳͙̤̺̭̐́͋͛̈́̕͜ῃ̵̨̧̦̦̥͙̗̝̹͈̜͕̩̠̭͉̟̩̠̳̱̠͚͎̩͑͋̓͑̔̌́̋̓̋̈́̀̈́̑͆̿̂͂̐͌͐̀͂͘͠͝͠θ̷̧̛̣̲̠͔̰̻͇̰̬̩͔̋̏̋̀͂̅̓̎̋͋͋̾̾̓̉̅̊̀̓̊̀̿̋͒̆̒̋̀͒̃̂͗̃̕͘͝͝͝ὲ̸̧̨͈̱͔̞̰̣͙̦̟͚̻͎͚̗͇̼̹̰̦̜̭̳̺̫͙͖͚̩̩͓͎̪̬͑̍̈́͆̊̽̐͒̃̿̐̊͆̉̕͜͝ς̸̛̣̦͎̞̠͗͂̾́́̒̒͂̂̏͆́̐͆̄̒̑̽̑́̽͊̄͐̏̂̇̍̑̂͒̈́̏̿̿̍̂͊͠͝͝͝ ̴̢̨̛̦͍̞͍͙̭̖̯̯̬̟̱͔̱̟͚̣̱̮̩̙̥͐͋̈́͐̈́̇̎̋̎̓̔̀̉̆̓͝ͅγ̶̧̛͍͎̗̩̼̼͙̗̩̥̱͉̟͍͍͚̭͓̹̔̌̆͑̅̂̆͊̃̍̐́̉̎̀̌͛́͛̓͂̅͑̈́̃͆̏̌̆͊̃̿̌̆̃̎̈́̃̚͝͝ͅͅν̶̢̧̢̢̟̬͇̺͙̹̟̭̠͍̳̬̰̠͈̹̱̥̬̲̪͇̯̥̮͓͚͍̮̥̫̪̹̠̝̞̼̩̖̖̀͐̈́̀͒͂̌̽̍̾̋͊͂͋̅̚͜͠ώ̷̢̨̢̛̛̖̭̳̼͈̖̯̬̟̳̻͓̬̿͗͂͐͒̾̾̉̓̏̄̍̄́̓̏̓̃̆̅͗̑̓̂͋̿͆͆͋̐͌̐̄̽͘͜͜͝͠σ̷̡̡̡̡̜̟̪͚̲͎̳̳͎̗͎̯̻̱̮͖̬̱̮̼̹̝͈̖̙̙̱͈̞͍͇̟̣̇͆̂̊̾̉̀̐͊͗͊͜ͅͅε̶̨̢̢̨̻̗͔̱̜̱͈̞̙͍̣̗͔̰̞͕͉̣̫̙̭̱̣̬̠̼̜̗͔͆̏͐͛́͋́͛͋̀́̄̎̊̋̏̏͗̿͐̀̆͊̔̅̌͛̅̿̀͆̕̚͜͜͝͝σ̸̨͚̮̟̼̰̯̞̹̒͆̊͋̓̊̏̀̓̆͌̿̄̊̿̾͋̑̂̾͂̀͝͝͝θ̵̢̡̢̢̣̻̗͉͍̺̟̟̖̝̣̹̩̗͓͎̬͍͔̖̻̟͕͖͉̙͇̲͕̣͎̜̬̖͍̘͋͌̆̇͗̓̀͑́͑̉̒̈́̓̄̎͝ͅα̸̳̗͚͍͕͎͕̖̤̖͕̘̱̳͈͆̏̓̈́̀̐̽̏͐̍̂̾̃̓͑͛̉͆̋̒̋͂̊̈̅̾̊̂̀͛̀̓̎̿̈́̈́̾̎̓̚̚͠͝͝͝͝͠͝ι̴̢̢̛͍̯͕̯̞̲̰͎͔̱͈̙͈̙̫͚̞̳̲͖̲̺̩̯͖̩̭͎̞̫̦͉͔̳͓̜̇̈́̀̊͋̃̒̾̐̌͌̎̔̐͑̀̈́̏̓̀͌́̇̑̃͒̕̚̕̕͜͝͝.̵̧̧̢̢̞̼͉̺̹͚̰̩̹̜̥̲̦̮̱̞̘̰͎̙̪̪͈̯̠̤̞͍̬͎̳̟̳̟̱͈̯̠͙̖̒̍͌͒̽̊̔̇́̈́̉̿̐͋̃͒̂̇̔́͑͆̐̐̉͛̎̓́̀̾̕̕̚͠͝ͅ.̷̨̧̢̡̢̢̧̧̱͙̬͖̥̘͍͎͔͇̲͚͍͔̣̮̜̯̻̣̯̥̱̺͇͔̠̣̝̼̮̰̼̜̤͗̈́̑̅͗̋̐́̿̊̉̊̔́̎̌͑̆̀̓̾̔́͜͜ͅͅ.̸̨̧̳̟͓̪̦͙̠̳̻̱̪̽̇̀́͌̈́̀̿͊̈́̈̃͛͗̐̀͆̀̍̈́̂͗̀̂̒̒̈́̀̚̕͝͝ͅ ̴̡̛̪͓̗̹̎̓̈̎̈́̍̑̾̿̎̓̚̚ἆ̴̧̲̮̹̤̯͍̳̱͓̭̞͎̣̞͍̬̬͕̰̜̫̫̙̼͒́̐̋͆̆̔̍̊͂̿̀̍͑̌͌̌́̚͝͝ρ̵̢̲̹̼̀͗́̓͊͌̀̆̉͆͒̊͑̀̈́̕̚̕̚͠ͅᾀ̶̧̨̡̻̙̱̰̝̺̭͕̜͚̝̼̺̗̫͓̹̮͉̩͇̭͜ ̶̧̛̛̛̯̮̯͕̖̣̺̙̼͇͙̪̫͔̼͚̦̘̼͓̗̟̟̬̠̫̀̓̎̋͛̂̊̈͆͆͒̐̒̓̀̆̅͘͜δ̴̢̧̢̡̢̧̛̝̱͙̻̖̼̠̠̜̪̖̞̫̻͈̪̯̣̪̥͖̤͈̞̗͔̌̋͛̂̄̚̚͜͜͝ͅή̴͉͙̹͇̬͓̪̹͔̳̘̇̿͛͂̀̆̽͑̓̂͑͝͝,̶̡̢̧̧̡̧̨̬̤͈̺̩̳̼̰̙̦̙̞͉͔̯̺̫̳̣͈̞̻͍̦̻̻͔̜̞̹͇͒̊̇̄͛̅͊͊̎̂͌̚̕̕͜ͅ ̶̥̬͇͈͓̹̞̭̙̬̦̳͍̯̔̄͒͗̾̅̔̔̈̂͒̅̈͛͛͛́͒̂̍̋̀̓̌̓͘̚͝͝͝ο̶̖̹̘̣̹͈͙̻̦̘͇͚̖̿̆͌̂̅͌̈́͐̌̽̈́̄̏͜͝͠ͅὐ̸̡̡̢̢̡͔̲̺̻̤̜̜̜̺̦͖̝̳̠̥̟͎̲̳̻̩̟̖̞̥̖̜̠͎͍̟̟͚̬̘͉̰̮̩̒̋̓́̌̿̊̍͋̓͆̓̏̍͗̿̎̆̑̓̈́̾̄̚͝͝δ̷̡̡̛̰͔̤̬̫̮͉͕̜̮͔̘̜͙͕͆̂̑͆̾̋̈́̋̈̅̀͜έ̶̡̢̨̨̡̢̤̝̟̟̝͚̯̗͓̻̪̝͈̜̦̪̳̥͈̰͙̞̙̟͎̲̖̣̞̗̱͇͖̲͓̠̞̩̰̙̏͊̾͗̈́̔́̐̃́́̕͜͜͜͠ͅπ̴̨̢̡̨̯̪̞͎͚͖̭̩̣͔̹̠̠͛̈͂̍̽̄̍͛̓̓̅̇͆́͆̀̎̎̉̂̆̋̐̎̌̓̾̋̔̈́͘̚͘͜͠͠ͅͅω̴͖̆̄̀̈̐̈̐͆̋̀̏̏̈́̀̀́̀̐̈́́̂̓̑̄̓͂̕̕ ̷̧̧̧͎͚̟̬̮̳̯̗̻͉͎̮͚͖̖͍̺͎̗͚̈̋̎͆͠ͅγ̵̨̨͕͇̳͓̣͓̠͚͎͎͚̜̩̺̺̼̫̼̟̲̻̥͙̩͉̮̼̰͖̆́̿̈̈̈̈́̓̀̈́̀͐͛̋̆̾́̈́͋̿͒̒̍̀͂̍͑̉̋̇̍͛̑̆͗́̏̂͘̚͘͘̚̚͘͜͠ͅᾲ̸̧̧̝̻̲̜̩̱͇͎̹̟̳̳̱̯͎̯͍̜̫͈͕̉̅͒́̅͒ρ̴̧̨̛̫̬̩̈̾͂̂̀͌͒̓̆̿̽̓́̈́͛͂̄͒̂̽͑͛̒̈́̀͘͠ ̷̡̧̢̛̺̳̯̞͎͍̭̥͇̖̼̭͕̟̬̖̘̮̫́̏̈́͋̔̈́̽́̐̉͐̏͆̀̈́̚ἕ̸̨̡̢̺̘̤̰͔̝͙̪͖̘̲̩̹̖̼͖͉̩̤̯̫̘̖͓̤̻͕̼̰̰̦̣͚̫̜̊͗͆̀͌͒̏̏̂̐͂̔̌͋̕͜͝͝͝ͅτ̷̨̢̧̧̛̤̻̞̝̟̳̰̘̜͙̰͙͖̣̩̩͙̤̝͔̟̣̳͔̭̤͎̗̖̰͈̬̻̪̫̮͙̬̟̫͕̯̜̣͎̀͛͗̑͛͑̈̉̊̌̌͌̒̍̉̀̒̑̏̄̏͋̀̐̒̄̽̂͐̏̑͐̅̚̕͘͘͜͝͝͠͝ο̶̢̡̢̢̛̛͔̹̖̙͙͔̪̣̱͖̱͎̝͓̟͇͔͇̺̼͚̘̫͚̳̬͍͚̟̝̩͙̯̲̃̑́̈̀̄̐̉̔̀̋̅͊̔̓̓̈́́̒͋͐͌̋̀͒̓̎͊́̒̈́̚͘͝͝͝͝ι̸̡̡̧̡̛̳͚̻͖͇̘̻̼̣̰̰̦̭͉̤̻̹͍͉̟̭̟͓̼̥̰̩̙̺̮̪͆͒́̐̌̌̒̈́́̀͌̋̌̌́̎̿͗̔́̓͂̀̋͂̓̊̓͠ͅμ̸̡̨̡̢̢̠͚̭̙̳̩̫͍̠̲̼̖̝͔͖̳̥̻͉̝̬͕̠̒̐̾̅̓̾͒̔̄́̏̈̑̇͐̊̽̌͋̾̎̈́̔̍̒̎́̅͋̇͑͗͛̆̆͛́̌̎͊̌́̓͆̓̕͜͝͠ͅο̶̨̡̢̣̝̻͎̲͓͓̳̱̠͙͙̙͙̻͓̠̣͉͉͔̭͖͈͕͉̄͆̓̉̾̉̆̒͛̎̓̍̚̕̚͝ͅς̵̢̢͕͖͕̗͇͙͖̹͇͚̰̥̗̭͍̗̗̖͙̰̎̿̈́̈̉̀̅̋́̓̏̓̔̍͗̐̊́̈̓̀̈̀̒̉̽͌̈́͐̇̅̉́̿͛̏̊̈́̉̚͘͜͠͝͝͝ ̴̧̧̡̨̧̛̛̣̲͍̖̖̻̰͖̜͚̱͕̠̘̘̥̬̗̠̳̼̱̳̫͚̝̳̹̺̹̘̭̘̖̥̹̝̥̼̾͐͑͒̿͐̅̏͌̉̀͂͆̉̿́̀̈̑̆̆͂̚͜͝͝͝ε̴̡̧̨̢̦̩̣̗̱͓̹̥̲̩͍̼̭̮̱̱͕̦̪͓̟̻̙̥͈͓͓̮̩̼͖̗̉̂̉̌͐̓̒̑̑̄͌̅͑̈́͌̃̋̌̋̕̕͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅἶ̸̢̖̜̥̗͉̞͔͎̞̣̩̩̫̦̦̣̘̮͕̣̀͂͊͒̔͋̾̉̈̊̇̅̃̈̑̾̒̽̄͌̑́͋̽̀̽̋̍̋͒̈́͒̈́́͘͘͘̕͘͝͠ͅ,̷̨̡̨̧̡̛̛̫͚͙̬̪̞̙̺̗͚͇̜̖͖͈̳̪̘̜̬̪̬̙͓̲͈̩͉̹̹̳͔͔̩͙͎͑͋̿̈́̈̔͊͂͆̉̿̍͂̌̈́̎͑̇̋̐͊̋̓͌̈̑̓͋́̉̔̄̿͑̽̌̂̀͗̒̍̌͌͊̽̚̕͜͝ͅͅ ̴̡̡̯͇̩̰̜̳̦͔̰̬̣̤͕̠̼͚̠̝̝͉̦͍͇̫̺͎̪̠͚̜̞̟̼̳̘̬̰̙͎͇̜̜̤͇̅̓̑̈̎̿̈́̒̒́̓͋͜ͅπ̶̡̧̡̡̢̛͈̩̜̩̩̰̻͓̲͉̰͖̖̞̫̹͈̲̩̬̗̻͚̝̤̟̺̥̳͓̳̥̹̮̬͉͍͕͎͇͙̫́̅̍͒̏͗̀͌̊͋̂̽̒͌̄̉͊̅̍̍̍̈́͛̑͐͌͂͒̍͌̓͊͛͋̔̄̓͂̕͘͠͠͝͠έ̸̟̫̮̠̥̱͍̙͔̱̙͌̅͊̉̌͛͑̿̀͗̍̓̅̐̅͜μ̸̧̢̨̛̼̮̩̫̰͍̩̤̬͓̻̼̱̙͉͉̞̲̤̠̜̩̤̮͙̪̺̤̱̉͒́̿̊͋͜ͅψ̷̛̗̰͕̻̠͈̭̟̼̹͎̳͗̔͆̔́̊̃̌̐̈́̏͗̈́̔͆̈͐̍̀̏́͊̈͂̇͐̑̀́̌͌̎͒̇́͋̏͘̚͝͠͝͝͠ῳ̶̨̢̡̨͈̦̥̦̜̟͈̖̘̝̯̩͎̝͎̣̻͎̟̜͍͍̦̫̫̣̣̼̤͕̮̦̭͙̙͆͊̅͑̎͒̃͊͑̎̔̑͒̃̎͌͑͋̄̎̒̈́͝͠ ̶̨̧̨̨̯̩̯̟̫̝̳̺̙̳̘͍͇̦͙͍̜̰̥̱̹̭̺̗̻͈̳̭͕̻̠̂͊̃͋̄̏͊̏̽̒̆̊͐̕͜͝σ̸͓̜̭̩̞̱̭̪̫̳̗͈͆ͅε̷̨̢̨̨̨̰͕̻̟̮͇̦͖̙̭͚̜͗́ ̷̨̛̲̰͍̻̻̖̣̤̞̬͓̲͖̼̺̖̦̻̪̤̳̼̲̪̪̮͈̜̤̣͍̎͋͛̈́̽̏͑̅͂̕͜ͅὂ̵̨̨̨̧̡̡̨̡͖̜̣͓̼͔̤̼̥͎͕̰͔̪̳̯͔̘̜̺͓̟̪̮̤̭̖̥̹̣̼̞͈̠̎̋̏̾̎́͒̂͌̊̏͘͜͜͜͠ͅͅπ̴̢̢̧̧̛͉̼̮̫̞͇͖̭̫̯͚̼͉̺̙̋̓͊͋͋̈́̍̐̏̆́͒̊̊̏̀͑́̊̉̽́͂̏͑̇̀̕̕͝͝͝͝͠͠ί̴̨̛̙͕͖̻͉̝̥̹̦̤̗͇̙̹̩̘͙̍̀͐́̇̅̉̓̾̎̎̌̈́̈̾͋̈́̈́̀͐̉̒̈̿̈͊͆̎̔̋͛̏̈́̃͒͐̐̅̕͘̕͠͝͠͝͠ͅσ̸̧̛̯̗̰͉̲͓͎̻͈̥̽̿͆̋̌̋͗̎̽̑̚͠ͅῳ̵̡̻͔͓̦͇͚̞̪͍̱̤̱̫̖͓̥̟͎̱̦͇͊̓͊̚͝ ̶̢̟͚̥̼̦̘̮͙̳̣̟̼̘̗̠̎̏̇͑͋̒͑̆͂͋̐̀̈́̾̔͛̋́̾͂̋̅͛͘̕͘͘͝ὅ̵̧̨̧̞̞̞̗̬͉̘̩̺̜̦̘̞͔̜̱͓͇͓̗̼̯̳͌̀̋̉͒̂̇͋͋͗͑̔̀̃̄̒̀͌͛̀̂͂̿̈́͗̊̔͂͒̆͑͘̕̕̕͝͝ͅθ̸̨̢̡̛͚̱̺̬̼͇̞̲͙̞́̿͌̔͛̏̈́ͅέ̸̨̢̨̛̛͕͉̟̥͎̱̟͎̪̰̣̘̘̝͙̰̱̣͉̪̪͚͍̰̗͉̟̥̳̞̪̈́̊̇̀̽̌̉̓̿̏̎̌̑̋̈́͒̅̈́̄̇̕͜͜͜͠ͅͅν̶̢̢̛̜̺̫͓̼̱̣̻̠̲͕̻͍͇̳̜̮͖͓̗͇̮͎̝̪̲͇̖͍̪̱̤̮̞͇͔̎́̎̕ͅ ̸̧̧̡̡̧̛̯̳͇̭̝͉̠͙̭̟̭͇̻̣͖̯̭͔̼̹̗̘̞̻̇̓͐̈́̃̌́̒̈́͐̇̒̐̈́̐̌̿̎̈́͊̈́̏̐̎̄̓̅͌͂͛͋̏̕͜π̵̨̡̨̢̠͈͕͖̘̟̬͖̙̻̣̭͎͎̹͍͚̮̘̰͐̓̌̾̀̍̽̂̑̍̊͆͂̂̀́̃́͗̔̽̓͆̄ε̵̢̨̪̝̬̩͇̘̣̜̹͖̯̹̳̙̱̦̜̳̹̠͚͎͕̟͔̣̻̭̱̠̞̝̺͍̘̝̥͙͖͉̟͋̌̋̎͐̄̚ρ̸̨̡̧̨̰̬̫͇̗̹̘̖̠̳̱̫̞̯̝̘̰̤͖̖̈́̈́̉͂͘͜ͅ ̶̢̡̡̺͚̩̠͎̞̠̺̠̪̖̲͚͙͓̤̯̞̥̺̙̲̰͙͖͓̝̂́̔̚̕͜͠ͅἀ̷̧͉̜̼̪̞̠͚̥͗̇̒͑̽͒͝λ̴̧̨͎̜͙̰̻̺̝̜̙̣̬̮͈̥̭̗̼̩̠̮̤̥̦̬̓̈́̉̔̓͊̈́̇̔͋̈́̓̀̓̚̚͠ͅͅῃ̵̡̞͔͉̗̜̼̳̻͇͔̦̟̳̖̻͚̠͉͎̭͇̻̗͉͙̣̰̼͙̞̒̋͌́́́͜ͅθ̷̛̛͖̰͙͙̩̪̻͓̳̮̤̘̟̀͐͒͛̃͊̊͒̉̽̂̈͘ῶ̵̨̨͕̤̤͖͈͈̲̖̖͚͉̭͚̳̜̗̻̩̬̩̠̰̣̮͙͕̳͚͍̰͕͈͎́̈́̽ς̸̢̝͖͙̮̩͓̬̯̲̭̩͋̓̽̋̀̍̅͒̈́̅̒͆̃̓́͘͘͝͠ ̶̡̨̢̰̙͇͍̟̙̟̻̬͕͉̤̻̲̩͔̘͇̠̞͓͓̥̖̮̮̮̼̳̹̯͓͍̜͖͂̈́̃̃̃̏̒͋̏͑̀̽̿͐̑̄̏̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͝ͅἥ̶̨̢̨̡̳͇͓̖͖͖̞͔̹͈̪͔̼̬̝͚̭̮͇̩̫̝̭͓̰̻̳͓̪͓͌̑͊̒͑͜͜͝͠κ̸̢̧̯̰͈͍͖̤̟͓̳̱͙͚͕͖̻̝͎̩͔̠̱̫̻̲̹̳̼̞̄͋͜͜͜͝ͅͅε̵̡̺̝̫̝̩͕͈̪̲̺̘͍͙̯̼̹̰̙̠̤̙̥̭̹͉̖͇̰̳̼̗̳̅͒̂̚͜ί̴̧̡̛̬̜̙̩͍̪͈͍͙̱͉͓̱͎̦̝͙̮͖͎̗̪̣͗͑̔̊͗̈̏̇͂̍̋͌̃̎̀͆̍̈͋͒̈́̃͋̉̈̾̿̈́̾͐̽͆̀̾͌́̽̂͛̏̚͘͘̕͜͝͝͝ς̴̛̲̪̭͚̳̳̟͛̎͊́͗͆͌́͗͂̇̐͆͌̀̃̿́̉̉̆̋͂̆͋͊͛̈́͗̍̾͊͌͗͊̈́̅͘͘͠͝͝͝.̵̡̢̡̛̛̮̬̣̥̯̱͓̝͇͎̯̙̣̘̦̣̠̹͋̈́̀̄̌͐̒͋́̈́̄̅̒̉̊̇̆̐̓̍̽͂̈́̊͐͂͑̀̐̔͗͊̎̈́́̆̎̀͆̊̕͘̕͜͝͝͝
Then, the chaotic glyphs reorganized. A line of clean, glowing English text appeared beneath the madness, mocking him.
???:Sorry you couldn't understand what I said there. Here, lemme help you to understand:
???:Ἀληθῆ λέγεις; Καίτοι ἐλπίζω σε ὕστερον τἀληθὲς γνώσεσθαι... ἆρα δή, οὐδέπω γὰρ ἕτοιμος εἶ, πέμψω σε ὀπίσω ὅθεν περ ἀληθῶς ἥκεις.
Damien stared at it. It was Greek. Ancient, formal Greek. He didn't speak it, but the aura radiating from the text made his skin crawl.
"I don't speak noodles, you fucking idiot," Damien muttered, typing the response with shaking hands.
Damien:I don't speak noodles you fucking idiot.
The reply came before he even blinked.
???:...What a shame. I see you are not ready yet.
???:Though I hope we will meet soon. Maybe later.
???:Θανόντος σου.
Damien froze. He didn't know the translation, but the intent was clear. It felt like a death sentence. Or an invitation.
Damien:What?!
Damien:Hey!
Damien:Hey! Motherfucker, I swear if I survive or even if I die, I will haunt you until the end of this world! You hear me, motherfucker!
The screen went black. The phone was dead.
'Motherfucker,' Damien thought, gripping the device so tight the screen cracked under his thumb. 'Just who the hell is that guy? And why does it feel like he's watching me right now? Not from a camera... but from inside my own head?'
He shoved the broken phone back into his pocket.
'Sigh. Let's just prepare. Ghosts can wait. Monsters are here.'
***
13:00 Hours.The Gate Perimeter.
The atmosphere had shifted from nervous energy to a heavy, suffocating silence.
The colossal red gate pulsed, a heartbeat that synced with the pounding in everyone's chests.
Then, a voice cut through the silence. It was amplified by magic, booming across the desert like thunder.
"I KNOW ALL OF YOU ARE NERVOUS!"
It was Morgane Sylvine Obeline. She stood on a raised platform constructed of shimmering mana-crystals. Her white cape billowed in the unnatural wind generated by the gate. Her staff, a divine artifact gifted by the Constellation of Hestia, glowed with a warm, golden light that pushed back the red haze of the dungeon.
"I KNOW YOU ARE WORRIED! I KNOW YOU ARE HESITATING TO JOIN THIS RAID!"
She looked out at the sea of soldiers. She didn't look down on them; she looked at them. Her eyes, magnified by the screens, were filled with empathy.
"BUT! DON'T BE AFRAID—BECAUSE I—"
Her voice faltered for a brief second. A flicker of doubt passed behind her eyes.
She looked at the crowd. At Gyeum Gayeol, the Sword Empress, who was gripping her katana with white knuckles. At Nicholas, the American Titan, who was sweating despite his cooling suit, trying to mask his anxiety with a fatherly smirk.
And lastly, she looked at Damien. He was standing near the front of the military line, his arms crossed, looking bored.
Damien met her gaze and rolled his eyes. 'Get on with it,' his expression said.
Morgane inhaled deeply. She straightened her posture.
"BECAUSE WE—" she corrected herself, her voice growing stronger, booming with the authority of the World's Rank 1 Hunter. "WE WILL WIN THIS WAR!"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A spark.
"WE WILL ALL RETURN TO OUR FAMILIES! TO OUR FRIENDS! TO THE ONES WAITING FOR US AT HOME!"
Her grip tightened around her staff until the wood groaned.
"Some of you have children waiting to see you smile again! Some of you have parents praying for your safety! Some of you... have someone you love who believes in you more than anyone else in this world!"
Her voice softened, becoming intimate despite the amplification.
"They are the reason we stand here today. They are the reason we fight."
Then, her voice rose once more, reaching a crescendo filled not with fear—but with conviction.
"THE MONSTERS BEFORE US DO NOT FEEL! THEY DO NOT LOVE! THEY DO NOT DREAM!"
She lifted her staff high into the air. A beam of golden light shot into the sky, piercing the gloomy clouds.
"BUT WE DO!"
A surge of energy pulsed from her, the faint divine light of her Constellation shimmering around her form and spreading out to touch every soldier, every Hunter. It was a mass buff—[Hestia's Warmth]. It banished the fear, replacing it with adrenaline and courage.
"THAT IS WHY WE ARE STRONGER!"
She brought the end of her staff down against the platform with a sharp crack.
-BOOM!
"FOR OUR HOMES!"
Another strike.
-BOOM!
"FOR OUR FUTURE!"
And then she clenched her staff so tightly her hands trembled.
"ALL FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY! DESTROY ALL THOSE MONSTERS IN THE NAME OF THE GODDESS HESTIA!"
For a heartbeat, there was silence. The echo of her voice hung in the air.
Then—
"DESTROY ALL THOSE MONSTERS!"
"ALL FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY!"
The soldiers and the Hunters roared in unison. It was a primal sound, a collective scream of defiance against the encroaching dark. Nicholas shouted at the top of his lungs, slamming his fists together. Gayeol raised her weapon high, her face a mask of determination.
Even the ground seemed to shake with their resolve.
But amidst the roar, one man remained silent.
Damien didn't cheer. He didn't raise his fist. He just watched.
'I really have a bad feeling about this,' Damien thought, the golden light of the buff washing over him but failing to penetrate his [Black Death] resistance. 'I know my senses. My intuition is always right... but...'
He looked at the people. Their eyes were bright, manic. They really believed they would survive. They believed the narrative.
But Damien knew something was off. The mana from the gate wasn't reacting to their strength; it was reacting to their souls. It felt hungry. It felt like a trap waiting to be sprung.
'If my creeping thoughts are right,' Damien thought, checking the safety on his Glock, 'this raid will not be a successful one. It will be an incident. A massacre.'
'Shit! I just hope these bastards know what they are doing.'
The horn sounded. The march began.
***
Meanwhile, far beyond the reach of the Nevada desert, far beyond the reach of Earth, and perhaps far beyond the reach of time itself...
There was a space devoid of stars. Devoid of light. Devoid of existence.
There was only the Void.
It was not darkness. Darkness implies the absence of light. This place was something far more ancient. It was the canvas upon which the universe was drawn, and the eraser that could wipe it clean.
It swallowed light before it could be born. It devoured sound before it could echo. Time did not flow there; it hung, motionless and suffocating, like a forgotten breath trapped in the lungs of creation. The air—if it could even be called air—felt heavy, dense with a pressure that could crush galaxies into dust. An oppressive heat simmered beneath the emptiness, not blazing like fire, but smoldering like something sealed away for eternity, waiting.
Then—
Something moved.
Not walked. Not appeared.
It merged.
The Void bent inward as though reality itself acknowledged his presence. A figure took shape from the formless abyss, his silhouette emerging like a tear in nothingness stitched together by unseen hands.
With a subtle flick of his fingers, a holographic projection shimmered into existence before him. It cast a faint, blood-red glow against the suffocating black.
Within the hologram, a red-haired man with obsidian-black eyes stared back, frozen in time. It was Damien, standing at the precipice of the gate.
The white-haired man observed him in silence.
Though his eyes were hidden beneath a white, silken blindfold embroidered with threads of gold and starlight, there was no doubt he saw everything. He saw the fear in the soldiers. He saw the false hope in the Hunters. And he saw the Void resting inside Damien's soul.
His face was sculpted with unnatural precision—a sharp jawline carved as if by divine hands, high cheekbones that caught the faintest glimmer of the hologram's light, and lips curved neither in a smile nor a frown, but in quiet, knowing amusement. His skin was flawless, pale yet warm-toned, smooth like polished marble kissed by life rather than cold stone.
His body beneath the flowing, archaic white robes was nothing short of perfection. Broad shoulders that carried effortless authority. A defined chest that rose and fell slowly, calmly, as if the suffocating Void itself bent to his rhythm. Lean yet powerfully built, every line of his torso was precise and balanced—strength without excess, elegance without fragility.
There was heat radiating from him—not merely physical warmth, but an intensity. A presence that pressed against the skin of the universe and stirred something primal and dangerous in its wake. The kind of heat that could scorch worlds or draw worship without a single word spoken.
The Void did not consume him.
It obeyed him.
His long, elegant fingers traced the edge of the hologram lightly, almost thoughtfully.
Then he spoke.
His voice was deep, smooth—resonating through the nothingness like a forbidden hymn whispered at the end of time.
"Your intuitions are right."
The hologram flickered faintly, showing the first soldier stepping into the red mist.
"All of them will die."
A pause.
The silence that followed felt deliberate, heavy with something unreadable.
"But..."
His head tilted slightly, the blindfold shifting with the movement.
"Would you really let them all die?"
The faintest curve touched his lips—a smile that held a thousand secrets and a thousand tragedies.
"Meus egomet."