"In a world where death grants power, only the forgotten can rise."
Twenty years ago, the sky broke open.
The first Gate tore through the clouds like a wound, spilling a light that wasn't sunlight and a wind that reeked of iron.
From that wound came the monsters—creatures born of mana and fear, beasts that learned to hunt the moment they breathed.
For a while, humanity did what it always did. It ran. It screamed. It burned its cities and buried its dead.
And then the first Hunters appeared—people who could touch the mana that leaked from the Gates and turn it into strength.
Hunters became legends.
They saved the world, rebuilt it, and eventually ruled it.
They were gods wearing human skin.
But even gods have ceilings.
Every Hunter's power was decided the instant they awakened.
A spark of mana formed a core inside their body, and that core determined their rank—E through S.
The higher the rank, the stronger the flow of mana. The lower the rank, the smaller your world.
No one ever broke that rule.
Not through training.
Not through sacrifice.
Not even through miracles.
> "The core defines you," the instructors said.
"You can polish a rock all you want—it'll never become a diamond."
That was the Law of Awakening.
And for twenty long years, no one had ever proved it wrong.
Raven Ahn knew that better than anyone.
He stood in a cramped locker room that smelled like sweat and metal polish, his hands tightening the straps on his daggers until his knuckles ached.
Around him, a handful of low-rank Hunters moved like ghosts through routine—checking armor seals, counting talismans, pretending the tremor in their hands was just nerves.
"Sector Twelve cleanup," the team leader called out. His voice was rough, like he'd been chewing gravel. "Simple job. The Gate's D-rank, almost collapsed. We sweep what's left and get out. Stay sharp, stay alive."
A few chuckles rippled through the group. Too thin. Too forced.
Raven didn't laugh. He never did.
He adjusted the black hood over his hair, the fabric worn smooth from use. His gear was second-hand, light enough to let him move but barely tough enough to take a hit.
The kind of setup that screamed E-rank Assassin—fast, fragile, forgettable.
Being E-rank meant he wasn't strong enough to lead a charge.
Wasn't trusted enough to guard the rear.
He was a shadow following better Hunters, a disposable knife in someone else's hand.
But knives still had work to do.
The raid ground was a gutted factory district.
Rust ate through the steel beams, and a faint, unnatural wind carried the smell of ozone from the Gate ahead.
It shimmered like a pool of black water hanging in midair, rippling every time the world breathed.
"Creepy," one of the rookies muttered.
"Relax," said another, glancing at his mana reader. "Association tagged it safe. D-rank residuals. We're just mopping up."
Raven looked over at the flickering numbers on the screen—and frowned.
The reading pulsed irregularly, dipping low, then spiking hard enough to blur the digits.
Almost like it was breathing.
He stared at the Gate. Its light swirled in slow circles, veins of blue mana twisting deeper into the dark center.
He'd always seen mana like that—lines of motion, living currents moving under the surface.
Doctors called it a sensitivity.
Other Hunters called it useless.
Tonight, it looked anything but useless.
i
Something inside that Gate was alive. Watching.
Raven's jaw tightened. He thought about saying something, warning the others.
But what would he say?
Hey, the air feels wrong?
They'd laugh. Maybe report him. E-ranks didn't get to sound paranoid.
He forced a slow breath and checked his daggers instead.
"Let's move!" the leader barked.
One by one, the Hunters approached the Gate. Each step closer made the air colder, the mana thicker. When the first man touched the surface, it rippled around him and swallowed him whole. No flash, no noise—just gone.
The rest followed.
Raven was last.
He stood before the Gate, staring at his reflection in the shifting surface.
It wasn't really a reflection at all—more like a shadow shaped like him, breathing a fraction too slow.
A pulse of cold air brushed his neck.
He froze.
A whisper, so faint he thought it might be his heartbeat, slid through his mind.
> You will die here, Raven Ahn.
He spun around—nothing.
The alley behind him was empty, the streetlights dim, the world silent.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
He should've turned back. Reported it. Waited for a re-scan.
But an E-rank didn't get to delay missions. Didn't get to ask for a second opinion.
Raven flexed his hands, the leather gloves creaking softly. "Get it together," he muttered.
He stepped forward.
The Gate's surface rippled once, like water disturbed by a drop of blood.
Cold swallowed his skin, then his breath, then the sound of his heartbeat.
The light of the world blinked out.
And as Raven Ahn disappeared into the darkness, the Gate shimmered—then went still.
Outside, the wind moved through the empty street.
The system logs would later show nothing unusual.
The Association would check attendance and mark one E-rank Assassin as present.
But when the raid ended and the survivors emerged hours later, no one remembered his name.
It was as if he had never existed.