The first report came in from the north coast.
A small fishing town—empty. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Just… gone.
The local guild scouts sent footage back to the Hunter Association. A rift stood in the center of the harbor, a swirling black mass shot through with jagged veins of white light. It was wide enough to swallow a building whole, its edges rippling like something alive.
At first, they thought it was a Rank SSS gate. Then the readings came in.
The magic signature didn't match anything on record. It wasn't just high—it was off the charts, the instruments stuttering before cutting out entirely.
Three days later, another one appeared in the western badlands.
Then another, in the middle of the southern capital's abandoned quarter.
By the end of the week, there were seven of them.
The Association called them Oblivion Gates.
And they gave a direct order: No hunter, under any circumstance, is to enter.
