Each class in the world of hunters has its unique strengths and inherent weaknesses.

Havard’s berserker class was no exception.

His gift was both a blessing and a curse.

The ability to soak up an enormous amount of damage while growing exponentially stronger was his greatest asset.

Yet, it came with a brutal caveat—when his limit was surpassed, all the accumulated injuries would crash down upon him at once, leaving him utterly devastated.

It was a double-edged sword, but one that had allowed him to hold his ground against my entire army of golems.

He had stood alone, a lone titan in a sea of relentless enemies.

But even titans have their limits.

I could see it in the way his movements were slowing, in the tremble of his arms as he struck, in the faint wavering of the fiery red aura that surrounded him.

Havard was nearing the edge, and he knew it.

Yet his eyes never wavered from me.

He wasn’t fighting to survive anymore.

He was fighting to ensure that when he fell, he’d drag me down with him.

I stood before him, Krothe no longer fused with me, the transformation undone as the time limit expired.

I felt the weight of my exhaustion but knew I couldn’t show it.

In front of me was not a man but a storm, battered yet unbroken, ready to consume everything in its path.

The red aura around Havard surged as he let out a roar and charged.

His speed was blinding, his footsteps shaking the ground.

I raised a hand, manipulating the earth beneath his feet.

A massive stone pillar erupted from the ground, blocking his path.

Havard didn’t stop.

He smashed into the pillar with his fist, shattering it into a cloud of dust and rubble.

Chunks of stone rained down as his figure emerged, his bloodied form pushing forward with unrelenting determination.

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I dashed backward, the air crackling with tension as I trapped him within layers of rock.

The walls closed around him like a coffin, layers upon layers compressing with the force of my will.

But Havard roared again, his fists pounding against the rock with explosive force.

Cracks spread like lightning through the structure, and with a deafening crash, he tore through the layers.

The debris flew in every direction, and his red aura flared brighter, his eyes locked onto me.

Before he could fully regain his footing, I conjured spears of steel and hurled them toward him with deadly precision.

One after another, they struck, piercing his body.

Blood sprayed into the air, the sound of metal tearing through flesh echoing across the battlefield.

Havard staggered but didn’t fall.

His aura burned like a dying sun, flickering but still defiant.

With every spear that struck, his steps faltered, yet he kept moving forward.

His chest heaved with labored breaths, his muscles trembling from the strain.

His once-mighty physique was marred by countless wounds, but he advanced with the resolve of a man who refused to die without accomplishing his mission.

I stepped back again, summoning more spears, this time larger and sharper, aiming to finish him once and for all.

But Havard roared, louder and fiercer than ever before, his aura exploding outward in a violent surge.

He lunged forward with all the strength he had left, his fists raised high.

The ground beneath him cracked and splintered with every step, and for the first time, I felt a chill of unease.

This man—this battered, broken human—was still coming for me.

With every agonizing step he took, his crimson aura flared and flickered, a dying ember stubbornly refusing to extinguish.

I conjured spikes along his path, sharp and jagged, meant to halt his relentless advance.

Yet he trudged through them, the sharp edges piercing his flesh, tearing at his legs.

Blood stained the ground beneath him, but he never wavered.

He endured the pain as though it were irrelevant.

I hurled unstable stones, each infused with energy.

They detonated around him in a cacophony of sharp blasts, shredding the air with their force.

Shrapnel tore into his body, leaving fresh wounds across his battered frame.

Yet he didn’t stop.

Each explosion seemed only to fuel his resolve, even as his movements slowed, and his aura dimmed further.

For a moment, I considered retreating further, but something inside me stopped.

There was no need to run anymore.

I stood my ground, bracing myself for his approach.

As he closed the distance, I conjured spears of steel.

They shot toward him like lightning, and one pierced his chest clean through.

He grunted in pain, grabbing the shaft with bloodied hands and pulling it out with sheer force.

The wound bled profusely, but he still advanced, his steps unsteady but unyielding.

More spears struck him—one through the shoulder, another through his abdomen.

His body was riddled with wounds now, his flesh torn and bleeding, yet he didn’t stop to remove them.

He couldn’t afford to.

His eyes remained fixed on me, his expression locked in unshakable determination.

Blood poured freely from his wounds, leaving a crimson trail in his wake.

His legs dragged over the spikes I had conjured, the sharp edges digging deeper into his battered body.

His breath was ragged, his aura flickering like a candle in a storm, but his resolve burned brighter than ever.

I watched him, unable to deny the awe rising within me.

This was not mere strength.

This was something else—a will so ironclad, so absolute, that even his own broken body could not betray it.

He was just inches away from me now.

His hand reached out, trembling but determined, as if he still believed he could end this with a final strike.

But then, his body betrayed him.

His arm dropped, the weight of his injuries finally overtaking him.

He fell to his knees, the spears impaled in his body preventing him from collapsing entirely.

Blood pooled around him, the faint light of his aura finally extinguished.

He looked at me one last time, his gaze unwavering even as life slipped from his body.

And then, he was still.

I stood there, staring at his lifeless form, a mix of emotions swirling within me.

I felt pity, a rare and foreign sensation.

This man, this strongest of hunters, had given everything to protect his people.

He had endured unimaginable pain, fought against overwhelming odds, and yet, in the end, it was futile.

His sacrifice had achieved nothing.

Yet, as I looked at him, I couldn’t deny the faintest sliver of respect.

There was something terrifyingly beautiful about his unyielding determination, about the strength of his spirit even as his body crumbled.

I glanced at the battlefield.

Magal was not there.

He was still recovering, his body badly damaged.

Magra was also in serious condition.

His body was broken form various parts and lava flowed out of them.

Only I remained unscathed, but it struck me how precarious this victory had been.

If there had been one more S-Class hunter among them, one more fighter of Havard’s caliber, the outcome might have been different.

I exhaled slowly, the battlefield growing silent around me.

This was the end of the strongest hunter—a futile, tragic end.

But the battle was far from over.

The final hurdle was still their, outside the dungeon.