Another week passed. Training had become part of Mike's blood, routine as breathing. Each morning began with drills, sparring, and aura control. By now, his energy core pulsed more steadily—denser, firmer, as though responding to his will rather than resisting him. He had reached Human Grade, Level 3.
Exactly a month had passed since joining the Light Devils, and in that time, he had changed in ways he could hardly believe. His aura control had grown so fine that he could coat his fists entirely in a thin, dark-yellow glow at will, activating it almost instantly. His strikes carried a sharper weight now, each punch echoing with the faint tremor of destructive force.
More than that, his squadmates—and even David—had begun to see him differently. Alex noted how quickly Mike adapted to sword drills, how fast he absorbed stances and footwork corrections. Emre, despite his arrogance, admitted once during sparring: "Tch. You pick up moves like you've been doing this for years." Sarah didn't say much, but her occasional nod of approval carried weight.
But Mike knew the truth—his techniques were still raw. He had instinct and adaptability, yes, but experience in real battles was what he lacked. And that would only come with time.
---
On the second day of the new week, something unusual stirred within the Light Devils' base.
Mike immediately noticed it when he stepped outside his quarters. Normally, the faction grounds carried a quiet rhythm—squads leaving for hunts, hunters returning to the armory, training fields echoing with occasional sparring clashes. A few hundred people at most would be moving about.
But today?
The air buzzed. Hunters filled every path and corridor, voices overlapping in a storm of chatter. The open plaza near the central building was a sea of people, more than a thousand members gathered in one place. The atmosphere was charged, half festive, half reverent.
Mike pushed through the crowd, scanning faces until he spotted David. "David!" he called, approaching. "What's going on? Why's the base so full today?"
David turned, his expression relaxed but his eyes glinting knowingly. "So you don't know, huh? Today is the Mid-Year Faction General Meeting."
Mike frowned. "Mid-Year… Meeting?"
David nodded, crossing his arms. "Twice every year, the Light Devils gather every available member across all stations. Hunters, squad leaders, commanders—all except the main planetary commanders and base captains, who can't leave their posts. Everyone else—every rank, every squad—comes back here. It's the one day where you see the faction's true size and power."
Mike let the words sink in, watching the river of hunters flow past. "So… this isn't about hunter rankings, then?"
David laughed, a sharp bark. "No, no, no. Hunter ranks—F, E, D—those just mark your combat record and contribution. They don't mean much beyond logistics. The real structure of the faction runs on official ranks. Listen carefully:
Faction Leader → Vice Leader → Council of Heads → Commanders → Captains → Squad Leaders → Hunters.
That's the chain of command."
Mike blinked. "So you're our squad leader, right? Then who's our captain? I haven't seen him once."
David exhaled, his grin wry. "That's because we don't have one. The position's been vacant. Right now, our squad reports directly to Pearl City's commander. But…" He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Today, the higher-ups are appointing new captains. You'll meet ours before the day ends."
Mike's brow furrowed, curiosity flaring. "So we're getting a new captain?"
"Yes," David said firmly. "And trust me—whoever it is, it won't be some nobody. Captains are handpicked. That means strength, discipline, and reputation."
---
The crowd surged as they approached the main building, its tall white-and-blue walls gleaming beneath the sunlight. Mike tilted his head back, his eyes catching the massive digital screen, over thirty meters wide, displaying the crest of the Light Devils—a radiant angel with spread wings. Beneath it stretched a stage, raised six meters high, flanked by rows of armored guards.
Mike slowed his steps, staring. Each guard stood like statues, clad in polished sky-blue armor inlaid with crystal shards, heavy shields strapped across their arms. Their helmets obscured their faces, but the aura they exuded was sharp, disciplined, deadly.
"Who are they?" Mike muttered.
"The Elite Guards," David answered calmly. "Personal protectors of the higher-ups. Every single one of them is at least a Spiritual Grade warrior. Some rumors say a few are Saint Grade in disguise. Either way, don't test them."
Mike nodded slowly, awe prickling at his skin.
On the stage itself stood rows of people in contrasting attire. Some wore tailored white-trimmed suits—calm, steady gazes betraying authority. Others were clad in blue-and-white plate, heavier and more imposing.
David gestured with his chin. "The suited ones? Council of Heads. The armored ones? Commanders. Each commands entire planetary bases and thousands of hunters."
Before Mike could ask further, a booming voice filled the plaza.
"It brings me joy to welcome all my members to this Mid-Year Faction Meet!"
The crowd fell silent, heads snapping upward.
From the sky descended a man in long, flowing robes of white and blue. His figure gleamed faintly, surrounded by an aura that shimmered like crystal light. With a wave of his hand, countless azure shards erupted, swirling into radiant arcs that danced across the sky. They twisted into patterns—rings, spirals, even fleeting illusions of winged beasts—before scattering into trails of light that rained down like falling stars.
Mike's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, voice a whisper only he could hear: "A… Saint Grade warrior."
Saint Grade. The ability to fly. The mark of transcendence.
The man landed gracefully on the stage, tall and broad, his dark-blue hair streaked faintly with black, his beard trimmed and neat. He radiated authority—not the oppressive kind, but the steady weight of someone who had led and endured countless trials.
"I, Bradley Palmer, your Faction Leader, greet you all!" His voice carried, deep and rich, resonating through the very ground.
The crowd erupted with cheers, fists raised, chants echoing his name.
Bradley lifted a hand, quieting them. "My Light Devils—look around you. You stand among brothers and sisters, a family forged in battle, tempered in sacrifice. This faction was not built in a day. It was carved through blood, sweat, and the lives of those who believed in something greater. And what we built—we built together.
"To me, you are not soldiers. You are not pawns. You are family. This base—this faction—must be your second home. Stand with one another. Celebrate with one another. Protect one another. And know this—until my final breath, I will protect you all as if you were my own kin."
Applause thundered through the plaza, louder than before. Mike felt something stir in his chest—a strange warmth. For all the grandeur, Bradley's words didn't feel hollow. They felt… genuine.
Bradley bowed his head slightly, then seated himself on the high throne at the center of the stage.
---
Announcements followed. "The address has concluded! Members, please enjoy the feast prepared. Afterward, all squads due for reassignment or new appointments are to report to the East Building."
The plaza erupted into celebration. Long tables had been laid with roasted meats, beast-brew ale, and savory breads. Hunters gathered, laughing, shouting, retelling hunts with exaggerated gestures.
Mike sat with David, Alex, Sarah, and Emre, each grabbing food.
Alex chewed noisily, muttering, "So, David, no hunts today? You made it sound urgent—don't tell me this was just for speeches and free food."
David chuckled, sipping his drink. "Do you really think the faction cares if you eat? No, idiot. After this, you'll meet your new captain."
Alex froze mid-bite, staring. Sarah raised an eyebrow, Emre smirked knowingly, and Mike set down his cup slowly. A ripple of curiosity passed through them.
New captain… Mike thought. Who could it be?
---
After the banquet, they moved toward the right-side building. Inside, a massive hall stretched out, with more than a dozen squads lined along tiered platforms. Commanders called names, and one by one, captains arrived to claim their squads.
Finally, only two remained: Squad 224—David's squad—and Squad 225, led by a female squad leader.
The commanding officer, Roran, stepped forward, his deep voice carrying. "Squads 224 and 225, step forward. Your new captain has arrived. Meet Captain Kylie."
The hall fell into silence.
Footsteps echoed.
From the far entrance, a figure approached.
She wore purple-and-white armor that glinted faintly with beast-crystal veins, a massive sword strapped to her back. She moved with fluid confidence, each step echoing across the chamber.
She was tall, 5'10", her frame slender yet honed. A crystal mask covered the lower half of her face, shimmering faintly with embedded patterns, but her hazel-blue eyes were bare, sharp and unflinching. Her hair was black, the tips dyed a deep dark-blue that caught the light like midnight flames.
Her presence was suffocating—not with weight, but with domineering authority. Hunters instinctively straightened, some lowering their eyes, others watching with a mix of awe and unease.
She stopped before Commander Roran, who gestured broadly. "Kylie, these are the squads under you. Lead them as you see fit."
…scanning all the members there, her eyes landed on a particular person for a few seconds before turning away.
But for that person—Mike—the moment she entered, his gaze had been locked on her alone. He stared at her with an unreadable expression, almost like a stray dog that had suddenly found something it could not look away from. His hand pressed unconsciously against his chest, as though trying to calm the violent rhythm beneath.
He could feel it—his heart beating faster, each thud echoing louder than the last. A sense of fear gripped him, sharp and unfamiliar. Yet, intertwined with it was something else… something far deeper.
A sense of belonging.
He had never felt anything like this in his life. Not once.