The world reassembled itself in the familiar, oppressive language of a headache.
Ren Sato opened his eyes to the water-stained ceiling of his apartment. He was on the floor, limbs splayed, the chill of the linoleum seeping through the shredded remains of his hospital gown.
He pushed himself up, his body protesting with a chorus of aches that felt both fresh and deeply remembered.
The arena. The rats. The green skin.
He scrambled to his feet, lurching to the small, grimy mirror tacked to the wall beside his closet.
A human face stared back. Pale, tired, dark circles under his eyes, but human. His skin was its normal tone. He pulled at the lobe of his ear—soft, rounded cartilage.
He let out a shuddering breath that was half sob, half laugh. A dream. A stress-induced hallucination. It had to be.
But the hospital gown was in tatters, and his body thrummed with a strange, clear energy.
The bone-deep fatigue from the Reverie was gone. In its place was a wire-tight alertness, as if he'd slept for a week.
His phone lay on the floor, screen-down. He picked it up. A new, spiderweb crack veined from the corner. The time read 12:17 PM. He'd been out for hours.
The relief curdled as reality reasserted its weight. The hospital bill. Daisuke. Rent. The hollow space where Hiroshi and the others used to be.
A notification glowed on his screen: Hunter Board Update - New Local Listings.
Desperation was a more reliable alarm clock than any ringtone. He couldn't afford to rest. He scrolled, his eyes scanning for numbers.
Most were insulting: sewer clearance (¥800), vermin identification (¥500). Then he saw it.
Job #4417: Combat Videographer.
Payment: ¥12,000
Requirements: Proficiency with recording equipment. Ability to keep up in a dynamic environment.
Hazard Level: Assessed by Contractor.
Views: 1,247
Twelve thousand yen. It was a lifeline. He didn't care about the 'dynamic environment' or the suspicious lack of a listed rank requirement.
The view count was high enough to suggest legitimacy. It was the only lead that didn't smell like a scam.
He threw on a clean, grey sweater and his most durable jeans, laced his boots, and was out the door.
The address was across town, a warehouse district near the old docks. The gnawing urgency in his gut propelled him.
He started to jog, then to run. His legs pistoned, his breathing evening out into a rhythm that felt unnaturally efficient.
The city became a blur of greys and neon. He overtook a crawling bus, the surprised faces of passengers flashing past the windows.
He arrived at an open field. At a table, four young men were hunched over bowls of steaming ramen, the air rich with the smell of pork broth and chili oil.
They were dressed in a mix of tactical gear and streetwear, exuding a casual, confident energy that spoke of regular paychecks and sanctioned danger.
Ren skidded to a halt in front of them, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his brow. "I'm here… for the videographer job."
The one with spiked, blonde-tipped hair looked up from his noodles, a smirk playing on his lips. "You run here?"
"Yes."
"Huh. Dedicated." He slurped a noodle. "Can you use a camera?"
"Any type," Ren said, forcing his breathing steady. "Handheld, rig, drone. I can learn."
The young man slurped again. "I'm Ichiro. You?"
Ren bowed slightly. "Ren."
Another of them, a broad-shouldered guy with a red buzzcut chuckled. Without warning, he picked up a complex-looking camera from a case and underhand-tossed it at Ren's chest.
The world seemed to slow. Ren's hand shot out, not where the camera was, but where it would be. His fingers closed around the grip with a solid thunk. No fumble.
It was as if his body had calculated the trajectory before his mind had registered the throw. His fingers closed around the grip with a solid thunk.
The impact traveled up his arm, and for a split second, he could feel the precise distribution of weight in the lens assembly, the micro-vibration of the gyro stabilizer.
He looked down at the device. It was sleek, black, dotted with custom ports. "This is an UltraLens 360," he said, turning it over, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine appreciation.
"Latest gen. Hybrid stabilisation. You can get a clean shot while sprinting." He found the power, flicked it on, and the camera hummed to life, its lens focusing silently on their surprised face. "I'll get you clear shots. Dynamic angles."
Ichiro's smirk widened into a grin. He was about to speak when the screech of tires cut the air.
A black sedan with Bureau plates pulled up sharply. Two mages in tailored jackets emerged, holding silver staffs, their expressions bored. Protocol for any sanctioned zone entry.
At the same moment, a hand clapped down on Ren's shoulder, heavy and possessive.
"Heard y'all were lookin' for a shooter."
The man was older, with a rough face and cheap sunglasses perched on his head. He smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. "I'm your man. Got my own rig and everything." He jerked a thumb at a beaten-up backpack.
Ichiro's grin faded. "Sorry, buddy. You're too late." He pointed a chopstick at Ren. "He's got the job."
The man's grip on Ren's shoulder tightened, digging into the muscle. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice dropping to a low, unpleasant growl. "Do us both a favour. Walk away. This is a professional gig."
Ren's spine stiffened. The fear was there, cold in his stomach. But beneath it, coiling like a separate creature, was a flash of hot, pure defiance.
This job could pay for Daisuke's school trip. It was a week of not choosing between rice and electricity for the kid.
"I'm sorry, sir," Ren said, his voice quiet but clear. "I was here first. I need this."
"You need it?" The man scoffed, his patience snapping. "Who do you think you are?" He shoved Ren hard.
Ren moved. He didn't choose to. His body simply… flowed. The shove became a pivot point.
As he staggered back, his other hand, still holding the expensive camera, shot straight up, launching it in a perfect, vertical arc.
Freed of the weight, he dropped his center of gravity, and the man's follow-up punch—a wild, angry hook—passed over his head with an inch to spare.
Ren straightened from his crouch, his own fist lashing out in a short, brutal line. It wasn't a brawler's swing; it was a piston strike, all the momentum of his rising body focused into his knuckles.
Thud.
The sound was sickeningly solid. The air left the man's lungs in a shocked oof. He folded, eyes wide with incomprehension, and crumpled to the concrete.
Ren's hand was already snapping back up. The camera, having reached its apex, descended. He caught it by the grip, his fingers closing a heartbeat before it would have hit the ground.
Silence, save for the distant harbor sounds.
Then, one of the redhead let out a loud, barking laugh. "Holy shit! Nice one, dude!"
Even the bored mages looked mildly interested. The man groaned on the ground.
Ichiro stood up, wiping his mouth. "Alright, that's settled. You've got the job, Ren. That's Hideo, his brother Shigure,"—he pointed to a quieter redhead—"and the grumpy one slurping like a gentleman is Kaizen. Let's move. Clock's ticking."
One of the mages raised a staff. The air in front of the garage wall rippled, then tore open with the familiar sound of rending silk, revealing a dark, cavernous maw.
Ren's earlier confidence evaporated, replaced by a cold, professional focus. He adjusted the camera strap, checked the settings, and followed the team into the darkness.
The transition was immediate. The city smells vanished, replaced by the damp, mineral chill of a cave.
Their torches flickered on, pushing back the gloom to reveal a vast cavern, stalactites hanging vzlike stone fangs.
"Rolling," Ren said, his voice steady. He hit record, the camera's viewfinder glowing.
Ichiro turned to the lens, his face adopting a practised, charismatic smile. "What's up, my adoring fans? Ichiro Nanahoshi back at it again! With me, as usual, are the Unagi brothers, Hideo and Shigure!" The redheads gave simultaneous, cocky waves. "And making his glorious return to Japan… the one, the only, Kaizen Himi!"
Kaizen, a tall, stern-faced man with a traditional topknot, gave a single, slow nod to the camera. He rested a hand on the worn hilt of a katana at his waist.
"That's right," Ichiro continued, his voice echoing. "This big-headed samurai's slumming it with us in today's little playground… a freshly spawned B-Tier Hunter Zone!"
Ren's finger slipped off the record button.
The words echoed in the silent cavern. B-Tier.
His heart performed a slow, sickening roll in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, pulling up the job listing with trembling fingers. He read it again.
'Hazard Level: Assessed by Contractor.' A loophole wide enough to drive a bus through. They'd listed it as an open contract to avoid Bureau scrutiny, gambling on only skilled hunters applying.
He was likely the first E-Rank in history to willingly step into a B-Tier zone.
He looked up. The team was watching him, Ichiro's smile now fixed and questioning.
"The… the manual," Ren stammered, his voice sounding too loud. "Protocol says a B-Tier zone requires a minimum party of one B-Rank and four highly skilled C-Ranks for provisional clearance."
Ichiro blinked. "Yeah. So?"
So? The absurdity was breathtaking. "So, he's likely B-Rank," Ren said, pointing to Kaizen. "And you three are C-Rank." He took a shaky breath. "But I'm… less."
Hideo frowned. "You're D-Rank?"
Kaizen's sharp eyes narrowed. He spoke for the first time, his voice a low rumble. "He's E-Rank. Aren't you?"
Ren could only nod, the motion feeling like a death sentence.
Confusion rippled through the group. Ichiro ran a hand through his spiked hair, the gesture agitated. "But the listing was for C and above! Why the hell would you even show up? The algorithm should've blocked you!"
"It was an open contract!" Ren shot back, a flare of anger cutting through the fear. "It didn't specify! I just needed the money!"
Before the argument could escalate, Shigure, the quieter brother, hissed. "Shut up."
He was staring into the darkness, his torch beam fixed. Dozens of reflective chitinous plates glinted back. Skittering legs, raised, barbed tails that dripped a viscous, iridescent fluid.
Venom-Tail Scorpions. Each the size of a large dog.
Any debate about ranks vanished. This was live or die.
"Ren, camera! Now!" Ichiro barked.
Ren fumbled the device back on, his hands steadying as survival instinct overrode panic. He found the focus, framed the shot.
Kaizen's katana whispered from its sheath. The blade was beautiful, a deep-folded steel that seemed to drink the luminance from the torchlight.
Ichiro didn't draw a gun or a sword. From his hips, he unclipped two weapons that made Ren's breath catch.
Nunchunks, but the shafts were not wood—they were polished steel, and where the chain connected, cruel, rotating blades glittered. Bleeders.
Hideo and Shigure drew their own swords. As they leveled them, the blades ignited with flame. Heatless, crimson energy rippled along the steel like captured sunset, casting hellish shadows on the cave walls.
Pyrokinetic infusion. Ren hadn't ever seen it up close. Just in videos of A-rank hunters.
The fight was a brutal, beautiful ballet. Ichiro was a whirlwind, the Bleeders a humming blur that severed pincers and legs with terrifying efficiency.
The Unagi brothers fought in sync, their fiery swords leaving smoking wounds on chitin.
Kaizen was a statue of lethal precision, each step measured, each flick of his wrist sending a scorpion section tumbling away, cleanly bisected.
Ren moved with them, a ghost with a camera. He ducked under a wild tail strike, rolled to get a low-angle shot of Hideo driving his blade through a scorpion's head, pivoted to capture Kaizen's stoic face as he parried two strikes at once.
The fear was still there, but it was buried under a layer of hyper-focused adrenaline. For ten minutes, they were invincible.
The last scorpion fell. The cavern was quiet, save for their breathing and the sizzle of dying supernatural flames.
Ichiro jogged over, wiping black blood from his cheek. "Let me see." Ren played back the last sequence. The footage was rock-steady, the angles dramatic.
Ichiro's eyes lit up. "Damn. This is premium. We'll definitely call you for the next one."
Ren managed a weak smile. If I survive this one, he thought.
They pressed deeper. The air grew warmer, carrying a new, musky scent. A chittering sound arose, high-pitched and hungry.
Torchlight revealed them: a skittering horde of weasels, but wrong. Their fur was a pure, light-absorbing matte black, and their eyes were chips of red glass.
"Red-Eyes," Shigure muttered.
One, bolder than the rest, shot forward in a streak of darkness. It leapt for Hideo's face. Reacting on pure instinct, Hideo brought his sword up in a slashing guard. The crimson flame-edge connected.
The weasel didn't just burn. Its black pelt drank the fire. For a second, it glowed from within, like a lump of coal catching, its form outlined in pulsing red lines. It hit the wall with a wet thud, dead, but now glowing like an ember.
The pack froze. Then, as one, they swarmed the corpse.
"No!" Kaizen's roar echoed.
But it was too late. The weasels didn't eat it. They touched it. And where they touched, the dormant fire leaped.
One weasel ignited, then another, a chain reaction of crimson light spreading through the horde until a hundred pairs of burning red eyes were fixed on the hunters.
Ichiro paled. "No way… Cinder Weasels! Hideo, Shigure! Douse the blades! The fire's their catalyst!"
The brothers swore, their swords flickering and dying, plunging their side of the cave back into torchlit gloom.
But the weasels were already moving, transformed. They were faster, their bodies radiating intense, dry heat. Where they ran, the stone steamed.
The fight turned to desperate survival. The weasels swarmed, not with sharp claws, but with searing touch. The hunters' mana-reinforced clothes smoked where they were brushed.
They fought back with pure physical strikes, but they were on the defensive, being driven back.
Ren ducked and weaved, the camera forgotten at his feet. A Cinder Weasel broke from the pack, its gaze locking onto him—the only one without protective gear. It streaked toward him, a living meteor.
He ran. A futile, panicked sprint. The heat of the creature singed the back of his neck. He could smell his own hair burning.
A hand grabbed the back of his sweater and yanked him violently sideways. Shigure pulled him into a huddled defensive position with the others, their backs to a concave section of wall.
"We're pinned!" Hideo yelled, batting away a weasel with the flat of his blade, his forearm blistering from the contact.
"Kaizen!" Ichiro shouted, his voice raw. "Now!"
The samurai took a deep, centering breath. He stepped in front of them, raised his katana to a high guard, and focused. The air around him grew heavy.
With a kiai that shook dust from the ceiling, he brought the blade down in a perfect, vertical arc.
The slash didn't hit the weasels. It hit the cave. A pulse of pure concussive force shot upward. With a series of deafening cracks, the giant stalactites shattered.
A rain of spear-like stone shards plummeted down, impaling weasels by the dozen. The crimson horde was decimated, their light winking out, crushed beneath tons of rock.
Silence, broken by harsh panting. One weasel, smaller and quicker, had avoided the collapse. It stared at them, chittered in terror, and fled down a deeper, darker tunnel.
"We have to chase it!" Hideo gasped.
From the depths the small weasel had fled into, a new light was growing. Not the scattered glow of many, but a single, massive, pulsing crimson orb.
A low, ground-shaking growl reverberated through the stone.
It emerged. A Cinder Weasel twice the size of a van, its fur not black but a deep, volcanic scarlet, cracks of lava-like light splitting its hide. The small weasel was perched on its head, having transferred its fire to the alpha. Its eyes were pits of white-hot fury.
The alpha charged. They scattered.
It moved with horrifying speed, a blur of incandescent heat.
Ichiro tried a daring leap, aiming a Bleeder for its eye. A whip-crack of its tail, glowing like forged iron, caught him mid-air. The impact sent him crashing into the cave wall. He slid down and did not move.
"Ichiro!" Hideo screamed.
The beast turned on Kaizen. The samurai met its charge, his blade flashing. It struck the weasel's shoulder with a shriek of metal on superheated hide.
The sword didn't penetrate; it glanced off. The weasel reared and bellowed, a wave of concussive, scorching air erupting from its maw.
Kaizen, Hideo, and Shigure were lifted off their feet and flung backward like dolls, their heads snapping against the stone floor. They lay still.
Ren stood alone, ten yards from the unconscious forms of his team, between them and a B-Tier nightmare.
The weasel's head swiveled. Its hellfire eyes found him. It took a step, then another, savoring the hunt.
Then it leapt, smashing it's paw into Ren.
The impact felt like it rearranged his internal organs. Ren could hear a crack in his ribs as he hit the wall. Slowly, blood dropped from his mouth and nose.
The weasel ignored him. It stalked toward the defenseless Ichiro, a claw the size of a cleaver rising for a final, killing stomp.
Not again.
The thought was quiet, absolute. It wasn't fear. It was a refusal.
The image of Hiroshi, being dragged down, superimposed itself on Ichiro's still form.
NO!
A circuit closed in Ren's soul. A dam broke.
It started as a tearing sensation in his core, as if his ribs were splitting not from breakage, but from something expanding inside him.
A wave of fire—not hot, but green and cold—flooded his veins, washing away the pain, drowning the fear.
The world snapped into hyper-clarity. He could see the individual, glowing hairs on the weasel's back. He could hear the faint, wheezing breath from Kaizen's lungs. He could smell the ozone of spent mana, the iron of blood, the primal, musky terror of the beast.
His body moved without his command.
He was just… there. One moment by the fallen camera, the next standing over Ichiro, having covered the distance in a blur of motion that left afterimages.
The weasel's claw descended.
Ren's hand shot up.
He didn't block it. He caught it.
His fingers—longer, thinner, tipped with nails that had thickened into dark, sharp points—closed around the giant, burning wrist.
The searing heat that should have melted flesh met a resistance that was not human. Greenish-black veins stood out on his forearm, which was now corded with lean, alien muscle beneath skin the colour of moss and old jade.
The weasel's advance stopped dead. It roared in surprise, its fiery breath washing over him.
Ren didn't flinch. With a wrenching twist that used the beast's own momentum, he hauled it off-balance. It stumbled sideways, its claw tearing from his grip.
He didn't let go. He moved with it, his other hand—also green, also changed—clamping onto its shoulder. He planted his feet, his boots scraping grooves in the stone, and heaved.
The massive, fiery creature left the ground. Ren spun, a full, terrible circle, and released.
The alpha Cinder Weasel became a screaming comet. It flew across the cavern and struck the far wall with a cataclysmic CRUNCH of shattered stone and bursting magma-like innards.
Its head was a ruin of pulp and dying embers. Its body slid down, leaving a smoldering, bloody streak.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ren stood panting, vapor curling from his lips in the cool cave air. He looked down at his hands. They were unequivocally, undeniably green. The colour of deep forest shadows. He raised one to his face, felt the unfamiliar, sharp point of his ear.
The cold fire inside him guttered and died.
The hyper-clarity vanished. The agony in his ribs returned, a white-hot brand. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, as it dropped on the ground. The world tilted, the cavern walls swimming.
His last conscious thought was not of victory, but of exposure.
Did they see?
He crumpled to the stone floor beside the ruined, smoldering carcass of the beast, the deep green of his skin already beginning to fade like a bruise, or a completed subroutine retreating back into his bones.
Above him, in the darkness he could no longer see, a line of pale text shimmered briefly, a verdict only he could perceive:
[Symbiosis: 7% Complete.]
Then, nothing.