The night had passed, and with the rising sun came chaos. The streets buzzed with murmurs, whispers of a nightmare they had all believed was long gone. Fear hung thick in the air.

Then came the media.

Reporters flooded the devastated area, cameras flashing as they interviewed trembling survivors. The same words echoed from every mouth:

"The gates... they've returned. The monsters have returned."

"The hellhounds—those creatures should only appear in calamity-level gates! But they were here, hunting in packs! It was a massacre!"

"And then he appeared... a man with crimson eyes and white hair. He moved like a phantom, cutting them down as if they were nothing! His swordsmanship... it was terrifying! Like death itself was dancing before us!"

The news anchors scrambled to make sense of the chaos. "Could this mysterious warrior be a high-rank hunter? A secret protector?"

Then someone hesitantly spoke, "No... There was someone with him. A man with jet-black hair, carrying a red sword—it was like the legendary blade, Berserk!"

That was all it took for realization to strike.

"Cale."

"It had to be him! Swordmaster Cale! And the only person he would lend his legendary blade to... Could it be? Could that be the mighty Calamity Killer?!"

Panic turned into frenzy. News stations across the globe broadcasted the footage, spreading one message:

"The Calamity Killer has returned."

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Some were in awe. Some were terrified.

And somewhere far away, in the shadows of a grand hall, figures sat in silence, watching the news unfold.

One chuckled, a smile playing on his lips. "So, he's alive. I thought he was just a ghost story now."

Another remained still, eyes unreadable. "Things just got interesting."

But one man did not speak. His hands clenched around the fragile porcelain cup in his grip. A vein pulsed at his temple as he watched the screen with growing fury.

CRACK.

The cup shattered, its remains melting into a pool of boiling liquid. His voice was ice-cold.

"Calamity Killer... you've finally crawled back from your grave."

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit apartment, Snow leaned back on Cale’s couch, lazily watching a K-drama, completely indifferent to the chaos outside.

Cale crossed his arms, staring at his old friend in disbelief. "You're seriously sitting here watching TV? The world is going insane because of your return."

Snow smirked, sipping a can of soda. "You know I'm a fan of K-dramas. I didn't have time for them before."

Cale sighed. "Why aren’t you at your place, anyway?"

Snow’s smirk faded slightly. "I don't have one. The government assumed I was dead and sold off everything I owned. Donated it all to charity."

Cale’s eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

Snow shrugged. "Yeah. And besides… I haven’t had time to watch TV in ten years. I was sleeping in a cold cave for ten years, recovering there."

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then Cale spoke again, his voice lower this time.

"Snow… what the hell happened in that last gate? How did you end up like this? How did you lose everything?"

Snow's grip on the can tightened. He exhaled slowly, forcing a grin. "That, my friend… is a long story."

Cale leaned back, his sharp gaze studying his old friend. He hadn’t changed much—still the same lean yet powerful frame, his hair a wild mess of white, his crimson eyes carrying the weight of battle. But something was different. His aura was weaker, as if a force that once burned within him had dwindled to embers.

Cale reached for the sword beside him—Berserk. His legendary blade, a weapon that had carved through countless gates. The mere presence of the sword carried a chilling intensity, as though it thirsted for battle. And yet, Snow wielded it with ease, even in his weakened state.

Cale chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re still terrifying with a blade in your hands. But I noticed something back there... You weren’t using mana. Not even a bit. Why?"

Snow’s expression darkened.

"Because... I don’t have any left."

To be continued...