The hall was blinding with lights and camera flashes.
Rows of reporters crowded behind a barrier, their voices overlapping like a storm of noise. Every question thrown at him sounded the same—accusations dressed as curiosity.
"Leroy Fifi, were you aware the phantom was a C-rank before the mission?"
"Why didn't you protect your teammates?"
"Some sources say the phantom died before the emergency unit arrived—did you fake the kill?"
"Is it true you absorbed the phantom's power?"
Leroy sat behind the table, hands clasped, eyes blank. The flashes reflected off the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His throat felt dry, but he didn't say a word.
Every voice in the room pulled at a memory—Andy's last breath, Mila's scream, the sound of bones cracking under pressure. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but the words stuck somewhere between guilt and exhaustion.
"Mr. Fifi!" another voice shouted, louder, sharper. "Are you refusing to answer because the accusations are true?"
A few reporters laughed quietly. The sound dug deep under his skin.
Then, from the far end of the stage, a calm voice cut through the chaos.
"That's enough."
The crowd stilled. The man who spoke stepped forward—Chairman Nana Yaw Abibio, head of the Hunter Association. His presence alone silenced the room. His black suit was simple but pressed, his hair streaked with gray, and his eyes—steady and piercing—commanded respect.
He took the microphone from the moderator and set it aside. "You journalists seem to have forgotten what this conference was about," he said, voice low but firm. "We are here to honor the fallen, not mock the survivor."
A few reporters lowered their cameras. Abibio's tone sharpened.
"The hunters who died on that mission knew the risks. Every one of them. They fought bravely and gave their lives to protect the people outside these walls. And Leroy Fifi—this young man you're so eager to blame—stood his ground when he could've fled. He fought a phantom stronger than the entire team combined and still managed to exorcise it."
He paused, letting the words hang. "So before you ask him why he lived, maybe ask yourselves—would you have had the courage to stay behind?"
Silence. The kind that swallows air itself.
Abibio straightened. "This conference is over."
He turned to Leroy. "Come with me, son."
The chairman's office was quiet—too quiet after the chaos of flashing lights and accusations. The smell of old books mixed with the faint hum of coffee brewing somewhere nearby. A digital photo frame on his desk flickered with images of old hunting teams, smiling faces from a time before most of them were gone.
Leroy sat stiffly in the chair across from him. "Thank you," he said finally. His voice sounded smaller than he wanted.
Abibio waved it off. "Don't thank me. Those journalists are paid to stir trouble. They've never seen a phantom tear someone apart. They wouldn't understand."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. "You handled yourself well out there, keeping calm like that. I've seen hunters break down after less."
Leroy managed a weak smile. "I didn't know what to say."
"That's usually the right choice." Abibio's eyes softened. "Listen, Leroy. I meant what I said out there. You did what most hunters couldn't. I've read the report myself. That phantom wasn't just a C-rank—it was mutated, partially intelligent. You fought something you had no business fighting, and you survived."
"I was just… lucky," Leroy murmured.
"Maybe. But luck favors the ones who keep standing." Abibio tapped his desk, pulling up a holographic screen. "Now, about your promotion. With your new C-rank status, other guilds will start reaching out to you. They'll want to claim you before you realize your worth."
Leroy blinked. "Other guilds?"
"Of course. You're hot news right now. The Association can only protect you so much. When offers come, take your time. Don't join anyone who treats you like a trophy. You need a guild that sees you, not your stats."
Leroy nodded slowly. "I'll keep that in mind."
Abibio smiled. "Good lad. Now, cheer up a bit. You've got potential, Leroy. The kind that doesn't show up in numbers. And if you ever doubt that—remember what you survived."
He stood, extending a hand. Leroy shook it firmly.
"Thank you, Chairman," he said, voice steadier now.
Abibio gave a small nod. "Get some rest. You've earned it."
When Leroy got home, the quiet was almost unbearable.
His small apartment overlooked the city's southern sector—glowing rooftops, neon lights, and the distant hum of anti-phantom drones circling overhead. He dropped his bag, kicked off his boots, and slumped into the chair near his window.
His eyes drifted to the flickering system screen on the wall. It was still updating from his rank reassessment.
[Hunter Status Update]
Name: Leroy Fifi
Rank: C-Class
Strength: 105
Speed: 100
Intelligence: 100
Weapons: New item acquired — Diablo Cross Sword
He blinked. "Wait… what?"
He tapped the screen, and a holographic image of the weapon appeared—a black-edged sword wrapped in faint crimson light. It looked nothing like anything he'd owned before.
Leroy frowned. "Where did this come from?"
He remembered the fight—the final strike, the way the phantom's body had collapsed into dust. Could it have left something behind? A fragment of its core, maybe?
He reached for the system's log.
[Origin: Phantom Core Residue — C-Rank (Corrupted). Weapon materialized via Assimilation.]
Assimilation.
He didn't remember authorizing that. The system wasn't supposed to evolve on its own. But as he stared at the sword's form, he couldn't deny the strange pull it had—like it recognized him.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "This just keeps getting weirder."
Then, without warning, a sharp ping echoed through the room. The system screen flickered, shifting to a blood-red alert.
[New Mission Detected]
Phantom activity confirmed — 2 km from current location.
Threat Level: D-Rank
Status: Unstable core, immediate exorcism required.
Leroy hesitated only for a second.
Then he grabbed his coat and his old dagger, strapped them both to his side, and opened the window.
The night air rushed in, cold and alive. Six floors below, the streets shimmered under neon light.
He stepped onto the edge, took a breath, and jumped.
He landed in an alley, knees bent, coat fluttering. The system's marker pulsed in his vision—northwest, near the abandoned subway.
He sprinted.
The world blurred around him. He'd never moved this fast before. Every muscle felt light, powerful, efficient. The phantom's influence, maybe—but he wasn't about to question it.
When he reached the subway entrance, he could already feel the distortion—air vibrating, frost forming on the concrete. A low growl echoed from inside.
Leroy drew his dagger, crouched low, and stepped into the tunnel.
The phantom emerged from the darkness—a massive shape with a bear's body and a human face twisted with rage. Its eyes glowed white, steam rising from its breath.
"System," Leroy whispered, "target lock."
[Target Locked — D-Rank Phantom: Ursan-Type]
The creature roared and lunged.
Leroy didn't even flinch. His hand moved faster than sight—dagger slicing upward, a streak of silver. Then another. And another. Each strike landed perfectly, carving through shadow and ether.
The phantom staggered back, confused, bleeding light instead of blood. Leroy's movements were effortless, fluid. When he finally struck the last blow, his blade pierced the phantom's chest and shattered the glowing core.
It disintegrated before it hit the ground.
Leroy stood there, chest rising and falling, staring at the faint dust drifting in the tunnel.
"…That's it?" he muttered.
The system chimed.
[Mission Complete]
XP +500
Energy Core Extracted.
He wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Seems like all that training's paying off."
As he stepped back into the open night, the faint hum of the Diablo Cross echoed from his belt—like a heartbeat waiting to be awakened.