The morning after the anomaly, Velrith woke restless. The city's rhythm had shifted again — too many Rift surges in too short a span. People whispered of instability, of something larger stirring beneath the surface. Yet, above it all, the feeds glowed with highlights of hunters clashing with monsters, their names shouted like those of champions in an endless game.
The streets reflected the divide: vendors sold bootleg holograms of Kael's fiery strikes, while others sold sleek black pendants etched with Lucien's likeness. Children wore mock agency uniforms stitched in back alleys, playing out battles in cracked courtyards. To some, hunters were gods. To others, untouchable nobles, devouring resources while ordinary families rebuilt again and again.
The Grumbling of the Lower Ranks
In the offices of a mid-tier agency known as Iron Vow, the atmosphere soured over steaming mugs of bitter tea. Their emblem — a simple iron ring — hung lopsided above the entryway.
"They stole another anomaly right out from under us," one hunter spat, tossing a datapad onto the table. The report glowed with Astraeus and Vanguard's names side by side. "That was our district. Our civilians. But does Command care? No. Because the golden boy and the shadow prince wanted to show off."
A woman in scuffed armor crossed her arms. "We're the ones patching up the mess. While they get their faces plastered on screens, we're left scraping Rift residue out of collapsed tenements."
Another scoffed. "They don't even fight the small dungeons anymore. Why would they? There's no glory in E or D ranks."
The bitterness wasn't new. In Velrith, prestige flowed upward. The higher an agency's rank, the more contracts, resources, and admiration they commanded. But in the lower tiers, resentment brewed. And resentment had a way of festering into dangerous things.
The City's Obsession
In the glittering upper districts, the mood was different. Large holo-billboards replayed footage of the battle on loop, commentators breaking down every second.
"Notice Lucien's precision here," one analyst explained, slowing the feed to highlight his shadows intercepting rubble. "Flawless execution. Perfect efficiency."
Another overlaid Kael's flame bursts. "And compare that to Vanguard's improvisation. Raw power. Charisma. He turns chaos into strategy. That's what makes him dangerous."
Clips of the two men fighting back-to-back spread like wildfire across networks. Fans slowed frames, speculated about looks exchanged, debated endlessly online. Was it rivalry? Was it respect? Something else?
Banners waved in marketplaces: Lucien Rael — The Untouchable. Kael Ryven — Fire of the People.
But in quiet corners, beneath the chatter, a darker question whispered: if hunters were gods, then who would save Velrith from the gods themselves?
Kael: Fire in the Mirror
Back in Vanguard Edge's compound, Kael stood shirtless in front of a cracked mirror, the golden glow of his gauntlets dimmed but still humming faintly against his skin. Bruises marked his ribs where the mutated spawn's strike had nearly landed.
He flexed his hands, replaying the moment in his head. The creature's claws. The sudden rush of shadow. Lucien's cold eyes meeting his own.
Kael exhaled sharply, striking the sink with a fist. The porcelain cracked.
"Damn him."
He told himself it was anger — fury that Lucien had intervened, that the perfect leader had stolen the moment from him. But underneath, buried like an ember waiting to spark, was something else.
Admiration. Intrigue. Attraction.
Kael scowled at his reflection, at the faint heat creeping up his neck. He shoved the thought away, pulling his jacket over his shoulders and masking himself in arrogance once more. To the world, he would remain the untouchable flame, burning bright enough to outshine any shadow.
Lucien: A Fracture in the Mask
Across the city, Astraeus Dominion's headquarters stood polished and immaculate, a tower of glass and steel rising above Velrith like a spear.
Lucien sat alone in his private chamber, lights dim, shadows curling faintly along the walls. His team had been dismissed, their debrief complete, yet he remained. The holo-screen before him replayed the mission. Again and again, he watched the moment his power had surged — darker, heavier, tainted with the demonic blood he carried.
His jaw clenched. His control had slipped, if only for an instant. And Kael had been there to see it.
Lucien closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, forcing the shadows back into stillness. To the world, he was flawless. Unbeaten. A figure sculpted of marble and steel. But in truth, every mission brought him closer to the edge. His father's voice whispered in the darkness of his mind, soft and insidious.
You cannot hide forever, my son. They will see you for what you are. And when they do… they will cast you aside.
Lucien opened his eyes, silver gaze cold as frost. He could not afford weakness. Not before his team. Not before Kael Ryven. Not before anyone.
The Surge
Far below Velrith, in the underbelly of the city where pipes groaned and Rift scars pulsed faintly against stone, something stirred.
The anomaly was small at first, a hairline fracture in space itself, leaking thin threads of violet energy. But as hours passed, it swelled, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat that wasn't its own.
The city's sensors flickered warnings. Rift energy spiked across monitors. Commanders in high towers exchanged sharp words. Classifications shifted from D to C, then from C to B. Then—unthinkably—to A.
Too fast. Too unstable.
By dawn, rumors spread. Velrith hadn't seen an anomaly climb ranks so quickly in decades. And for the first time, whispers stirred of something worse — of a Rift anomaly that might defy classification entirely.
A soundless tremor shivered through the bones of the city.
The hunters would be called again.