Around a barren, desolate landscape, a fierce battle raged on.
Two factions of hunters clashed with unrelenting ferocity.
On one side was the Demonic Guild, desperate and cornered, defending themselves with everything they had.
On the other was the formidable Lionheart Guild, led by the indomitable Havard, pushing forward like a relentless storm.
The tide of the battle was unmistakable—Lionheart was winning, their superior tactics and strength carving through the enemy lines like a sharpened blade through flesh.
Yet amidst the chaos, amidst the cries of pain, the clashing of steel, and the hum of energy, Havard's mind was elsewhere.
Standing tall at the forefront, his piercing gaze seemed unfocused, his thoughts veering far from the battlefield.
"Guildmaster," a voice broke through the haze.
One of his guild members approached, panting and bloodstained, concern etched across his face.
"Is something wrong? You seem... distracted."
Havard sighed, his powerful shoulders sagging ever so slightly under the weight of an invisible burden.
“I just miss an old friend,” he said, his deep voice carrying both melancholy and warmth.
“An old friend?” the hunter inquired, surprised. It wasn’t often their stoic leader spoke of personal matters.
"Yes. His name is Morris," Havard said, the name lingering on his lips like a memory he didn’t want to let go of.
His usual stoic demeanor cracked just a little, revealing the glimmer of pain hidden behind his eyes.
"You must have heard of him."
The guild member's face shifted from confusion to recognition. "Morris? Of course. Who hasn’t? He was... a legend."
---
It was a name that carried weight, one that echoed through the annals of humanity’s struggle against the monsters.
A name synonymous with hope and sacrifice.
When the monsters first appeared, tearing through cities and plunging the world into chaos, humanity was on the brink of collapse.
Amidst the carnage, humans with extraordinary powers emerged, their abilities a beacon of resistance in the endless night.
These hunters rose to face the monsters, protecting what little remained of civilization.
But the cost was steep.
Many hunters fell to the beasts, their bravery unmatched, but their power insufficient against the overwhelming odds.
The world soon realized that raw courage wasn’t enough.
There needed to be a system—a way to understand and measure the strength of these protectors.
Thus, the ranking system was born.
Hunters were divided into ranks, from E to S, each level a reflection of their capabilities.
- E to B ranks were determined by tangible contributions: how much damage a tank could endure, how lethal a marksman could be, how effective a healer could sustain their allies.
- A rank, however, was different.
The hallmark of an A-rank hunter was their mastery of aura—an ethereal manifestation of mana that could be projected and shaped.
Aura wasn’t just power; it was artistry, control, and raw potential.
Only a few hunters could achieve this level of mastery.
And then there was S rank.
The criteria for S rank were shrouded in mystery.
Power—pure, overwhelming, and undeniable—was the only constant.
Yet, even within the same rank, the disparity in strength could be vast.
Some S-rank hunters could decimate armies, while others barely stood above A rank.
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That was how team if five S rank hunters came.
The emergence of the five S-rank hunters was a turning point in humanity's darkest hour.
They were legends, the pinnacle of strength, and the embodiment of hope.
Armed with unmatched power and unwavering determination, they fought fearlessly against the monstrous threats that plagued the world.
Their efforts brought an era of peace—an era where humanity could finally breathe again, if only for a moment.
But peace was fragile.
The first Black Dungeon appeared like a ticking time bomb.
Initially classified as a mere Yellow Dungeon, its location in an isolated, unmonitored area allowed it to grow unchecked.
By the time hunters realized the anomaly, it had transformed into a Black Dungeon—a death sentence for any who dared to enter.
When hunters finally breached its depths, they were met with horrors beyond comprehension.
A suffocating miasma hung thick in the air, choking the life out of anything that breathed.
It corrupted the environment, twisted the monsters, and drained the hunters of their vitality.
Even the strongest A-rank hunters were powerless against it.
The dungeon eventually broke, unleashing its horrors upon the world.
Legions of undead poured out—zombies, skeletons, and ghouls marching with unrelenting hunger.
Every bite, every scratch turned the living into the dead.
Cities fell like dominos, consumed by the plague.
Chaos spread like wildfire, and humanity found itself on the brink once more.
It took everything the hunters had to stop the tide.
Casualties were immeasurable, and the cost of victory left scars that would never heal.
But from the ashes of that battle, humanity learned a valuable lesson: unity was their only hope.
In the wake of the Black Dungeon catastrophe, the first guilds were born.
Hunters banded together, forming organizations to monitor and defend territories against future threats.
These guilds became humanity’s shield, their eyes ever-watchful for the appearance of another Black Dungeon.
And soon, their vigilance paid off.
The second Black Dungeon was detected deep beneath the ocean.
Its existence was a chilling reminder of how far monsters could reach.
The Five S-rank hunters—champions of humanity—immediately mobilized.
The dungeon was a labyrinth of coral and darkness, home to aquatic monstrosities of unimaginable size and ferocity.
From Leviathan-like serpents to swarms of predatory fish with razor-sharp teeth, the hunters faced an onslaught that tested even their legendary strength.
The battle was grueling.
The pressure of the water, the unending waves of monsters, and the alien terrain made every step a struggle.
But the Five pushed forward, their unity and strength carving a path through the abyss.
When they finally reached the dungeon core, the fight reached its peak.
A colossal Kraken-like entity guarded the core, its tentacles thrashing with enough force to shatter stone.
The hunters fought with everything they had—fire and lightning illuminated the dark waters, weapons striking true against monstrous flesh.
In the end, they emerged victorious, sealing the dungeon and preventing another catastrophe.
But the scars of that battle ran deep.
The third Black Dungeon, however, was different.
It wasn’t just a battle against monsters—it was the turning point for humanity’s greatest heroes.
---
Deep within the forest, the Third Black Dungeon stood, an ominous monument to humanity’s struggle against the unknown.
Unlike previous dungeons, this one was inhabited by demon-like creatures with intelligence and malice far surpassing any monster encountered before.
The dungeon teemed with horrors, from winged fiends to massive, armored brutes that seemed impervious to normal attacks.
The Five S-rank hunters, humanity's greatest champions, descended into the dungeon together.
They moved with precision, their synergy honed over years of fighting side by side.
Havard led the charge with his indomitable swordsmanship, Morris struck from the shadows with surgical precision, and the other three unleashed their devastating powers to carve through the demonic hordes.
At the dungeon's core, they discovered the source of the corruption: a pulsating Black Sphere.
Its energy twisted the air, a suffocating presence that seemed to weigh down on their very souls.
The demons fought savagely to protect it, but the hunters pressed forward with unyielding determination.
The battle against the Sphere’s guardians was brutal.
One of the S-rank hunters, a mage, unleashed a spell of catastrophic power to wipe out the strongest demons, but the effort left him gravely wounded.
Another, a tank who stood at the front line, sustained injuries so severe that even his formidable defenses couldn’t keep him standing.
Finally, the remaining three hunters reached the Black Sphere.
Together, they unleashed their combined power to destroy it, shattering its dark influence and banishing the demonic energy that had plagued the dungeon.
The Third Black Dungeon was cleared.
Humanity had won.
Or so they thought.
As the hunters emerged from the dungeon, carrying their injured comrades, relief filled the air.
For a moment, it seemed the worst was over.
But that fragile peace was shattered almost immediately.
It began with the fifth S-rank hunter.
While the others tended to their wounded, he stood apart, his gaze distant.
None of them noticed the faint, dark tendrils of energy coiling around him—the remnants of the Black Sphere's corrupting influence.
Without warning, he turned against them.
The attack came swiftly and without hesitation.
His powers, now amplified by the Sphere’s corruption, lashed out with devastating force.
The wounded mage and tank, already teetering on the edge of life, were the first to fall.
Morris and Havard were caught off guard. Morris, the assassin, was the first to react.
He saw an opening to end the fight quickly, to strike down the traitor before he could cause more harm.
But then he noticed something—the traitor wasn’t alone.
Behind him were dozens of hostages: civilians from the villages that came to cheer them.
The corrupted hunter sneered, his voice dripping with malice.
“Strike me down, and they all die,” he said, his tone a mockery of the friendship they once shared.
Morris hesitated.
His blade, poised for the kill, trembled in his grasp.
He had spent his entire life protecting the innocent.
How could he make a choice that would condemn them to death?
That moment of hesitation cost him dearly.
The traitor struck, his attack brutal and unrelenting.
Morris was flung back, his body broken, but not before he managed to save the hostages by creating an opening for them to escape.
Havard, witnessing the carnage, was forced to make the ultimate choice.
Gritting his teeth, he fought his former ally with everything he had.
The battle was devastating, the forest itself torn apart by their clash.
In the end, Havard managed to strike down the corrupted hunter, but not without suffering grievous injuries himself.
---
When the dust settled, only Havard and Morris remained.
Two of their comrades were dead, One had betrayed and Morris was barely alive.
The betrayal had left scars that went far deeper than the physical wounds.
Morris was taken to a hospital, his body too damaged to ever return to the frontlines.
The once-great assassin was now a shadow of his former self, haunted by the decision that had cost him everything.
Havard, though deeply scarred, took it upon himself to uphold the ideals they had once fought for.
He founded Lionheart, a guild dedicated to protecting humanity with honor and integrity.
The death of the traitor did not end his influence.
His followers, inspired by his twisted vision and empowered by remnants of the Black Sphere’s energy, formed the Demonic Guild.
These rogue hunters embraced chaos, spreading destruction and corruption wherever they went.
For Cain, Morris’s son, the betrayal and its aftermath were a defining moment.
Watching his father wither away in a hospital bed, broken and disillusioned, filled Cain with anger and resentment.
He rejected the ideals of heroism and self-sacrifice that had led to his father’s downfall.
Instead, he founded Black Serpent, a guild built on pragmatism and ruthless efficiency.
His father as a nominal Guildmaster while he handles everything himself.
To Cain, survival was all that mattered, and the ends always justified the means.
---
The Third Black Dungeon marked a turning point in history.
It wasn’t just a battle—it was the moment when the unity of humanity's greatest protectors was shattered.
The betrayal of a trusted ally, the loss of two S-rank hunters, and the scars left on the survivors created a rift that would never heal.
Havard, now leading Lionheart, often found himself gazing into the distance, lost in memories of the past.
He often reflected on those days with a heavy heart.
“Morris,” he would murmur in the quiet moments, “you did what you had to. I just wish we could’ve saved you too.”
Cain, on the other hand, carried the bitterness of his father’s sacrifice like a blade.
“This world doesn’t need heroes,” he would say.
“It needs results.”
To him, ideals were a weakness, and the only lesson worth remembering was this:
“Trust no one. Mercy gets you killed.”
And so, the world moved forward, shaped by the choices and sacrifices of its greatest hunters.
The Third Black Dungeon had left scars that would never heal, but it also left lessons that could never be forgotten.
It was a victory that had saved humanity—but at a price so steep, it was hard to call it a triumph at all.