The underground hideout was quiet, too quiet.
Rael's clone, wearing the identity of a low-tier hunter named Ashen, leaned against the cracked stone wall, his eyes scanning the room filled with rogue hunters and black-market dealers. This place wasn't part of any registered guild. It was what people called a ghost guild—where washed-up hunters, criminals, and deserters gathered to avoid the eyes of the Hunter Association.
And it just so happened that one of the seven betrayers, Damon Vale, had ties here.
"Ashen, you hear about that S-rank dungeon that collapsed in Zone 17?" someone whispered.
Rael didn't answer. He'd already been there. One of his other clones had destroyed the gate—while posing as a nameless support-type hunter. It was all part of the plan. Move silently, cut their roots, and vanish.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, he'd make his name known again.
The meeting room reeked of sweat, mana dust, and unfiltered tension. Hunters sharpened blades, swapped artifacts, and dealt stolen relics like playing cards.
Rael walked forward, hood up, and dropped a sealed black cube onto the central table.
Everyone froze.
"...That's from a Tower Guardian," someone whispered.
Rael nodded slowly. "It's also from Damon Vale. He left it behind when he fled from Floor 47."
"Wait… You mean the Damon Vale? Vice-Leader of Crimson Dawn? Tower breaker? He—"
Rael's voice cut through the room like cold steel.
"He was a coward who left his team to die. And soon, he'll be next."
One man reached for his dagger. "You think you can—"
Snap.
Before he could even blink, his wrist shattered. Then his throat.
Rael stood over him, calm and casual, brushing dust off his shoulder. "Anyone else want to defend him?"
Nobody spoke. Not a single hand moved. A few backed away, recognizing the stance, the precision... the aura.
"You…" one of the older hunters muttered. "That stance... Phantom?"
Rael looked up with a small, cruel smile beneath his mask. "Good to see people still remember."
He turned toward the exit. Behind him, silence and fear lingered like smoke.
But as he reached the stairwell, a familiar presence stopped him cold.
A girl leaned on the wall outside, arms crossed, long silver hair gleaming under the moonlight.
Aeris. Sword Saint. One of the three women from his past—and one of the last to see him alive.
"I wondered how long you'd hide in these shadows," she said quietly.
Rael didn't move. "I'm not hiding."
Her eyes glinted, sharp and sad. "Then why wear a mask?"
He hesitated. "Because you didn't recognize me when I died."
The silence between them said more than words ever could.
Then she stepped aside. "Next time, don't let it be just a warning, Phantom. Some of us… are still waiting for you."
He walked past her, cloak fluttering in the night wind.
The hunt had truly begun.
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