A bicycle ride through the streets of Voulton City wasn't the fastest, but it was just right—steady, nimble, weaving through morning traffic like a whisper.
The city at dawn was always alive. Cars, motorbikes, and delivery drones filled the roads, each headed to some corner of the sprawling metropolis. Commuters going to work, Hunters on their way to guild halls, and others leaving the city to reach dungeon sites before the portals shifted or surged.
Some vehicles bore symbols—custom-painted emblems of Hunter Guilds. Each insignia carried a story: prestige, power, or tragedy. Those with badges of high-ranking guilds drew glances of admiration. Others bore no recognition at all, only quiet prayers that they'd return in one piece.
This was the rhythm of life in Voulton. Death came with the job. Dungeons and monsters were part of the ecosystem now, woven into the fabric of society. Hunters died. The world moved on. Only the powerful were remembered.
