The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a large table covered in maps, reports, and hastily scribbled notes. The air was heavy with tension. Figures sat around the table, their identities hidden in shadow. Some leaned forward, resting their elbows on the surface, while others sat back, arms crossed, their expressions unreadable.
"The Exile District is collapsing," one of them said, voice cold and sharp. "The bearer has been deployed, but it's only a temporary measure."
"This was unnatural," another voice interjected. "We've contained outbreaks before, but not like this. The cracks didn't just appear—they were forced open."
Silence followed. A few exchanged glances, but no one argued.
"We need solutions," a third figure said.
"Solutions?" A scoff. "We don't even understand what we're dealing with yet. We're blind."
The debate continued, voices rising and falling, some pushing for immediate action while others cautioned against reckless decisions. One of them, sitting at the head of the table, finally spoke. Their voice carried weight, cutting through the discussion like a blade.
"We don't need theories. We need control. Deploy the enforcers. And send in our best."
Blood pooled in the cracks of the cobblestone streets, deep violet against the pale glow of the bearer. The creatures had been slaughtered—limbs severed, heads cleaved clean from their grotesque forms.
At the center of the carnage sat a lone figure. He rested atop five dead creatures, his katana still dripping with abyssal ichor. His dark cloak barely rustled as he reached out—plucking a flower from the back of one of the fallen beasts. The petals shimmered, shifting between impossible hues.
Beautiful.
He twirled it between his fingers, bringing it closer to his nose.
A faint smile touched his lips as he inhaled.
The moment was interrupted by the heavy sound of footsteps.
A massive figure approached—towering, broad-shouldered, dragging an enormous greatsword behind him. The blade scraped against the ground, leaving a deep groove in its wake. The big man glanced at the katana wielder, then at the bodies.
"You've been slacking," he grunted.
The katana wielder smirked. "Five. Clean kills." He gestured lazily at the corpses beneath him.
The big man cracked his neck. "Fifty."
The katana wielder let out a low whistle. "Impressive. But I prefer quality over quantity."
The big man snorted. "Dead is dead."
They stood in silence for a moment, surveying the battlefield. The sounds of battle echoed in the distance—screams, steel meeting flesh, the roar of something far worse lurking in the depths of the district.
The big man rested his greatsword on his shoulder. "There's a Queen."
The katana wielder's smirk faded. "Where?"
"Middle of the district. It's why they keep coming. As long as it's alive, they won't stop."
The katana wielder twirled the flower between his fingers once more before tucking it into his coat.
"Then let's go hunting."
The knock came first at Silas's door. Sharp. Unyielding. A summons that carried no room for refusal. Silas opened it, met by a soldier clad in full armor, visor down. The guard held out a small ID card.
"Orders," the soldier said, voice flat.
Silas took the card, frowning.
"There's an outbreak," the soldier continued. "The bearer is up, but it's barely holding. You're being sent in."
Before Silas could respond, the soldier reached into a pouch and handed him something else. His dagger. The weight was familiar, the worn leather grip molded to his fingers from years of use.
"So, I don't get a choice," Silas muttered.
"No," the soldier replied. "You don't."
A similar exchange happened in Varen's apartment, the door rattled under the force of the knock, but unlike Silas, he didn't hesitate. The moment he opened the door, the soldier standing there wordlessly handed him his ID and his relic—a heavy, wrapped weapon he had been waiting to reclaim.
"The bearer is active," the soldier stated. "We need all available hands."
Varen strapped the relic to his back. "Understood."
The soldier seemed to hesitate, as if about to say something else, but Varen was already moving. He didn't need convincing.
The Exile District was unrecognizable. The sky above it was fractured—shards of reality hanging like broken glass, distorting the space beneath them. The bearer pulsed, a massive, shimmering wall encircling the district, trapping the chaos inside.
Varen approached the entry point, where soldiers stood in formation. Patrols moved swiftly, their faces grim. A voice stopped him.
"Hold it."
A female soldier stepped forward, golden armor gleaming under the dim light. A bow rested on her back, and her gaze was sharp—calculating.
"You're not wearing armor," she noted. "Just two swords. If you go in there, you're not coming back out."
Varen smirked. "That a warning?"
"It's a fact."
She looked at the ID in his hand, then back at him.
"Once you cross the bearer, you're in. We won't lift it just for one person. If you regret this, turn back now."
Varen's expression didn't change. Instead, he took a step closer. His voice was steady.
"I'm here to neutralize the damage. Doesn't matter if I have to die doing it."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
She sighed, stepping aside.
"Your funeral."
Varen didn't wait. He stepped through the bearer. The moment he crossed, the air thickened—the weight of the Abyss pressing down on him. Ahead, the city was a war zone.
And in the heart of it—
The hunt had begun.