Ethan stepped out of the Dawn Serpent, his right arm extended as he reached into the cool air. His sleeve, torn from the previous battle, fluttered with the movement.
[200 XP gained. Next evolution at 500 XP.]
A brief pause, then more information:
[New weapons acquired]
[Soulrender Gauntlets (D-rank): Active skill: "Enfeeble" – Each punch weakens the target by -10 to all stats for 5 minutes. Passive skill: "Endurance of the Void" – Reduces stamina depletion for the wearer by 20%.]
[Venompins of the Abyss (D-rank): Active skill: "Controlled Poison" – Ten small, sharp pins that can be controlled through a mana string. These pins are coated with Abyss Widow Venom, a highly potent poison that paralyzes and shuts down vital organs in less than a minute, with no known cure. The poison spreads quickly and is especially dangerous in a confined space.]
[Stats:]
[Strength: 30]
[Agility: 30]
[Intelligence: 30]
[Charisma: 30]
[Endurance: 30]
[Stealth: 30]
[Perception: 30]
[Combat Skills: 30]
[Magic/Abilities: 30]
[Speed: 31]
With the information absorbed, Ethan moved toward the camp's entrance. The long line of hunters waiting to enter caught his attention. They were impatient, tapping their feet, grumbling under their breath, or adjusting their weapons with an occasional glance at the guards. When it was finally his turn, the gatekeeper looked him up and down. The man frowned.
"You don't have an ID. You think you're gonna enter the arena with no weapon?" The guard scoffed, his eyes scanning Ethan's lack of visible equipment.
Not long after, Saint's team landed in their high-end armor, their presence unmistakable. The leader of the team quickly texted the arrival confirmation.
At the same time, other hunters, clearly aware of Ethan's existence, had sent over images of him. These were the photos they'd gathered on the boy they were all hunting—Ethan Cross.
Inside the camp, Ethan silently made his way toward a large warehouse, the scent of stale air and metal filling his nostrils. He whispered to himself in quiet admiration.
"These guys must be strong."
He wasn't wrong. Inside, rows of well-trained hunters were gathered. They moved like a single unit, communicating with mere glances, the air thick with anticipation. As Ethan moved deeper into the warehouse, the hum of activity quieted, and all attention shifted to a single figure.
A man, stepping atop crates to address the group. A hush fell over the crowd as all eyes turned toward him.
It was Ren—the international hunter, known across the world. The room buzzed with excitement, and even Ethan could feel the palpable energy as Ren began his speech.
Ren's voice carried across the room, commanding attention. "I am deeply grateful to the hunters of North Korea for arriving to help save my home. No matter how strong a person may be, there is only so much one can do alone. Even the strongest can be caught off-guard. Without unity, even the most powerful fall short."
His gaze swept across the hunters in the room. "But together, we are unstoppable. Together, we make the impossible possible."
He continued, his words growing more impassioned as he introduced his team. "We are more than hunters. We are a family, bound not just by our strength but by our resolve. Together, we will stand strong in the face of any threat."
The crowd erupted in applause, and Ren's elite team, standing like statues, remained stoic, their resolve unwavering. Ethan couldn't help but feel the weight of their unity and power. He hadn't expected this level of coordination, but now he saw just how much more he needed to grow.
One of the hunters moved quietly through the crowd, weaving between crates and hushed conversations. His expression was tense as he approached a younger hunter seated on a barrel, eating dried meat with a dagger strapped loosely to his thigh.
"Hey," the man said, lowering his voice. "You seen a guy around twenty? Black hair, average height, sharp eyes. Looks like he's been through hell but still walks like he owns the place."
He pulled up a photo on a sleek tablet—Ethan, caught mid-step, eyes focused, face half-shadowed.
The younger hunter looked once, too briefly, and shook his head quickly. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell." He stood, too fast, brushing past before his lie could be caught in the tension hanging between them.
The hunter narrowed his eyes, then turned and made his way back toward the far end of the warehouse, where a tall man leaned against a steel beam. His armor was layered, practical, with faded N.Korean hunter guild markings barely visible beneath the dust.
"They're looking for the kid too," he muttered. "Other hunters, not ours."
The boss raised an eyebrow. "Description?"
"Early twenties. Dark hair, silent type. Might be ranked E, but that's clearly bullshit. Could be higher."
The boss clicked his tongue, then exhaled sharply. "He's coming from the West. That's one of Baekdu's orders. You know what that means."
The hunter went pale. "Shit... if they're here, then this just got way harder."
Meanwhile, Ethan stood at the edge of a bustling market near the east side of the base. Makeshift stalls lined the walkways, smoke curling from grilled meat and oil-slicked armor. Shouts rang out, mostly haggling over gear and rations.
Ethan ducked into a blacksmith's tent, the thick stench of molten metal and sweat hanging heavy. From beneath his tattered coat, he slipped the Soulrender Gauntlets out from his dimensional space—his body shielding the action from the crowd.
The blacksmith, a burly man with a chest like an anvil and arms covered in burn marks, took the gauntlets with a grunt, eyes scanning the fine etchings along the knuckles.
"These aren't factory. Who made these?" the smith asked, squinting.
"Found them in a ruined dungeon," Ethan replied casually. "Must've belonged to someone who didn't make it out."
The blacksmith frowned but nodded. "Craftsmanship like this doesn't come easy. I'll pay you fair."
Ethan weighed the deal silently. The Red-Blue Hound Dagger was enough for now—it was lightweight, fast, and far more practical for stealth and speed. The gauntlets, though powerful, weren't suited for a quick escape or keeping a low profile.
'Fast stamina recovery. Punches weaken opponents. Visible. Loud. Not my style.'
He justified it to himself.
After the deal was done, coins clinked into his hand—thin and metallic, stamped with the sigil of the island's temporary faction. He used a portion of it to buy a paper-wrapped pack of hot buns from a vendor nearby.
He took one bite.
The taste turned bitter the moment it touched his tongue. It wasn't the food—it was him. He tried another, forcing it down, and then another. Still bitter.
By the fourth bite, he tossed the rest into a metal bin, licking the taste off his teeth.
He wandered deeper into the market. It was clear now—there were only two things sold here: weapons and food. No armor. No maps. No medicine.
Just tools of survival.
He passed a stall selling curved swords. Another with crude axes. He paused at one wrapped in cloth, covered in rune-etched symbols. As he stared, faint script appeared before his eyes:
[Weapon: Wyrmfang]
[Rank: C]
[Type: Blade]
[Origin: Forged in the Shaded Mountains, North Seradin]
[Active Skill: "Rend" – Inflicts bleeding status for 10 seconds.]
[Durability: 70/100]
[Mana Affinity: Low]
Another:
[Weapon: Ironclaw Spear]
[Rank: D]
[Origin: Republic of Geyon]
[No active skill.]
[Durability: 80/80]
[Balance: Moderate]
Most of the weapons lacked any real abilities. He noted their origin points—some forged in underground colonies, others from dismantled military zones.