In the primeval mists of antiquity, when the dawn of mankind was but a faint whisper on the lips of time, there came a cataclysm that would forever alter the course of destiny.

Humanity, fresh and innocent, had only just begun to cultivate the first seeds of society and culture, their tools chiseling out the barest outline of civilization in the face of a harsh and uncaring world. Little did they know of the dread portent that hung over their fledgling existence.

Then, the earth roared its protest, and the heavens quaked in the throes of an unspeakable terror.

Without warning, the air itself tore apart in an apocalyptic display of raw, untamed power, the fabric of reality ripping open as if it were no more substantial than aged parchment.

From the frayed edges of the cosmos, an unholy radiance spilled forth, contaminating the world of man with its sinister luminescence.

From these cataclysmic portals emerged grotesque silhouettes and alien forms bathed in the otherworldly glow.

They seemed like an abomination to the natural order, the very essence of chaos distilled into physical form. Demons, the ancients would later call them, but such a term could only begin to encapsulate the terror they instilled.

With an unquenchable thirst for blood and destruction, they descended upon the human populace like a storm of living nightmares.

Their powers, magical and malevolent, were beyond the comprehension of primitive man. They twisted the very elements to their whim, their unholy energies making a mockery of humanity's crude attempts at resistance.

The planet reeled in response, its delicate balance tipped towards entropy.

The atmosphere curdled and shifted, a slow and ominous transformation that echoed the terrible changes wrought by the invaders.

Among the scattered remnants of humanity, a young man stood, his heart pounding with raw terror and impotent rage.

He watched in helpless fury as his loved ones were slaughtered, as his nascent culture was decimated by these monstrosities from beyond the veil.

Hate simmered within him, stoked by the raging fires of vengeance. He yearned to throw himself at the monstrous intruders, to rend and tear with all the savagery of a wounded animal.

But a dying elder of his tribe clutched at his arm, her eyes glazed with the agony of impending death.

"Run," she rasped, her voice a mere wisp of sound that was nearly lost in the howling chaos, "Survive, and carry our vengeance with you."

In her words, he found a grim purpose. He fled, not out of cowardice, but with the iron desire of retribution burning in his heart.

The man ran and ran, his heart a drum against his ribs, his breath a ragged metronome marking the rhythm of his desperate flight.

As he darted through countless trees and across the wild, untamed lands, he dared not look back.

When he finally collapsed, panting and utterly drained, he beheld a changed world: the skies were calm, the earth was quiet, and the air was free of the eerie glow that had accompanied the demons.

The hellish gateways had vanished as abruptly as they had appeared, taking the marauding horde with them back to their eldritch realm.

But he knew, in his marrow, that the reprieve was temporary. The echoes of their monstrous laughter still clung to the wind, a glimpse from the future of the horrors that awaited the day of their return.

His heart hammered a vow into his bones with every pulse. He would be ready. He would protect his world and avenge his people.

And so, with the weight of a threatened world on his young shoulders, he continued his journey.

He traversed the unforgiving lands, scaled insurmountable peaks, and crossed relentless waters. All the while, he sought a means to repel the demonic invaders, his determination fueled by a fragile hope and a burning desire for vengeance.

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But his body, mortal and frail, was not made for such continuous, punishing exertion. With no sustenance save for the scraps he could forage and the grimy water he could gather, he eventually collapsed by the side of a babbling stream.

The tribal people nearby slowly approached him, wondering who this stranger was and what happened to him.

The edge of his consciousness fluttered against the veil of oblivion, his life teetering on the precipice of extinction.

It was then that a flash of white caught his blurring vision. A small, shining pebble bobbed gently toward him on the stream's lullaby current.

With the last of his strength, he reached out and grasped it before it could be carried away. The instant his fingers closed around the pebble, his world exploded.

A surge of raw, primal energy erupted from the pebble and slammed into his weakening form, the pebble melting into his skin as if seeking sanctuary within him.

His frail body became a conduit for a force as ancient as the cosmos themselves. A roar ripped from his throat, his voice echoing the primeval power that now coursed through his veins.

The people gasped and retreated, shocked and confused by the strange sight taking place before them.

His eyes glowed with an ethereal light, brighter than the most potent of sunstorms. The tranquil stream convulsed in response, the once peaceful waters rising in roiling columns that twisted and danced in a tempestuous ballet around him.

No sooner had the last vestiges of the energy wave receded into the man's body, another tear in reality gaped open behind him, a yawning maw of blackness that had no place in the natural world.

The air thickened with a foreboding chill, the atmosphere crackling with a palpable sense of impending doom.

The tribal people, who had watched in silent awe as the man was transformed, recoiled in terror.

Out from the demonic portal, a creature lunged, its gruesome form twisting in unholy glee as it bore down on a small girl.

Its massive jaws gaped open, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp teeth, each one eager for the taste of innocent flesh.

But the man was faster. Quicker than a strike of lightning, he caught the demon's arm, his grip ironclad. The crowd gasped in disbelief, their eyes wide with shock as they looked from the halted demon to the man standing defiantly against it.

With a swift, brutal movement, the man twisted the demon's neck, a sickening crunch echoing in the chilling silence.

A flick of his hand summoned a wave of water from the nearby stream, the liquid swiftly taking the form of a deadly spear in his grasp. The man was a tempest, a storm in human form as he leapt into the fray, cutting down the invaders with an icy fury.

One by one, the demons fell until he stood alone, atop a pile of their vanquished corpses.

A smile, as cold as the depths of the winter sea, played on his lips as he looked over the carnage he had wrought. The tribal people erupted into cheers, their voices echoing around him like a victorious anthem. He was their savior, their hero.

As the years wore on, the legend of the man grew. More like him emerged, endowed with strange powers and a burning resolve to protect humanity.

These came to be known as Hunters, a new class of powerful warriors armed with mystical power and the will to stand between mankind and the encroaching darkness.

"And even now, Hunters are born to protect us and take part in the eternal war against Demons, for without them, our world would be no more…"

With the afternoon sun painting the sky with a warm, golden hue, a woman walked hand in hand with her young son down a quiet street.

She had been retelling a tale for him, her voice a comforting melody against the soft rustling of the cold breeze of Russia.

The story was an ancient one, a tale of demons, gateways, and the rise of the Hunters. A very old and famous one that had been retold every generation around the world.

"Like the sun, Andrei," she finished her tale, pointing to the gentle, setting orb in the sky, "the Hunters are a symbol of strength and protection. Even when darkness threatens, they shine on while helping us. They are always there for us."

His eyes, a vibrant brown like his mother's, shimmered with unshed tears at the tale.

He looked up at his mother, her light brown hair tousled by the wind, her sunken eyes reflecting the hues of the sun.

She was a frail woman, her body bearing the scars of a hard life, and white hair streaked her temples, a stark contrast to her age.

"Mama," Andrei shook his head, squeezing her hand tightly, his eyes never leaving hers, "To me, you are the sun!"

His words brought a smile to her face, softening the weary lines that age and hardship had etched on it, "Andrei, my love, you always say that whenever I tell this story," she said gently, her voice tinged with amusement and concern before her expression became complicated, "I wish I was…"

"You wish what, mama?" Andrei asked with a tilt of his head while briefly taking a look at the sun hanging up in the sky, right behind her.

She shook her head with a soft chuckle as she raised a hand to shield his eyes from the mild yet bright sun, a look of mild reproach on her face, "Even if you think of me as the sun, you shouldn't harm your eyes by staring at the real one."

The boy blinked his eyes, his small lips pursing in thought before he nodded in understanding. But just as quickly as the solemnity had appeared on his face, it disappeared, replaced with the usual gleam of excitement.

"Mama, we're here!" He pointed towards a small, unassuming grocery shop nestled between a row of buildings.

"Wait for me here, Andrei," his mother said, ruffling his hair affectionately.

A smile lingered on her face as she limped towards the store, though the smile faded until her face only expressed woefulness.

Yet, she moved with a certain determination, her frail body somehow drawing strength from an indomitable spirit.

Andrei watched her, the glow of the sun casting a halo around her figure, cementing his belief.

To him, his mother was indeed the sun.

Someone who has always been there for him, always will be and never letting him out of her sight.