The air was heavy with silence. Grief lingered in every bowed head, yet behind the sorrow burned a deep respect. Eyes brimmed with gratitude as the ceremony neared its end.
Hundreds had gathered high officials, academy leaders, and government executives, all to pay their final respects. When the military delivered the last salute, the funeral formally concluded.
At the front, six figures stood together, receiving those who came forward for a final word. Even in mourning, their presence was commanding. Senior officials seemed to compete for the chance to speak with them, proof enough of the power an Elder commanded in this age.
Karl Butch, once a towering figure among them, had drawn his last breath at dawn, gone at the age of seventy-five. His passing had reduced the council from seven active Elders to six. Most of those who remained were in their fifties, their long black coats radiating authority.
But among them stood one who did not fit the mold. He wore no coat, only a sleeveless tuxedo, his posture unshaken. Barely thirty-two years old and unheard of for one to rise so high, so fast yet he stood shoulder to shoulder with legends, as though he had always belonged there.
When the funeral ended, the stillness gave way to murmurs. The commotion grew, almost resembling a gathering rather than a solemn farewell. But the shift didn't last.
The thunder of hooves broke across the courtyard. An armored cavalry unit rode in, their presence alone forcing silence to descend. Conversations died mid-breath. Everyone knew—the authority this company carried eclipsed even the restless ambitions of officials. Slowly, the crowd peeled back, giving way. The Elders stood untouched in their line, dark coats swaying in the wind.
The leader of the cavalry dismounted, steel-plated boots striking the stone with heavy purpose. He moved forward and bowed in respect before the casket. Then he straightened, his gaze cutting toward the Elders.
It was the youngest who stepped forward. His sleeveless tuxedo stood in sharp contrast to the sea of armored men, but he carried himself with an ease that silenced doubt. He placed a hand on the cavalry leader's shoulder, his voice steady.
"Your uncle was a true warrior."
The leader's jaw tightened. He raised his eyes, meeting the Elder's without flinching. "If not for your cursed orders," he said, voice edged with restrained fury, "I would have been here in time to bid him farewell."
The words hung heavy, like a blade drawn but not yet swung. Around them, the crowd dared not breathe. After finishing his prayers, the cavalry leader returned to where only the Elders remained. Their dark coats stood like a wall of authority, unbending in the morning breeze.
The eldest among them broke the silence. His voice was low, commanding. "Everything went smooth?"
The cavalry leader gave a faint nod. "From my part, it was smoother than expected. But… some things were outside the calculation. I assume you've already heard."
The elder's jaw tightened. "I wished what I heard was wrong. But some blunders are inevitable. Still… Fenrir? I never thought he would go rogue. Yet I believe our hunters can deal with him."
The cavalry leader's eyes narrowed. "You treat him as just another Master, but do not make that mistake. Fenrir is stronger than many of your so-called Grandmasters. He simply never cared for your trials."
Another elder raised his voice, cutting the tension. "Enough. Let us set that aside for now. Today, we must address the main agenda. The East Center is spiraling out of control, and the government's will is slipping. We must act before …"
But the cavalry leader interrupted, his sorrowed face breaking into a grim smile. His voice carried a weight that stilled them all. "I think we face a greater issue. And no, you have not heard of it yet. Because I wanted to tell you myself."
The Elders exchanged sharp looks. To be caught off guard was rare, almost unthinkable.
The leader let the silence stretch, then spoke. "The Frost Giant, Shambala… has been taken down."
The words struck like thunder. The Elders, unmoved even at deaths and wars, stiffened in visible shock. Their authority faltered, if only for a breath. Because this was not just another monster slain. This was the balance of power, shattered in an instant.
The Wisest and Eldest among them snapped back to composure quicker than the others, though the look in his eyes betrayed a storm unchanging.
"Was it the Joint Party operation?" he asked, his tone sharp.
Hawroon shook his head. "No. They don't have the caliber. It was meant to be a clean, controlled strike. But the Despaired Souls suddenly interfered, attacking in sync with the operation."
Before he could continue, one of his cavalry members stepped forward, marked by the crimson insignia on his armor. He bowed briefly to the Elders before turning to his leader. "Hawroon, this is important."
Hawroon excused himself with a nod and stepped aside. Even in the silence that followed, whispers of his name carried weight.
Hawroon, a legendary Grandmaster, leader of the Task Masters, the most formidable hunting party in the world. A man of thirty-six who already stood on the edge of becoming an Elder, his strength spoken of in the same breath as their own. His return to the Elders carried the same heavy presence as his departure.
"Anything urgent?" the youngest Elder, the one in the sleeveless tuxedo, asked.
"Nothing grave," Hawroon replied, his tone casual, almost dismissive. "It was about Ray."
The Elders sighed at the name. Their eyes flickered to one another in silent understanding.
The eldest finally broke the quiet. "So… it was the Despaired Souls who brought down the Frost Giant?"
Hawroon shook his head again, slower this time, his voice dropping. "No. The Despaired Souls aren't strong enough to slay Shambala. This was someone else. The hidden cult we discussed last month."
The shift was instant. The Elders' expressions hardened, lines deepening like carved stone. The mere mention of that shadowed group—elusive, faceless, untouchable—was enough to drain the warmth from the morning air. They had hunted for leads for months, yet still no trail, no whisper, no weakness.
And now the impossible truth hung between them, The cult had moved first.
"The Frost Seal…" the youngest Elder muttered.
Hawroon nodded once. "It's already in their grasp." Others weren't surprised by it. They knew the cult was after the seals. But how could they know, it was the main concern. The funeral ground still carried the scent of incense and gunpowder salutes, but in that moment, the grief for one Elder was drowned beneath the dread of what was to come.
The eldest among them gave a quiet nod, and the six in black coats turned away from the departing crowd. With Hawroon at their side, they moved into the shadowed hall behind the cemetery, away from ears that did not belong.
The heavy doors shut, sealing their words in stone.
"Let us speak openly," the eldest began, his voice like gravel grinding. "Karl's passing leaves us one seat weaker. And now Shambala, the Frost Giant is gone. The cult grows bolder while we sit idle."
"They don't grow bolder," the youngest Elder corrected, folding his arms. His tuxedo caught the dim light, his youth an almost deliberate defiance. "They grow smarter. They struck when both the hunters and the Despaired Souls distracted Shambala. They used our own chaos as cover. That is not recklessness—it is calculation."
Another Elder slammed a gloved fist onto the table. "Enough riddles. We should act. Declare a continent-wide alert. Bring the Parties and the Governments to heel. If we create chaos by spreading that the cult is behind hunters' lives, every hunter alive will move."
"And panic every government in the process?" another cut in, scoffing. "We've seen how frail they've grown. Fear would shatter them faster than the cult's blades. The East Center is already slipping from our grasp. If they sense weakness now, we lose control."
The room splintered into murmurs, their coats swaying like shadows come alive. Some demanded action, others restraint. Through it all, Hawroon stood silent, his hand resting on the hilt of the blade at his side. When the arguments finally clashed to a lull, he spoke, calm but sharp.
"You quarrel over exposure and secrecy while the cult moves further in the dark. The Frost Seal is theirs. That is no longer speculation, it is fact. The longer you debate, the further behind you fall. Meanwhile they will be after another one."
"Do you think they will go for Harappa?"
The chamber fell silent. Even the flickering torches along the walls seemed to bow lower at the name.
Harappa. The King of Nightmares. A force so vile and suffocating that even the strongest powers hesitated to utter its name aloud. Its very existence had swallowed the once-proud Voltron Province whole, leaving only ruins and echoes of screams in its wake. Entire legions had been lost, and still, no one could stand against it.
"No." The eldest Elder's voice cut through the heavy silence. His eyes, half-clouded with age yet sharp with wisdom, carried the weight of centuries. "Harappa is far too great a threat. If the cult awakens him, the chaos unleashed will consume not just their enemies, but themselves as well. The awakened ones… they are not pawns to be wielded. They are calamities. Even the Frost Giant was but a shadow before them."
The younger Elder frowned, his jaw clenched. "Then what is their aim? If not Harappa…"
The eldest Elder's gaze drifted to the stone floor, as if he could see deeper than the earth itself. "If they want another Seal, they must look elsewhere. Among the sleepers."
A murmur rippled through the circle of black coats. Sleepers. Forgotten names from the old age, hidden terrors lying dormant in silence, scattered across the continents. Each one a nightmare unleashed once a decade.
Hawroon's hand tightened at his side, knuckles white. "If they wake even one of the sleeping ones…" He left the rest unsaid, for all of them knew.
The youngest Elder's voice was cold, resolute. "Then it is not Harappa we must guard first."
The torches sputtered, shadows crawling against the chamber walls.
For the first time in years, the Elders, pillars of power that kept the world from collapse stood in uneasy silence. Not because they feared the cult's ambition, but because they knew the truth.
The world was far more fragile than the hunters, or the governments, or even they themselves dared to admit.
And somewhere, in the dark beyond their sight, the cult was already moving.