The grand ceremonial hall pulsed with anticipation, a living organism of noise and tension. A sea of flashing cameras sparked like lightning in a thunderstorm, and the low murmur of countless voices filled the air, buzzing like static before a storm. Reporters, journalists, and broadcasters had gathered from every corner of the Velaria Republic—drawn by the promise of a historic announcement.
At the heart of the excitement stood the Peerless Guild, a name etched into the annals of global hunter history. Today, its enigmatic leader was set to make a declaration that had already stirred the world's imagination.
He had done the unthinkable.
He had achieved the mythical SSS rank—a level of power so rare and exalted that it bordered on legend. Only a precious few throughout history had ever attained such status, and even fewer had survived long enough to boast of it. And now, at just twenty-four years old, he was to be crowned among them.
Camera shutters clicked in rapid, rhythmic bursts. News anchors leaned into their enchanted microphones, whispering breathless updates. Video drones hovered above like mechanical hawks, capturing every angle and beaming the footage live into the homes of millions.
And then—he appeared.
Striding toward the podium with the poise of a man who knew he had already rewritten history, he drew every gaze in the room like a magnet. His tailored black suit clung to a frame carved from discipline and battle, and his obsidian eyes scanned the crowd with cold indifference, as though weighing their worth with a single glance.
Young. Sharp. Unshakably composed.
He did not demand attention—he commanded it.
Even Tyrone Gardon, the sharp-tongued legend of the Evening Daily News, was caught off guard. Known for his blistering sarcasm and fearless Dungeon War commentaries, the veteran reporter stood front and center, his enchanted camera already live-streaming. But for once, he wasn't speaking.
He was staring.
And then, with a breathless chuckle, he finally muttered into the mic, "This is history, folks. The birth of a new legend. Let's just hope he doesn't go out like the last guy… swallowed by a low-level slime during his first mission."
The crowd chuckled nervously, the tension breaking for a fleeting moment—but only for a moment.
Because then... it happened.
As the leader of the Peerless Guild approached the podium, the atmosphere changed again. The murmurs died. The laughter faded. The room dimmed—not due to faulty lights, but as though the very world dimmed in reverence.
A presence descended upon the hall.
Thick. Oppressive. Ancient.
An invisible force surged outward from the man on stage, enveloping the audience in an aura that felt like standing before a primordial beast—one forged from fire and divine fury. It wasn't magical energy. It was something deeper, more primal. The instinctual feeling that told every lesser creature in the wild to bow before the apex predator.
Reporters stiffened.
Veteran hunters reached instinctively for weapons they weren't permitted to carry.
Even high-ranking mages whispered incantations under their breath, uncertain whether they were about to witness an announcement… or an execution.
This was not the presence of a man. This was the dominance of a king.
At twenty-four years old, he had surpassed every known benchmark. He had shattered the ceiling of possibility. And now, draped in tailored shadows and wielding the silence of a god, he stood upon the world stage—not as a prodigy, but as a sovereign.
His gaze swept across the audience. Cold. Calm. Unapologetically superior.
Not arrogance.
Truth.
And every soul in that room felt it pierce them like a blade.
From the back of the hall, Tyrone Gardon adjusted his mic with hands that trembled just slightly. His seasoned nerves faltered, his voice a whisper. "This… This is beyond anything I've ever seen. That pressure… it's like the air itself is kneeling."
Every recording device blinked to life.
Floating microphones glided toward the stage like curious insects.
Not a single breath was wasted.
Every eye was locked on the man who had ascended.
And then… he exhaled. Just once. Calm. Measured.
He parted his lips to speak—
And the world, as if commanded by unseen magic, fell silent.
A hush fell over the crowd as the man of the hour—Kyle Nyeku, the renowned leader of the Peerless Guild—stepped forward. His polished boots echoed across the marble floor, a rhythm of authority, of strength, of weighty history. The cameras focused, mics leaned in, and every soul in the grand hall held their breath, waiting.
Then, with a calm yet commanding voice, he began to speak.
"Many years ago…"
The words hung in the air like a solemn bell tolling in a graveyard. Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Reporters stopped scribbling. Photographers lowered their lenses. This wasn't just another Guild announcement.
This was a story.
A reminder.
"A time came when the skies cracked open," Kyle said, his voice low but unwavering, echoing through the hall's sound crystals. "When Earth itself trembled beneath the weight of something ancient… something merciless. Portals—tears in the very fabric of our reality—split open across every continent. From them spilled monsters. Not myths. Not nightmares. Real monsters—fangs, claws, and hunger for human flesh."
He paused, scanning the room. His gaze met several hunters in the crowd, and many lowered their eyes—not in shame, but in shared memory.
"They didn't care who we were," Kyle continued. "They didn't care about our laws, our science, our gods. They didn't care if you were rich or poor, young or old. They came to devour. To hunt. To feed. Entire cities were drowned in blood within hours. Families torn apart. Homes reduced to bone and ash."
Gasps rippled across the room. Even the reporters who had covered the early days of the catastrophe clenched their fists at the memories.
"We lost millions…" His voice softened. "But we didn't lose hope."
He straightened his shoulders, the golden insignia of the Peerless Guild gleaming proudly across his chest.
"Because then… we awakened."
Cheers threatened to rise—but Kyle lifted a single hand, calming the crowd.
"From the ashes of despair came the hunters. Ordinary men and women who, touched by fate—or perhaps cursed by it—discovered a power within. We rose, not because we wanted glory… but because the world needed us. Because someone had to fight back."
He gestured to the assembled hunters, their weapons gleaming under the hall's lights, their eyes reflecting years of battle.
"You," he said, voice thick with emotion, "stood when the world crumbled. You held the line when no one else could. You were the sword, the shield, the hope in humanity's darkest hour."
A few hunters wiped at their eyes. Even hardened veterans like Tyrone Gardon, still streaming live, felt a knot tighten in their chests.
"We are not just hunters," Kyle said. "We are guardians of Earth. And we must never forget what brought us here. Never forget what we lost. And above all—never forget who we are."
Silence.
Not because they were unsure how to respond.
But because they felt it.
Every single person in that room.
The pain. The pride. The power.
Then, slowly, a wave of applause began. Soft at first. Then louder. Stronger. Until the entire hall erupted in thunderous, roaring approval.
The thunderous applause echoed like crashing waves in the grand hall, filled with emotion and pride. But with a subtle wave of his hand—graceful yet authoritative—Kyle Nyeku silenced the crowd. His gesture cut through the chaos like a blade through mist.
And just like that, the roaring hunters quieted, standing at attention like loyal soldiers before their commander.
His voice rang out again, calm but resolute.
"I appreciate your passion… but there is still more to be said."
The room leaned in, the tension pulled tight like a bowstring.
"I am pleased—no, honored—to announce," Kyle said, letting the moment build, "that as of this morning, the Peerless Guild has successfully conquered and eradicated over 80% of the active dungeons across this city and the neighboring territories!"
The hall erupted again, this time louder. Weapons were raised. Shields thudded against the marble floor. Cheers burst forth like a battle cry.
"PEERLESS GUILD! PEERLESS GUILD!"
The chant filled the chamber, the sound shaking the crystal chandeliers above. It was pride. It was unity. It was victory.
But once again, Kyle raised his hand—calm, commanding.
And again, they obeyed.
He continued, his tone shifting—humble, heartfelt.
"This isn't just my victory," he said. "This is ours. I stand here not as a lone hero, but as a representative of every hunter who bled, who risked their life, who stood on the frontlines."
His gaze swept across the room.
"To every guild that fought alongside us… we salute you. To every hunter who pushed beyond their limits… we thank you. You are the reason we stand strong today. And because of that strength—"
He paused, letting his next words strike deep.
"—we now set our sights on the final frontier: The Central Dungeon."
Gasps echoed from the back rows. Even the most veteran hunters tensed at the mention of it. The Central Dungeon—the oldest, most dangerous rift. A place where many had entered, and few had returned.
Kyle's eyes blazed with determination.
"We will march forward. We will not rest. We will not retreat. Until the last dungeon falls, and Earth breathes free again."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy, charged with resolve.
Then one hunter slammed his fist against his chestplate.
Another raised his sword skyward.
And once again, the chant began—this time louder, fiercer, filled with purpose.
"PEERLESS GUILD! EARTH'S SHIELD!"
The proud chants of "Peerless Guild!" still echoed faintly through the grand chamber, though now dulled to murmurs as the excitement began to wane.
That was when Tyrone Gardon stepped forward.
Clad in his trademark silver-tinted shades and a trench coat laced with enchanted camera runes, the infamous Evening Daily News reporter raised his mic—and his voice.
He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Is this what you dragged us all here for?" Tyrone's voice rang out, sharp and sarcastic, cutting through the ceremony like a dagger. "I mean, really—another grand speech about dungeon percentages and hero praises?"
The hall grew tense. All eyes snapped to him.
"I've covered ten years of dungeon-related press conferences, and I swear they all start the same," he continued, tapping his wristwatch with exaggerated annoyance. "Some of us actually have real deadlines, Mr. Nyeku. So… what's the actual announcement you promised? The one you hyped up in every damn news channel this week?"
Whispers rippled through the crowd like a sudden wind.
The hunters shifted uneasily. A few scowled at the reporter's boldness. Others waited, curious if Kyle would even dignify the provocation with a response.
Kyle Nyeku, still standing tall at the podium, didn't frown. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at Tyrone.
And then… a smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
That was all.
A small, knowing smirk.
Then came the words—just two of them. Calm. Cold. Delivered with the weight of a war drum and the bite of a sword drawn in silence.
"DUNGEON BOSS."
Silence slammed down like a guillotine.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air thickened, bristling with tension. The jovial hunters, just moments ago basking in glory, now stood frozen. Tyrone's smirk faltered for the first time.
Every camera stopped clicking.
Every mic stopped recording.
Because in those two words… there was a challenge.
A warning.
Something was coming. Something beyond dungeon percentages and press-worthy speeches. And every single person in that hall—hunters, reporters, soldiers,and low level guild leaders—felt it in their bones.
A storm was on the horizon.
And Kyle Nyeku had just rung the bell.