[Detective Mara Ivers' Office – 5:42 AM]
The office reeked of stale coffee and old paper. Detective Mara Ivers sat hunched over her desk, boots kicked up, fingers drumming against her cheek. Her eyes were glued to the grainy hospital security footage looping across her monitor. Time stamp: 03:00:17 AM.
Then it happened.
On screen, the figure leapt.
A blur—barefoot, shirt loose and fluttering like wings, hospital band locked around his wrist.
Mara sat up straight. "No. No, no, no—"
She paused the footage.
Rewound.
Hit play.
There he was again. Ethan Cross. Jumping clean from the fourth-story window like it was nothing.
Her eye twitched.
"Thought he was just an E-rank..." she muttered, voice low. "What the hell are they feeding these hunters now?"
She opened his file, expecting the usual—a troubled kid, maybe a reckless raid injury.
What she found was worse.
Mother: Deceased. Killed during a portal raid. Father: Currently incarcerated. Charged with assault and negligence during the same raid. Legal Guardian: Lia Cross. Medical coverage: Paid entirely by the Hunter Department. Authorized by: Director Marcus Vance.
Mara leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing.
"So the big suits have been babysitting this brat," she said, voice full of venom. "The head of the damn Hunter Department… paying his bills?"
She pulled the file closer, flipping through every page, every note, every ignored detail. All of it started forming a picture.
A broken home. A failed raid. A hidden connection to the most powerful man in the hunters' ranks.
Mara rose from her seat, grabbing her coat and badge. Her boots thudded heavily against the floor as she stormed out of the office.
"Time to take back what belongs to us," she muttered, eyes sharp. "Let the hunters keep their monsters. The streets? They're still ours."
This wasn't just about a kid anymore. It was about the war simmering beneath the surface—Hunters vs. Cops—and Mara just found her golden ticket.
She wasn't letting go this time.
The room was still, save for the quiet hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of nurses outside. Ethan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrists cuffed to the rails. His body still ached, but his mind spun faster than ever.
"Am I going to jail for this?" he whispered to himself.
His eyes drifted to the pale wall across from him. So much had happened. His mother, torn apart in a raid. His father, lost to madness in the same dungeon. And now… whatever he had become.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered. "But if this is what it takes... I'm sorry. To the country that raised me—I'll come back stronger. But not like this. Not in chains."
He clenched his jaw, took a breath, and twisted his left hand violently.
CRACK.
The pain was instant, electric. His pinky and ring finger dislocated clean from the knuckle, and with a slow, deliberate pull, he slid his hand through the cuffs. His fingers bent like broken twigs, but he didn't scream. He couldn't afford to.
Staggering to the window, he unlocked it, pushed it open—and leapt.
The world spun. Wind roared in his ears.
CRUNCH.
His leg shattered on impact. For a moment, everything went white. But then... the fracture twisted itself back into place, sinew reconnecting, bones realigning with a sickening series of pops. The pain vanished.
And Ethan ran.
His bare feet pounded against concrete, ducking behind ambulances, slipping between security patrols like a phantom. His body moved with an unnatural grace now—quick, silent. A shadow in motion.
He didn't stop until he reached a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts. The house wasn't fancy—two floors, aging paint, an overgrown yard. But it was familiar. His old home.
He climbed in through the window, landing softly on the creaky floorboards. His eyes scanned the room.
Dust. Silence. The faint scent of wood polish and forgotten memories.
Tears welled in his eyes. Not from pain, but from everything else.
"I'm sorry," he said to no one. "I'll make it right."
Then everything changed.
The world shifted.
[00:00:00]
A low, digital chime echoed in his head.
He blinked—and suddenly, the walls of the house were gone.
He was standing in a crumbled city. Skyscrapers were cracked and moss-covered. Roads torn apart by time. A place forgotten by the world.
[Conquered: 0.00%]
[Objective: Conquer 100%]
From his side, he reached into a dimensional space—and pulled out his axe. Its blade gleamed with anticipation, humming faintly.
He gripped the handle.
"I'll use every point I earn in here to get the hell out of this country," he said, voice low, teeth clenched. "And when I do… I'm not coming back weak."
MEANWHILE — GUILD TOWER / VANTH SPEAR GUILD
In a towering office overlooking the capital, the chairman of Vanth Spear, a guild known for its military-like structure and merciless elite, stood with his back to the window.
His phone rang.
"Yes?"
A low voice replied, "We need the kid—now. Before the media paints you as fools."
The chairman didn't turn. "The guild owns half the Hunter Association. The press can't touch us."
"No," the voice replied. "This comes from Chairman Elias himself. He gave me this order."
Silence.
Then the chairman's hand tightened.
CRACK.
He crushed the phone in his bare palm.
"Then we bring him in," he growled.