The city was quieter at this hour, but Theron didn't trust quiet anymore. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, each step sending pain up his legs. The Blood Edge's aftershocks hadn't faded—his muscles felt flayed from the inside, and his vision blurred at random intervals, glitching with faint flashes of System text he couldn't focus on.
[Warning: Soul Integrity—87%]
[Stabilization Recommended.]
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "I'll get right on that."
He slipped into the narrow stairwell leading to his apartment, keeping his hood low. Even here, in a forgotten corner of the city, cameras followed him. Cheap, scratched lenses mounted on every corner, run by Guild subcontractors and "Neighborhood Defense Programs." They weren't supposed to identify individuals without cause, but Theron had a feeling that wasn't going to protect him anymore.
He keyed in his door code. The lock clicked, and the stale scent of his apartment greeted him. Cramped, dim, and familiar. He tossed his blade on the table, peeled off his jacket, and nearly dropped to his knees as pain knifed through his chest.
[Critical: Mana Flow Instability Detected.]
[Initiating Emergency Cooldown.]
He barely made it to the couch before his body seized. Mana surged through him in waves, too much power in a frame that hadn't been built to handle it. His hand clutched the armrest, fingers white-knuckled as he rode it out.
It passed after what felt like hours, leaving him shivering, sweat dripping down his back.
That's when he saw it—on his table, tucked under his discarded blade. A thin black envelope, no address, no sender. He hadn't heard anyone enter.
Theron's pulse quickened. He slit it open with a fingertip.
Inside was a single card.
[MANDATORY NOTICE: HUNTER ID #10731]
Report to Guild Headquarters: 0800.
Failure to comply will result in suspension or termination of Guild privileges.
And at the bottom, stamped in stark red letters:
LISTED.
He stared at the word for a long moment, his mind quiet.
So that's what it felt like. To be "on the list."
He'd heard rumors his whole life: the List was where they put people who scared them. Hunters who were too powerful, too unstable, or too unpredictable. Some got recruited into private task forces. Some disappeared.
A knock rattled his door.
Theron froze.
Another knock. Louder.
He reached for his sword.
"Theron?" a voice called. Female, low, familiar. "It's Mina. Open up."
His landlord.
He frowned and lowered the blade slightly, stepping toward the door. Mina had never come by this late.
"Is everything okay?" he asked through the door.
"Not really," she said softly. "You're on the news."
Theron's gut tightened. He unlocked the door and cracked it open. Mina stood there in a raincoat, dark hair plastered to her forehead. She wasn't holding her usual rent ledger—just her phone, screen glowing with a paused news broadcast.
The image showed the alley he'd just left, floodlights and drones swarming around the carcass of the creature he'd killed. A blurred still of him, sword drawn, blood streaked down his cheek.
And beneath it, a headline:
"UNREGISTERED RANK A HUNTER IDENTIFIED. GOVERNMENT TO INVESTIGATE."
Theron's stomach turned cold.
"Theron," Mina said carefully, voice tight. "What did you do?"