"Halt!!!" a voice barked. One of the ground guards stepped forward, rifle angled casually toward the group, though his eyes carried the suspicion of a man who had seen too many strange wanderers at his gate.
[-The Final Draft-]
Volume XV - Apocalypse
-LdrQll
"Check their crests," the lead guard ordered.
The others fanned out, their boots clattering softly against the stone. One by one they pulled back sleeves, collars, and armor straps, searching for the branded sigils of divine allegiance. The marks glowed faintly under the lamplight—burned into flesh, carried like banners of servitude.
Three bore the falcon-mark of the Ennead, two the runed sigils of Aesir, and two the radiant glyphs of Olympus—among them, the incarnation of Hermes.
But Ivan... Ivan had none. His skin bore no crest, no god's mark, no symbol of belonging. To the eyes of this world, he was an unkindled soul. Crestless. A man without a place.
[The world had changed beyond recognition. Humanity no longer measured itself in crowns or coin, but in whose god had deigned to brand them.
In England alone, three cities remained: The Outpost, The Homestead, and here—the Grandwall. Olympus, Ennead, and Aesir ruled these walls with invisible hands. Yet the governor knelt to none of them, his patron a solitary benefactor beyond the pantheons.
To keep their power rooted in the world, the gods bestowed crests upon their chosen. Marks etched into flesh, granting blessings, binding allegiance. But not all received such favor. Some were left unbranded—souls unkindled, powerless, forgotten.
Those without crests fell to the gutters, beggars gnawing on scraps in the lower districts... or worse, chattel sold to masters like cattle.]
Ivan thought this silently as the guard's shadow fell over him. The man's eyes narrowed. Suspicion. Disdain. The same look Ivan had seen countless times before—eyes of men who had long since learned to survive by becoming dogs.
Licking their masters' boots until the shine reflected their own hollow faces.
"You... show me your crest," the guard demanded, suspicion sharpening his tone as his gaze lingered on the blindfolded man.
Without hesitation, Ivan raised his hand. On his palm, a mark unfurled into being—a yellow symbol, its three curling appendages sprawling outward from a jagged core.
He had crafted it in silence while the hunters were being inspected.
The guard's eyes narrowed. His lips twitched as though the sight unsettled him. "I've never seen this mark before... State your name."
"Ivan Smith," he answered smoothly, without a pause. Then his voice dropped like steel on stone. "Incarnation of The Bearer of the Eldest quill."
The words hung heavy in the lamplit night, and as the guard's eyes widened in doubt, Ivan's hand snapped forward, seizing his wrist with sudden force.
[Filthy.]
The thought burned through Ivan's mind as he grimaced beneath the blindfold.
"Are you... perhaps an incarnation of a solitary deity?" the guard asked, his voice quieter now, almost careful.
Solitary deities—beings unbound by pantheon politics—were regarded as dangerous and revered in equal measure. Their power was undivided, their judgment unshackled. It was for this very reason that only an incarnation of a solitary god could ever be trusted as governor. They were seen as unbiased, beholden to no banner.
"I am," Ivan answered simply.
The guard froze for a moment, eyes flicking to the strange yellow mark on Ivan's palm before raising his gaze to the wall. A subtle nod passed between him and the others above.
"They're clean," the guard muttered into his radio.
From behind the gate, the clatter of gears and iron filled the night, followed by the grinding rumble of bolts being drawn back. A section of the massive door shifted, splitting open to reveal a narrow tunnel just wide enough for a person to pass through single file.
The guard cast a wary glance over the ruins around them, his grip tightening on the rifle. "Come on," he urged. "Before the crawlers catch the scent."
The city was divided into three great layers: the Lower District, the Middle, and the High.
For now, the hunters would have to trudge through the Lower District, the only path leading toward the Grandhall of Hunters — the headquarters of the Hunter's Association.
Ivan walked at the rear, his blindfolded face drawing cautious glances. People stepped aside, whispering under their breath, wary of a man whose eyes could not be seen.
The road was nothing more than packed dirt and broken stone, lamplights flickering weakly along the way — some replaced with crude torches stabbed into iron brackets.
"P... please... spare us some coin... sir..."
Beggars sat sprawled across the alleys, rattling dented cans high into the air as the hunters passed. Hollow cheeks, gaunt eyes, voices cracking with hunger.
Not far ahead, the sound of a brawl burst from a barhouse, the wooden door smashed open as two men tumbled into the street, fists pounding, curses cutting through the night.
Then, something tugged at Ivan's torn shirt from behind.
He turned his head slowly.
A girl — hair greasy and matted, face streaked with grime — stood trembling. Her eyes lifted toward his blindfold, and the moment she realized no eyes looked back, she staggered, breath hitching. But she did not flee.
Ivan's lips curled into a faint smile. He reached a hand behind her ear, and when it returned, five gold coins gleamed between his fingers as if conjured from the void. With deliberate care, he dropped them into her can.
"Get you and your mother a warm meal," he said.
The girl's mother rushed forward, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the dirt. "Thank you... mister, thank you... thank you..."
Ivan only turned away, the soft clinking of the coins fading behind him as he walked on, the beggars' gratitude swallowed by the endless noise of the Lower District.
The coins had not come from his pocket. They came straight from his creation — conjured from nothing, gleaming as if they had always existed. To the little girl, it was a magic trick. Her wide eyes shimmered for the first time in what might have been months.
Time stretched onward. Hours of walking carried them past the filth and the chaos of the Lower District, and at last, the hunters crossed into the Middle City.
Here, the night was calm. The air itself felt less heavy. Gone were the desperate cries of beggars and the shrieking violence of the barhouses. Instead, the soft hum of voices drifted through shuttered taverns and dimly lit inns. Lanterns burned brighter here, their flames steady, not trembling against the darkness.
Though quieter, it was not silent. Boots still clicked along the cobbles, wagons creaked through the streets, and laughter occasionally seeped from behind half-open doors.
And there, at the core of the Middle City, stood their destination: the Hunter's Association, its Grandhall looming just beyond the next stretch of road.
It would not be long now. But for those who had crossed through wastelands and ruins, walking always felt like the slowest way to arrive.
***
"What?!... Then... there are no other survivors left?!" The guild supervisor shot up from his chair, palms slamming against the desk with a thunderous crack. His face twisted in disbelief. "This is impossible... the Cindermaws are Category One beasts... How could such monsters have defeated two C-class hunters?"
The captain lowered his head, voice heavy but calm. "Because of them, we... were able to escape. They are heroes, sir."
"Indeed... they are," the supervisor muttered, his words trembling out as if torn from him. He sank back, eyes fixed on the desk, shoulders shaking as though the weight of the loss pressed into his very bones.
"We also... stumbled upon an Icebreaker during our escape," the captain added carefully.
The supervisor dragged in a breath, then let it out in a long, defeated sigh. At last, he lowered himself into his chair again, staring off at nothing. "...This was a hell of a mission. I'm just glad you returned alive."
All of a sudden, the clanking of metal echoed from the corner of the room. The supervisor and captain turned their heads at once.
Ivan was there, crouched beside a toppled brass ornament, fiddling with its broken stand. He froze mid-adjustment, then glanced back at them with a sheepish grin. "Oops."
The supervisor frowned. "...And who is this?"
"Ah... he is—" the captain began.
Ivan quickly tucked the bent piece of decoration behind his back as though hiding evidence, his cheeky smile widening beneath the shadow of his blindfold.
"He... helped us escape the Icebreaker, sir," the captain continued.
"This blind folk?" The supervisor squinted, pointing directly at Ivan.
"Believe me, sir," the captain said firmly, his eyes betraying no jest, "he can see."
"Evening," Ivan said lightly, waving his hand in a carefree manner.
"State your name and benefactor," the supervisor demanded, his voice sharp as a blade.
Ivan's smile didn't falter. He stepped forward casually, still holding the bent piece of metal awkwardly behind his back. "Ivan Smith... incarnation of the Bearer of the Eldest quill." His words carried a strange pride as he raised his palm, revealing the glowing crest etched into his skin.
The room fell momentarily silent.
"...Say," Ivan added after a beat, tilting his head with a playful grin, "do you perhaps have any clothes I can wear? I look like a beggar in these."
"Thank you... for saving my men. As a reward, the Olympus Guild shall grant you your wish," the supervisor declared.
To Ivan, it was amusing. He could clothe himself with a thought if he wished. Still... perhaps he wanted something that didn't come from him.
"That would be a pleasure," he replied with a faint grin.
He gave a little shrug. "Well... I don't be needing anything aside from those. Maybe I should go now—this is a private talk among guild members only, yes?"
He waved lazily as he reached the door. "Byee."
With that, he slipped out, leaving the tense air behind him as though he'd never carried any of it.
"It's the first time I've heard the name... Bearer of the Eldest Quill," the supervisor muttered, glancing at the captain.
"Well... some solitary deities are almost unknown, sir. I myself never even knew of the Puppeteer of Threads Unseen until the Governor was introduced," the captain admitted, still wondering aloud.
"How lucky they are... to be chosen as the sole incarnation of a solitary deity," he added.
But the supervisor's voice cut him short. "You shouldn't talk like that. Be thankful you are kindled... otherwise you'd be begging on the streets of the Lower City—or worse, serving as some rich man's mutt."
The captain could only lower his head, silently wishing that his benefactor had not heard a word of what he had just said.
Meanwhile, in the lobby at the Olympian counter, a woman with short black hair greeted Ivan with a warm smile. Yet, in her thoughts, unease lingered; there was something unsettling about speaking to a man whose eyes were hidden beneath a strip of black cloth, his body clad in torn, dirt-stained clothes marked with smears of blood.
"The Guild supervisor told me I had a reward to claim..." Ivan said playfully, smiling as though nothing were wrong.
"O-oh, is that so? Well... how much is the reward to be?" the clerk asked nervously.
Hahh... I bet he'll ask for coin. The other guilds already claimed their bounties after helping us take down the Hollowjaw the other day, she thought to herself.
But to her surprise, Ivan simply said, "Just a pair of clothes."
"I... I see," she replied, faint embarrassment flickering in her voice.
[I thought he'd ask for gold... pheww.]
"Well then... please, follow me to our armory. There are outfits there, enchanted by our high-grade sorcerers," she said, stepping out from behind her counter. She led the way toward a door at the back, sealed tightly with a coded lock.
With a few subtle clicks, the door yielded. Ivan followed her inside.
"Hm... never knew you had this kind of armory tucked away," he remarked, his hidden gaze sweeping across the chamber where relics glinted under the dim light — armors, artifacts, weapons displayed in silent pride.
"I assume these are where the original relics are kept?" Ivan asked, though his limiter was beginning to smother his omniscience.
The clerk hummed lightly in response. "Mmm... yes, these are the originals. They're divided by grade. The iron you see there — that's third-grade armor." She gestured toward a display.
"The second grade is beast-forged, crafted from the hides and bones of slain creatures... as for this one—" she motioned toward a heavy breastplate, etched with faint scales, "—this was made from the carcass of the three-headed dragon our guild felled years ago."
"Although..." she lowered her hand, almost wistful, "...all of these are still low compared to what the Olympians in the Higher City hold."
"Would you like to try some of the armors?" she asked, watching the blindfolded man trace his hand across the displays.
Without hesitation, Ivan replied, "No... but thank you for recommending. I am here for just clothes."
The clerk blinked, startled again.
[If he were like the other hunters — greedy, glory-chasing fools — he would have chosen the scale armor without a second thought. What on earth is this man?]
She studied him silently as he moved away from the gleaming breastplates and enchanted mail, wandering instead toward the racks of robes.
Ivan's fingers glided over the fabrics, brushing against silken hems woven with protective runes, and coarse travel cloaks enchanted with minor wards. He lifted one corner, letting the light ripple across its embroidery, as if measuring the weave not for power, but for its story.
"Ahh... these are mage's robes," the clerk explained softly as Ivan's hand lingered over the fabrics. "They were upraised and enchanted by some of our sorcerers."
But even as she spoke, it was clear these did not suit Ivan's taste.
Fashion.
For Ivan, presentation was everything.
He drifted past the enchanted robes, his steps deliberate, until his hidden gaze caught something in the far corner. Drawn to it, he approached the glass display where a lone outfit rested in silence.
"Um... that's... that's an old association officer's uniform," the clerk said cautiously. "It holds no enchantment... no divinity."
Her words trailed into Ivan's ears, but he had already remembered. This was indeed the first uniform of the Hunter's Association, worn only for a brief month before the government had deemed it impractical.
"They said it was too costly to mass-produce," the clerk went on. "The trench coat is pure cotton gabardine... the suit itself woven from bulletproof kevlar. Expensive. Too expensive. No knife or blade could cut through it... except, of course, for those who are kindled."
Ivan stood still, astonished not by the armor and relics around him, but by this uniform. His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Can I pick this instead?" Ivan asked, his voice carrying an unusual brightness as he pointed at the uniform.
The clerk hesitated, brows knitting. "I'm... not sure why you'd choose an unenchanted garment when I've shown you relics crafted by sorcerers. But... sure. The uniform holds no weight to our guild anymore—it has no purpose to us. Still, are you certain, Mister?" She tilted her head, as though she were second-guessing the choice for him.
"I don't seem to have a doubt on my face, do I?" Ivan replied, smiling beneath his blindfold.
The clerk bit her lip and finally sighed. "If you say so."
She pressed a small button at the base of the display, and the glass seal gave a quiet hiss before the door swung open. The way she moved—awkward, almost embarrassed—made the moment feel less like a relic vault and more like a tailor's shop.
"Should I... um... wrap this up for you?" she asked, her tone caught between professionalism and uncertainty.
Ivan chuckled softly, shaking his head before giving a slow, deliberate nod.
It didn't take long for Ivan to finally acquire his reward. Back in the lobby, the uniform was neatly packed inside a bag.
"Thank you," Ivan said playfully as he gave the clerk a light nod.
"You're welcome... and thank you, truly, for what you've done for our guild to even receive such a reward," the clerk replied with a gentle smile.
In her eyes, the blindfolded man seemed to fade into the bustling crowd almost instantly, swallowed by the noise of boots and chatter. For a moment, she found herself staring at the space he'd disappeared into, thoughts gnawing at her mind.
Who was that man, really...?
"Who was that blind man, Ms. Morgan?" a hunter's voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present.
"Ah—oh," Morgan said, shaking herself out of her daze. She looked back toward the lobby doors where Ivan had gone. "Him?... he's not blind. For some reason, he can see with his eyes covered. The guild supervisor himself sent him to claim his reward."
"Like how Ms. Adeola can see with her fabric of divination over her eyes?" the hunter asked, scratching his chin.
"Perhaps," Morgan muttered.
"Heh. Must've asked for something valuable, more than what he really earned," the hunter said with a smirk, arms crossed.
Morgan only shook her head. "Surprisingly... he just asked for the old Hunter Association uniform, and nothing else."
***
Morning came, and the hall was already filled with hunters preparing for another day of blood and survival.
The lobby was crowded and restless, clanking steel and scraping armor filling the air. It was a sound that never truly left the Hunter's Association—an unbroken reminder that until the very day monsters faded and the apocalypse itself died, the hunters would always wake to this noise.
"Good morning, Ms. Morgan!" a bright voice rang out above the din. "I'd like a permit for this beast, please."
Morgan looked up from her desk, her tired expression softening into a warm smile. Approaching her was a young man flanked by his companions. His gray-white hair nearly covered his eyes, and yet his angelic grin gleamed through the shadows of the hall.
"Good morning," Morgan greeted kindly. "I trust you enjoyed the bounty?"
The young man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with boyish pride. "We bought new weapons and fresh armor! I knew that lair had treasures tucked away."
Morgan flipped through the parchment he handed her, nodding. "You all deserve it. Slaying a CinderWing that terrorized the cargo convoys was no small feat. Thanks to you, the last shipment reached the city safely."
She pressed her seal onto the permit with a firm stamp before sliding it back across the desk. "This is a Category IV beast. I strongly recommend you bring one more person with you this time."
The boy tilted his head slightly, lips curling as though he were deciding whether to tease or dismiss her. "Is that a requirement... or just a suggestion?"
Morgan's voice, usually warm, shifted into something edged and serious. "I'm not joking with you... Luke."
"Okayy, okayy, ahaha!" Luke laughed, waving the stamped permit above his head as he jogged back toward his allies who were waiting near the entrance.
"You better listen to me, ye damn brat!" Morgan called after him, shaking her head with half-annoyance, half-affection.
"I'll try to recruit one!" Luke replied, grinning as he disappeared into the morning crowd.
Morgan sighed. "That boy will be the death of me," she muttered under her breath, though her eyes lingered with faint pride.
Category IV beasts were not to be taken lightly. Though their size often mirrored that of Category III monstrosities, their power was something else entirely. A Category III could tear through city blocks like an extreme tornado, its destruction fierce but still within the realm of nature's wrath. A Category IV, however, surpassed that threshold—its calamity rivaled the force of a major hurricane, an overwhelming disaster that could level entire districts.
It was this difference—not in form, but in sheer destructive magnitude—that separated the two.
And Luke, for all his smile and bravado, was walking straight toward one.
As Ms. Morgan flipped through her records, her mind still lingered on Luke—wondering when that reckless boy would finally submit a waiver if he managed to recruit another member. Her thoughts were cut short when a parchment slid across her desk.
The request was plain, but her eyes caught on the beast written in bold strokes: Category II — Grizzleback.
A dangerous quarry, though common enough. Grizzlebacks were hulking, bear-faced monstrosities, their claws elongated with a sharp, metallic gleam. Hunters often targeted them not only for the bounty, but for their unique anatomy—their claws were forged of living metal, a natural alloy as strong as steel. Entire forges and blacksmith guilds depended on the harvest of these creatures.
Morgan's gaze slowly lifted from the parchment to its bearer.
He stood before her in silence. A man in a tailored suit, hidden beneath a brown trench coat, his posture composed, almost old-fashioned. His eyes were still veiled by that unmistakable blindfold, his curtain-cut hair swaying lightly as he tilted his head toward her.
Morgan felt her throat tighten.