Martial Critique: Part Eight

Hunter's Paradise

Written by Anonymous373737

I dedicate this book to my sweet lady.

Intro:

“What is the meaning of life?” I know it’s a bit cliché to open a book with that question, but I’ve always admired how authors can offer their personal take even on the shallowest of stereotypes. You know, clichés, since are carved into us by our culture, are powerful tools that make it easier for the author to express complicated ideas concisely and for the reader to easily understand them. For example, suppose I introduce a female character named Charlotte, readers will instinctively assume she’s a spoiled lady from a noble family, or if a man is shown drinking early in the morning, we know something is very wrong with him---just a few words can communicate what entire paragraphs might fail to convey.

That’s why I believe artists shouldn’t obsess over breaking boundaries just for the sake of chasing or becoming the new avant-garde, which is just a different ingredients arrangement of the same dish. Instead, they should embrace these cultural cornerstones to sharpen their skills, using these solid foundations as support to break limits vertically, elevating their art into a new era. A dumb yet fitting example might be us humans, who, despite the physical limitations of our bodies, have never stopped pushing our civilization forward.

Anyway, let’s return to the main question---what is the meaning of life? It’s not an easy one to answer, especially when we consider the Romantic Axiom, which affirms that all humans possess free will. If each of us has different goals, interests, and ideals, then any meaningful answer must find a common thread, something that unites humanity despite our everlasting variety of differences.

For me, there’s only one answer that does that---to dream. I could justify it by saying that the bare minimum required to not kill ourselves is by having a goal, some kind of selfjustification for today’s actions---a reason to wake up in the morning. 'If I do well enough, in ten years I’ll be rich.' 'I just want a simple life, with a simple job and a family.' 'I’m going to write my name in history by conquering the world.' It doesn’t matter what the dream is. What matters is to maintain our momentum for as long as possible---we must keep moving and generate heat because if we remain still, we are doomed to succumb to the cold.

That being said---what is my dream? Nothing overly ambitious, really, just…to write a book. Why? Since I was a kid, I’ve spent most of my life wandering through the worlds my imagination could create, realities where I didn’t have to wear a mask or conform to anyone’s expectations---the only place where I could simply be myself.

Nevertheless, we don’t stay young forever, and as I grew older, my mind was sharpened by the knowledge about how things work behind their façades, and nourished by the works of other reality-evaders like myself. Slowly, the rough and chaotic fantasies I had as a child began to crystallize into hyper-realistic sculptures, where every detail was justified by thousands of hours of lore and backstory, and the more my masterpiece refined itself, the more I realized something grim.

If I didn’t do something, all of it---my worlds, my characters, and their stories---would die with me. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to make them immortal---I had to write.

Dear reader, I must confess that this is neither my first nor my second attempt at writing. Despite all my goodwill and hundreds of hours spent reading, studying, and editing my work, every publisher I ever approached rejected it without a hint of hesitation. It didn’t matter how passionately I pleaded or how fiercely I tried to explain the potential my stories held, they all looked at me with the same mockery in their eyes, dismissing my efforts with vague excuses---not once did I receive from them clear critique or even a sliver of useful feedback to help in my next attempt. I’m not exaggerating when I say that nothing hits harder than realizing all your sacrifices were in vain. The sleep you lost, the opportunities you let go, and the relationships you fractured just to carve out a few more hours to write. All for what? To be called delusional.

Yet, even at my lowest, no despair could extinguish the fire burning inside me. My love for writing made me endure everything, and rejection after rejection, I hardened my heart and pressed on---kept chasing immortality---until, finally, I managed to force one kind agent into telling me the truth. He confirmed my story was compelling, and that my characters felt truly alive. However, none of that mattered. The publishing industry doesn’t sell stories, it sells authors---I wasn't worthy of my own books.

To my characters, I offer you all my sincerest apology for being such a pathetic God.

However, when my heart was in complete shambles, he offered me a lighthouse in the middle of the tempest, telling me that while not every author is worthy of every book, there is always one story a person is worthy of. “The Magical-Industrial Revolution has introduced us to a kind of prosperity once thought impossible. In the past, the second, third, and fourth sons of noble families were sent to monasteries or died on distant battlefields. Now? They spend their days doing nothing but relishing in their unearned wealth, and in doing so, they’ve become the perfect audience for you.

"Their idle luxury has rotted their spirits and awakened in them a strange nostalgia for a simpler time. You look, dress, and talk like a yokel. You want to get published? Then write about your peaceful youth in the countryside, shaming your readers for their shallow modern lifestyle with a dose of wisdom about the hardships of life they’ve never faced---that’s what sells.” And so, desperate, I followed his advice, and this book is the result.

A story about my younger years as a Hunter on the island of Seafall.

Historical Context:

I personally believe that a book should strive for the longest possible lifespan. For example, if someone picks up my work four hundred years from now, the reader should be able to fully grasp the historical context in which it was written, along with the cultural idiosyncrasies that shaped my writing. That’s why I can’t rely on contemporary turns of phrase or references that may become untranslatable or meaningless if the works they’re based on have been forgotten.

Moreover, to help my future reader, I’ve included a brief history lesson---feel free to skip it if you live in my age.

Although the term 'legend' is an ancient one, it has always rested on three fundamental pillars, regardless of the era.

Firstly, a legend must be set in a remote or unreachable place. For example, Hyperborea is said to lie north of the North itself, a location easy to imagine, yet impossible to reach, creating what scholars often call the Manfred’s Box Effect---even the most absurd of tales might sound plausible simply because it cannot be refuted.

Secondly, A legend must promise something people deeply desire---treasure, immortality, or forbidden knowledge---offering a shortcut to their deepest longings. For example, consider the countless rumors about what really happens during the lavish parties at Château Rouge. Although often used as moral arguments to abolish them, these tales persist because people secretly wet their dreams by fantasizing themselves joining these parties.

Lastly, a legend needs a solid foundation in reality. A real event, the words of a respected expert, or just any verified fact that can anchor it. From that point, the legend grows like ivy, wrapping itself around each new piece of information, adapting without crumbling under the weight of contradictions. For example, the rumors about Aries Bank and the heretical cabal said to control it have only surfaced after they acquired the Twilight Imperium, never before.

The island of Seafall---Nieuw Zeeval in Drownedtongue---is a legend that defies all three foundational pillars.

Despite being the largest island in the world and lying only a few hundred kilometers from the mainland, during the first couple of millennia of Chaotia’s history the island was mentioned only in the margins of ancient Shurapatri maps---a vague black stain labeled with Memento Mori. The traditional pillars of legend---remoteness, promise, and foundation---are all missing, and yet, the Shurapatri did have a peculiar myth, one about the place where the most corrupted souls go after death---the Hades, described as mysterious island that could be reached by sailing east for only a few days.

The first time the public became aware of Seafall---like many other regions of the Roland’s Empire---was thanks to none other than the greatest intellectual of the Twilight Age---the Starfolk Anonymous.

Tasked by the Twilight Queen herself with conducting the first census of her dominion, he journeyed along Chaotia’s eastern coast, from Old Barbaria to Sardinia, documenting his travels in what, to modern readers, might very well resemble an adventure novel rather than an official report.

It is cornerstone of our culture, and many of the terms he used to describe the oddities he encountered remaining in use today. However, for this monumental contribution to the creation of a shared Eastern Chaotian identity, the Starfolk Anonymous was rewarded with execution and the erasure of his name from history.

Still, his work somehow endured. A censored version was copied and distributed to bureaucrats from the largest cities to the smallest villages, remaining a vital tool in the Queen’s efforts to homogenize the administration. Most notably, it was the first opera ever written in Adamic, making it accessible not only to the educated elite but also to the common people, helping our ancestors to understand the world around them and making it feel smaller than ever. However, as readers enthralled themselves with the many wonders of Chaotia, a peculiar question began to circulate within the newly forming intellectual circles---'How had Starfolk Anonymous completely failed to mention an island that was half the size of their nation and located just a few kilometers offshore?' The answer eventually surfaced in a footnote found only in the edition reserved for the Empire’s most influential administrators---“Her Majesty has forbidden me from visiting the southeastern island, angrily silencing my attempts to ask for an explanation.”

Hundreds of theories emerged from that single sentence. Some hopeful souls believed the island to be the last land untouched by the Queen’s influence, while the Heretics speculated that it was the prison of her defeated brothers and sisters. Yet, one theory in particular gained traction and soon became widely accepted. Adam had promised paradise to the righteous, but he had also spoken of another place for the wicked. Combined with the fact that the first expeditions to the island all failed and that it had once been known as Hades, people began to put three and three together.

Only hundreds of years later did we finally gain the first written records of Seafall and of what lay within. Hero Roland and his Holy Companions were forced to take refuge at Seafall after being cornered by Don Suarez’s fleet, and even the Twilight Queen’s most loyal dog did not contest the desperate move, as the Holy Axiomata clearly stated that no mortal could ever return from the underworld.

Once there, they uncovered the truth about Seafall---it was a Dungeon. More precisely, a compressed dimension within the already massive island, making its true size likely larger than Chaotia itself.

The scenes about Seafall described in the Song of Roland by Heroine Stella have been forever shaped by the island’s reputation as a true hell on earth. The Holy Heroes, the strongest team of Essentia the world has ever seen---warriors blessed by the Holy Trinity---had, by that point, been forged in hundreds of battles against the Queen’s most skilled Dogs. Yet, on Seafall, they found themselves at the very bottom of the island’s ecosystem.

It was, by far, the lowest point in the 'Hero’s' Party’s saga, hiding in caves to avoid the Eldritch Abominations that roamed the Dungeon like small mammals with dinosaurs. No one knows exactly how long they spent there---time is merely an opinion inside a Dungeon---but they endured months of starvation, relentless pursuit by predators, and plagues that could have ended entire civilizations had they ever escaped the island.

In the end, they emerged victorious---if by victory one means not becoming a host for spiders’ eggs---but utterly reshaped by the ordeal. Before Seafall, the Song often dwelt on scenes of self-doubt and fear, but after their holiday there, not even Heroine Korinna blinked when standing face-to-face with the Twilight Queen herself

About their raid, the man who, just a few years later, would become the first Emperor of the Holy Rolandish Empire made a statement that still echoes through history---"Hunters, like myself, may be defined as lunatics. Although fame, wealth, and power are always welcome, we seek something more abstract in a Dungeon. The greater the risk, the more intense the experience, and each time, we crave something stronger to satisfy our insatiable hunger. But this shithole? NEVER AGAIN! Here, a hunter won’t find his everlasting glory---only his Hell." Then the Hero sealed the Dungeon forever, ensuring no fool would ever enter it, and from that moment on, the inaccessible hinterland of Nieuw Zeeval became known as---Hunter’s Hell.

After Hero Roland defeated the Twilight Queen and founded his Empire, the island was granted as a fiefdom to the S-Class 'Drowned Phoenix' Hero Erasmus Van Haatcraft, who, fearing that his immortality might one day destabilize the political order, chose self-reclusion, retreating with his order of Drowned Monks to Seafall, where he founded the monastery of Heegelval---Hailfall in Adamic. Yet many suspected Hero Erasmus had a second motive, and by just a quick glance at the Song of Roland and the writings of Hero Legitim, it is easy to guess that he intended to reopen the Dungeon. Thus, for the next fifteen centuries, his monks scouted every meter of the island, without, however, finding the gates of the Hunter’s Hell. That was until, on the very day the Short King of the Short People of the Shortlands met his end upon that Short Hill, bringing an end to the Great Scrumble, destiny turned the page on one long and glorious chapter of the Empire’s history, beginning a new one---far shorter and far dirtier.

A Marian captain was guiding his cargo ship along the usual route when a small, seemingly harmless mistake changed history forever. Before leaving Maria, his young son had been playing with the ship’s compass, altering its precision by only a couple of degrees, and mile after mile in the open sea, the error compounded until, instead of entering The Channel to reach the Capital, the crew found themselves staring at the southern coast of Seafall and at the argentine dome that sealed its Dungeon.

Enraged, the captain bellowed at his boatswain, blaming the ship’s decrepit state while staunchly defending his flawless calculations, and in true Marian fashion, the argument escalated and the two men started strangling each other. Meanwhile, an unnaturally strong wind---far too fierce for such a calm sea---pushed the unattended vessel eastward, straight into the current of a peculiar natural formation positioned next to Seafall---the Hell’s Throat, a whirlpool so vast it could swallow entire cities.

As the sea slowly ate their vessel, the crew closed their eyes and prayed to the Holy Trinity for a swift and merciful drowning. However, confused by the strange fact of not feeling the water invading their lungs, they cautiously opened their eyes, witnessing a breathtaking panorama usually reserved for fish. It was like staring out from within a vast aquarium, except this time the sailors themselves were the main attraction, where thousands of strange marine creatures observed them through the shimmering bubble that enveloped the ship, shielding it from the crushing weight of the deep. Then, the vessel continued to sink, slow and steady, into the ocean’s embrace, revealing a secret lost since Adam’s Ascension---the Submerged City.

From the dark abyss emerged hundreds of towers built from steel, concrete, and glass, whose façades---adorned with squared statues and intricate bas-reliefs---echoed the ancient virtues of a Shurapatri Pantheon, yet astonished the Chaotians with a style so bold that calling it innovative would be an euphemism. The ship further descended into a port nestled within one of these colossal towers, its vast gateway holding back the ocean and forming a titanic window-wall that let the blurred majesty of the submerged city free to be admired once inside.

As the sailors disembarked, they found themselves surrounded by wealth beyond their wildest dreams. Hundreds of rooms for each floor of the towers, all so lavishly decorated that it would shame even the one of an Auxerine prince, and the tower also stored an everlasting amount of fine spirits and the most exquisite foods---all perfectly preserved despite the complete absence of caretakers. Yet, what captivated them most was the technology. Fireless torches, fireless chimneys, and fireless ovens, outshining even the wildest rumors about the hidden marvels of the Miraval Institute of Magic and Technology.

As they roamed from floor to floor, indulging in these comforts, the sailors began to notice that in the countless engravings on doorframes, inscriptions on sheet of papers over the tables, and even titles beneath paintings---all written in Adamic---the same word appeared, one that would soon become the name of the Submerged City---Manhattan.

The Drowned Monks were ecstatic at the news, convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that the long-sought door to the Dungeon was hidden somewhere within Manhattan. For the first time in their abstemious history, they launched a full-scale raid---one that cost hundreds of lives against the unspeakable horrors infesting the city---and over the course of twelve merciless years, they cleansed twelve in each of the three towers linked to the entrance port, uncovering a single digit per floor and obtaining the password to unlocki the hidden floor. It was a long corridor that led them to the prize they had sought for centuries---the Gate of Chaos, the portal binding the Submerged City to Hunter’s Hell.

The news spreaded through the Empire like The Plague, igniting a new romance for the Hunter’s Life---the last, untouched Dungeon was now open for conquest---and the veterans of the Great Scramble saw in it a golden chance to finally put in good user [Skills] to use---talents that peace had dusted. Thus, thousands made the pilgrimage to the Submerged City of Manhattan, where they were lodged in the luxurious suites of one of the three conquered towers---the Asturias-Savoy Metropolitan Hotel---and on the eve of the first raid, the warriors decided to take a last moment of leisure before the dirty job, flooding the many oases of pleasure the towers offered. Music, wine, and laughter echoed through its wall-papered hallways in a celebration so unrestrained that they consumed enough food to feed an entire army, sacking and destroying everything in their path.

This lavish party would be remembered as---The Last Supper.

The next day, the storage rooms were once again full of food, the bottles of spirits returned untouched to the shelves, and the suites were clean. The city could regenerate itself, and the prospect of a never-ending feast thrilled the Hunters, who believed themselves blessed by Adam---the fools. And so the Foolish Hunters crossed the Gate of Chaos, following the Hydroway to Hell as Roland and his Holy Companions had done fifteen hundred years before, entering what the 'Hero' had sought to bury forever.

The grand parade commissioned by the Emperor himself had prepared itselft to greet returning heroes with a triumphant march, but instead, the musicians were forced to play a solemn requiem. What thirty-seven years of war, famine, and plague had failed to kill, Seafall took---the Bloody Baptism claimed 99% of the Hunters.

I’m not exaggerating, there were several reasons behind such an overwhelming death toll. First of all, their inexperience in a battlefield so alien to their heritage, one that favored those who knew which plants could be a useful source of Mana and which ones could eat you alive. Then there was the naive chivalry of risking their lives to save comrades who were already doomed. But above all, the true cause of their downfall was their own Radiation because whenever multiple Essentias are in close proximity, the Resonance Effect increases their intensity, alerting the Eldritch Abominations that roamed Hunter’s Hell that food was coming,

That being said, the project hadn’t been a complete failure. The few lone wolves who returned alive brought back magical artifacts, each providing various uses, but the most valuable of all was---fuel.

The Second Magical-Industrial Revolution has brought us Hydrosystems, advanced alchemy, and automated marvels of engineering. These gifts of modernity, comforts we now take for granted, required, and still require, an enormous amount of Mana, and the whole Empire was shocked when a single of those artifact could power the Capital for an entire month. Therefore, the public quickly forgot their sorrow for the war heroes who had perished in that Dungeon, focusing their attention on the wealth buried on that island.

Civilization demanded the treasures of Hunter’s Hell, no matter the cost in human lives, and famous are the words of Münzemessermarterrittert DD-Class 'Lateral Thinking' Eugenius von Sternenstaub---The Mana must flow.

Murderers, rapists, even war criminals, the so-called scum of the Empire were offered a deal. In exchange for de facto freedom within the borders of Manhattan, they would become Hunters, taking the place of the nobles who had fled in shame the island, swearing never to set foot on it again.

To everyone’s surprise, these prisoners proved to be perfect candidates for the Hunter’s Hell. They preferred to work alone, knew how to vanish in plain sight, and, most importantly, understood how to avoid a useless fight. Among us Hunters, we call it the Wasp’s Philosophy---never sting unless stung, in short ignoring any Eldritch Abomination that’s ignoring you. A simple lesson, but one no noble could ever learn.

The results spoke for themselves with the artifact recovery skyrocketed while casualty rates plummeted, cementing Münzemessermarterrittert Von Sternenstaub’s Rehabilitation by Work doctrine as the definitive, and only, solution to the Seafall Question.

As the pipelines expanded, chaining the Empire into a single organism, stories about our infamy spread with them. Priests, journalists, and politicians---strange bedfellows indeed---despite rejoicing in the energy we provided them, joined forces to brand us as villains, weighing on our shoulders the entirety of the world's sins. Thus, the word Hunter decomposed into a pejorative, synonymous with greed, amorality, and bloodlust, prompting a chain reaction for those who bore too our title, who, to escape the stigma, had to put their imagination to use.

Those who risked their lives exploring the radioactive ruins of Sealt rebranded themselves as the Archelords. Those who rode the oversized lizards across Saurotopia called themselves Dinomancers. And those who defended caravans across the Great Dune took the name of Formiçons.

Only we were left to bear Roland’s legacy.

The story I’m about to tell you takes place thirty-seven years after the end of the Great Scrumble, thirty-seven years after the First Dive at Manhattan, and thirty-seven years after my sweet lady bloomed into the Most Beautiful Flower of the Oasis.

One last thing. To avoid spoiling the reader's experience, I'm not going to reveal which character I am.

Good reading.

Prologo:

The Most Beautiful Flower of the Oasis.

The light from the fireless torches on the wall was dim, even by the standards of a gentlemen's club. It barely illuminated the book read by the Drowned Monk hired to check on us, hardly enough to prevent cards being hidden in the sleeves, and utterly unsatisfactory to fully appreciate the beauty of the woman whose voice sweetened our torments, together with the melody of some sort of stringed table.

That fateful day inside the Blue Bird’s Experience---an opulent tavern on the seventh floor of the 3rd Avenue Building---thirty-six Hunters were surrendering themselves to the many pleasures life had to offer. However, no amount of alcohol, gambling, or warm flesh could cauterize the wounds carved into their souls---everlasting reminders of who they once were before witnessing the horrors freely roaming above their heads.

"Please, I'll pay you back after the next raid," pleaded a little boy on knees, his short height and soft features highlighting his immaturity in the eyes of the six men sitting at the table. "Without supplies, the next time I step into the dungeon...I...I might as well consider myself as good as dead" E-Class 'Recruit' David Johannes Marshall cried as his face kissed the floor, selling his pride for just three Starlings---at that time, the price of a decent wound-cleaning potion.

The little Jankee was the youngest among us---only fifteen---forced to join our warm family following a huge scandal in which he threw his future away by committing an atrocity against a classmate at the Miraval Academy. David had always sworn it had been an accident, but his victim’s powerful father couldn't care less, and, ironically, Seafall became the only safe place left for him in the Empire---maybe even of the world, if he hadn’t lied about that man identity.

The first time we saw that puppy whining in the tower's hall, we placed bets on whether he’d survive his first raid---everyone, except me, bet against him. However, not only did he survive the first raid, he made it through the second, granting me a nice pile of money---a great feat, indeed, for a Class E.

"Ahem...How many times have I've already told you?" Spoke the man sitting perpendicular to David, idly caressing the albino saber-toothed tiger that never left his side. "To join my club, it’s three raids. Not one. Not two. Three. ¿Tengo razón, hija mía?" Omertà’s loud purr always brought a smile to the man's face---his only loyal friend.

"I know! I know! I know! But my life’s on the line. I’ll pay you back triple---please, I’m begging you!" The boy lifted his tear-filled eyes, only to meet the most unbothered of sights. B-Class 'Geopolitical Threat' Calixto Córcega was the only armorless Hunter in the room, his lavish silk shirt putting on a show both his hairy chest and sculpted physique---ironic that the 'Romantic Dreamer' granted such a fine beauty to the only man who couldn’t care less about it.

"Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear what my brother just said?" A strong kick to the face knocked David over, his back now kissing the floor. "Next time you try to speak without permission, you’ll regret not having died in the Dungeon." The reflection on the bald head of CC-Class 'Finest Porcelain' Fajardo Córcega blinded the 'Recruit' as his furious glare quenched whatever hope he had left.

Both Córcega brothers had once been professional Miramble players, until they got caught orchestrating the biggest match-fixing scandal in the sport’s four-hundred-year history, fleeing to Seafall to avoid a public lynching.

"A little harsh, don’t you think?" The words came from a golden-haired man seated at the same table, his tone cunning. "David, right? I might be willing to help, if you, of course, are ready to accept a couple of clauses." The boy enthusiastically nodded his consent. "Good. Let’s go to my room to disc---"

*SHING!*

Suddenly, the man sporting a Leather-Armonized Armor lunged forward, his blade rushung at neck of the man sitting in front of him.

"Are you insane?!" Fajardo’s blade intercepted the hit in time as the smirk on the golden-haired man’s face only widened.

"I've warned you not to do that aga---"

*SHING!*

This time, the golden-haired man struck first and their blades locked, each pushing against the other with bloodthirsty eyes. "We are a damn team, you idiots." The 'Finest Porcelain' stepped in again, trying to break them apart, while the other three Hunters sitting at their same table only shrugged---just another night at the Blue Bird Experience.

As I mentioned earlier, being a Seafall Hunter is a lonely job---at least inside the Dungeon. Outside, it’s possible to form associations to share information, resources, and any other vital tools necessary to survive this hell on earth---the so called Clubs. Calixto, one of the few Class B Hunters, used the leadership skills he’d honed in his Miramble days to create one of the most powerful of these groups---the Drowned Tigers. Joining meant giving up 37% of your profits in exchange for tripling your survival chances---a good deal for an inexperienced Hunter like David, but before membership, one had to prove to be worthy by surviving three raids alone.

On that fateful day, only six Drowned Tigers were present. Excluding the Córcega brothers, they were:

C-Class 'Melancholy' Mircea Drăculești:

A Nixie who learned the hard way what happens when a citizen of the Evernightmare Kingdom tries to dream a different life.

C-Class 'Lovely Swan' Sodom Van Lippmaan:

Better known as

Lennyman

, he was

petty raider who once preyed on caravans along the wealthy trade routes of the Great Dune. This until he tried to rob the wrong person.

CCC-Class 'Midsummer Dream' Chlann Uí Néill:

An exiled Woodland Barbarian seeking to restore his honor by conquering the only Dungeon still unconquered.

XXX-Class '█████████' [REDACTED]:

A mysterious individual who was punished for his crimes with a Memento Mori, which involved erasing every trace of a person's existence---including those in his own memory.

"You all shut the fuck up---we’re trying to drink here," bellowed a voice that could have turned the most seasoned warrior into a trembling cadet. "Hey, kid---come here." David’s face lit up at those words, crawling across the red wool that covered the floor toward this new beacon of hope.

The man seated at the largest table at the center of the room---a massive piece of furniture where twelve Hunters now sat together, each keeping a deliberate distance from the others.

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re my savior---THANK YOU!" He exclaimed as he repeatedly kissed the wrinkled hand of AAA-Class 'Hyper Addiction' Jude of Yorkastle, who, despite being an Essentia, looked as old as an eighty-year-old Soulful, and the relic from a bygone era he was wearing didn’t help. It was a full suit of armor, forged by chaining together thousands of scales from some extinct beast, each bathed in bronze, and at its center was a stained glass that depicted a Colossal Mymphaea, the sigil of his family---legends claimed it was once a real flower, its petals bathed in the blood of the Goblin Empress, then hammered over the armor.

"Calm down, kid. Who am I, your lover?" During the Great Scrumble, he had gained notoriety as the second-in-command to FFF-Class 'Man' Emperor Mario I Rolandsson---the arm that translated the Emperor’s miracles into reality. However, David’s generation remembered him mostly as the pathetic last survivor of the Emperor’s cabinet, the man who, after Mario’s death, took control of his remnants only to commit mistake after mistake, sinking what little was left of Mario’s legacy. After the war, he spent twelve years in prison, until the current Emperor appointed him as our watchdog. "I still haven’t decided yet. First of all, explain to me how the hell you’re broke. I remember you bragging about how profitable your last raid was, didn’t you?" The Generalissimo inquired, only to obtain confused mumbles in return.

"Uh…you see…" David’s trembling tongue couldn’t form an honest answer. So, instead, his eyes slowly moved toward the stage, more precisely, to the fairy lips of the beautiful singer.

"Wait a minute…You've spent all your money on---haha!" The entire table erupted in uncontrollable laughter as the boy lowered his head, his face as red as a pepper. "Oh, the sweet youth," Jude kept chuckling. "And from what I’m seeing, I can’t really blame you---those hips must have been lethal." He raised his mug. "So, gentlemen, how about we help this young man whose only crime was being blinded by…love? AHAH!" Jude’s club---the Dreamcatchers---was made up entirely of old men, all veterans of the Great Scrumble that were eligible for the general amnesty, yet their war crimes were not severe enough for a death sentence.

Excluding the 'Hyper Addiction,' they were:

CC-Class 'Red Flag' Seamus O'Gahallghan:

An ex-officer of the Rouge Grenadiers, who took part in the Third Sack of New Oasis.

CCC-Class 'Mercenary' Owain Ap Nidwyferioedwedianghofioeinhaddewidondefallainafyddai'ngallueichadw:

The coward who abandoned his Short King and the Short Companions to die on that Short Hill in order to save his pointless life.

C-Class 'Lost Compass' Carlitos Maria De Los Santos:

The infamous admiral of La Serenissima who, to boost his paycheck, ran a human trafficking ring, enslaving and selling war orphans to the wealthy courts of Lawfullia and Naturia.

C-Class 'Hangman' Vassily Sudebnyy:

The Emerald Partisan of the National Salvation Committee: who advocated that the enemy's wives and children share the same blame.

C-Class 'Chastisement' Heinrich Österreich:

The tyrant of Königsberg, most famous for stopping Mandrake at the Battle of the Thirty-seven Bridges, single-handedly saving the Second Triumvirate. Historians also credit his government for inspiring the term police state.

CCC-Class 'Seeker' Levon Sakyava:

When the entire world was burning, he was the one who collected the ashes.

CC-Class 'Struggle' Uebert Von Bürgerkrieg:

The infamous leader of the Jankee Spring, and arguably the man most responsible for an additional twenty-four years of war.

CCC-Class 'Sun' Bjerre Ragnvaldsson and CCC-Class 'Moon' Bund Ragnvaldsson:

Separatist brothers who joined the Starship Commando to liberate their homeland from the Von Sternenstaub Family.

CC-Class 'Sorrow Blade' Leicester Eclipse:

The Mandrakian official who tried to keep Mandrake’s Yoke over the Emerald Lands after his Emperor’s death. He also harbored a deep hatred for raven-haired women.

C-Class 'Lone Tear' Simon Huguenots

: A fool who tried to preach religious morals to the citizens of Beauté de Crystal. He sported an iron muzzle nailed into his bones, as his tongue had been officially declared a weapon of mass destruction.

CC-Class 'Knight" Randolph Stormayer:

The only one among them who wasn’t a war criminal, or a criminal in general, yet refused the amnesty out of sheer loyalty to his Emperor.

All of them had lived in the Submerged City for at least twelve years, and that was the first time they had all laughed together so lightheartedly. To celebrate such a feat, each man reached into his purse, took out three coins, and tossed them toward the young boy, who, with surprising agility, caught them all mid-air.

“Thirty-six Starlings?” David gasped, tears welling in his eyes as he admired Queen von Sternenstaub’s face on the coins. Which one? It doesn’t matter---they all look and are worth the same. "Thanks, thanks, and thanks! I swear on the 'Original Seeker' that I’ll return every single one.” The club told him not to worry, advising him, instead, to buy some supplies before spending them all on another 'expensive' expedition.

After that, the young man, still wearing a silly smile, walked toward the window wall that stretched across half the tavern’s southern wall, casting the cold glow of the abyss beyond on the table where David decided to sat. There, resting his head on the glass, the 'Recruit' peeked at the other islands of noise and laughter in the distance, begrudging their carelessness. He now had enough coins to at least prepare for his third raid, but once one stepped through the Gate of Chaos, survival wouldn’t be a matter of statistics.

What if I survive? A week, maybe two, of indolence till the money runs out, and then I’d be forced to do it again. And again. For how long? A year? Thirty-seven? Or until my dea---

*Slap!*

A powerful blow landed in the middle of David’s shoulder blades, jolting him forward. His grip slipped, and the coin rolled across the table---neither head nor tails---before stopping perfectly on its edge. “What about sharing one or two Starlings with your best friends?” Proposed BBB-Class 'Comic Relief' Chuck Chunning before taking the coin and biting it to test the metal.

“Shut up!” David lunged forward, reaching for the Sterling, but, despite Chuch’s massive size, he proved too slow to catch it. “You two are the reason I lost my money in the first place,” he grumbled, hastily shoving the rest of the coins into his [Inventory].

“Are you really blaming us because you had a little too much fun?” A pair of long arms snaked around his neck from behind. “We tried to save you from her evil embrace, but you screamed at us, declaring your eternal love for the witch and saying one day you two would escape together to Naturia---promising her everlasting happiness." B-Class 'Sidekick' Max Maxxing pressed his lips to David’s ear. "I wish, one day, I could be as romantic as you." The 'Recruit' covered his face in shame, silently cursing that damned bottle of whiskey---his first time drunk.

The two were former child soldiers under one of the many Naturian warlords. Rescued but unable to adapt to civilian life, they soon ended up into troubles bad enough to be delivered in Seafall. Chuck was as huge as a hippopotamus while Max as lanky as a giraffe, and the contrast and the contrasts was almost comical. Since the two and David were the only youngsters inside the Su merged City, they quickly became an inseparable trio.

“So, how’d your last raid go, David? Yesterday you were too…ahem…busy to tell us.” The 'Comic Relief,' sporting his never-fading smile, gestured for the waiter to bring a few drinks.

“Good for the reward, but everything else was just agony. I spent ninety percent of the time crawling through grass, getting eaten alive by oversized bugs, just to avoid that faceless man in the elegant suit.” His expression darkened, pupils widened, and the chill on his skin was now plain to see. “Somehow, I found an artifact and got out, but guys…I just can’t do it anymore.” His trembling hands raised his glass, empting it, or so he thought---the bronze liquid still shimmering as he placed it back on the table. “Do you remember Felix? He died while I lay there in the grass. As the monster chewed the lower half of his body, he looked straight into my eyes…like he was telling me I was next. He was right. Ever since I came back, I’ve had this feeling…that the next raid is going to be my la---” A chair scraped against the floor, sharp and sudden, cutting the 'Recruit' and everyone else mid-sentence.

"Everyone, look outside---now!" The oldest Hunter in the room roared, pointing beyond the window wall at the bubble now delivering a large ship to the tower beside them. His name? Not important to our story, but for clarity, we’ll call him the Old Man.

"By a quick look at that Galleon, he must affluent guest. Anyway, when was the last time someone came here who wasn’t dragged in by the Drowned Monks to join our ranks?” Seated before the polished counter, CCC-Class 'Aquamarine' Hattusili Tartare, an ex-Archelord, posed the question to his fellow companion.

“Uhhi Alleyy Maham…Tsutui fumun," replied CC-Class 'Ring Bearer' Finrod, a deranged man, who, due to an odd malformation of his ears, claimed to be one of the long-extinct Chaotian natives---the Elves.

"Indeed, my friend. Indeed." Hattusili clinked his glass against Finrod’s, toasting with a mix from the countless bottles lining the shelves behind the counter---a blend they had perfected over years of experimentation.

According to Hattusili, he had discovered his 'Elvish' friend in a hidden chamber during an ill-fated expedition to the radioactive ruins of Biohazard. Some sort of curse kept Finrod from speaking Adamic, yet, somehow, the 'Aquamarine' alone could understand him. As a result, the two were inseparable, and when the Dune Rangers arrested Hattusili, the 'Ring Bearer' followed the same fate.

“Is there any visible flag or emblem?” Chuck asked, but neither David nor Max could see through that blurred wall of water, lit only by the greenish glow of the steel towers scattered across the panorama.

"Maybe my friend can help with that." The voice came from a man who had just approached the table. He wore an ivory-white armor, which sported three red moon his chest, and eyes hidden beneath a white bandage.

"Hello, Engel. I didn’t know you’d just retu---" The 'Recruit' stopped mid-sentence as his table was suddenly invaded. A man leaned in, his legs planted firmly while his torso bent forward at a perfect ninety-degree angle, as if his spine were made of elastic. "Ahah…it seems Thirty-Seven never fails to surprise us."

“And he has good eyes, too,” C-Class 'Angel' Engel von Kreuzweis remarked about C-Class 'Devil' Patient XXX-37, who had the entire body encased in a tight armor of black leather---face included. “Oh, interesting…” The 'Angel' muttered as soon as the 'Devil' twisted his upper torso to reach Engel’s ear, all while his legs remained firm to the floor. “My friend says that in the middle of the largest sail---a red one---three white half-moons form the Trinity Symbol with three yellow sabers---whose handles meet at the center---passing through a different intersection point of the connected half-moons. In the space over the crescent’s curve and between two of the sabers, there’s a word, so, three in total---Tane, Tanu, and Tana.”

Engel had once been a Hospitaller Monk of the Red Trinity who, during the darkest days of The Plague, offered a heretical mercy to the infected. Thirty-Seven was one of those patients, and later, Engel’s accomplice in his crimes.

“Haven’t we seen that before?” He asked XXX-37, but since not even his voice could penetrate a Leeper Vest, the 'Devil' merely nodded in reply as he twisted back into a straight posture. By the way, on his back, painted in dried blood across a line of stitches, was a sentence---DON’T OPEN, MOLD INSIDE.

“Firstly, the half-moon---also known as the Fertile Crescent---represents Outer Dune---the New World---homeland of the Twelve Lost Tribes. Secondly, the sabers represent a military claim over New Oasis, telling us the owner is from one of the three Lost Tribes who once conquered the City of Fables. Lastly, the crimson color of the sails confirms that our dear guest is an Armed.” The man speaking had icy lips, sitting at a table surrounded by towering piles of papers. “Considering these factors, the identity of our guest can only be one---a member of the Syrmashy Family.” As he fixed his red-round glassed, the man's malicious smirk shifted toward another table. “Hey, Seamus. Looks like an old friend is coming to see you.”

“No one speaks about the war except us. Don’t you dare try again or---” The Highlander war veteran rose, his grip tightening until his glass shattered in his hand. Then, every member of Jude’s Club followed suit, raising as they drew the most vital tool for an Hunter---the Billhook. Originally a farmer’s hooked dagger for tearing out stubborn weeds, ours is a magical version of it, indispensable in Seafall where the plants aren’t conscientious objectors.

“You’re all senile old men. The past won’t change, no matter how much regret you cling to---so stop living in it. And frankly, I fail to see what ‘honor’ could remain in war criminals like you.” Declared DDD-Class 'Big Brother' Tristan Eugen Welf, the only Class-D ever to set foot inside the Hunter’s Hell. Former CEO of the Aries Bank and mostly known as the most corrupt man in history, he now led his own club---the Crowned Rams---with the five foreign Hunters who shared his table:

Chaotic Good 'The Rain That Washes Away the Blood of the Vanquished' Ganzi Xiang-Uesugi:

The last drop of blood from the dynasty that once ruled a united Lawfullia.

Natural Neutral 'Dream of a Forgotten Motherland' Ögedei Uzbuz

: A wandering nomad who once rode his Wyvern at the side of Emperor Mandrake I.

Level 17

σ

'Rhinocerotoidea Phasmavisor' Sadashivrao Gauda:

A Naturian prince exiled after his brother stole the throne. He turned pirate to survive, only to be captured by the Marians and shipped to Seafall.

CCC-Class 'Cold Whisper' Gustav Af Normandie:

A Startrooper of the Starship Commando, who got trapped inside a Dungeon during the civil war. When he finally escaped, twenty-four years had passed since the war’s end.

CC-Class 'Sniper' Heraclius Kapodistrias:

One of the leaders of the Blue Insurrection, who, to avoid being euthanized, escaped to the 'HRE,' where, sadly for him, they did not forget his crimes during the war, swnding him to Seafall.

Mr. Welf had taken advantage of the foreigners' integration problems, to make them his personal slav…I mean cattl…I mean staunch employees.

“You two calm down. We should be worrying about the possibility of a Class S joining us,” Engel reminded us that every so often, the third or fourth children of noble families would decide to commit suicide by attempting to conquer the Hunter’s Hell. However, the real problems began when the retard actually survived the first raid. After such a feat, like any good noble, the casual assumed he was now in charge of the ship, forcing everyone into kamikaze expeditions to conquer the Dungeon. Raids that became known as the Hellish Feasts---guess who was on the menu?

“What are you worried about? Our dear Class S slayers will save us---kekeke,” sarcastically remarked a man surrounded by an obscene pile of coins on a green felt table. A-Class 'Gamer' Calogero Della Vendemmia, the Marian who shattered the old legend that all Marian Essentias were doomed to be Class F.

After Calogero’s cruel remark, most of the Hunters inside the Blue Bird Experience chuckled as their eyes moving toward three men seated alone in a shadowed corner of the already dim room. They ate in silence a Kraken soup laced with sea urchin juice---Starfolk cuisine, aka self-punishment for their sins. Yet, despite the insults and sidelong smirks thrown their way, not a single sign of distress crossed their faces---just dead stares, as if nothing in this world mattered anymore.

To explain that weird scene, I need to take you back eight years before that fateful day, back to when S-Class 'Villain' Volker Rolandsson tried to conquer Hunter’s Hell.

Although the scion to the 'HRE' was beautiful, intelligent, and, most importantly, charming---a true idol adored by his bewitched subjects---he renounced his claim to the throne in favor of a far more suicidal ambition. As I’ve mentioned before, the larger the group, the stronger the Eldritch Abominations that come hunting, but the 'Villain' couldn't care less, forcing dozens of Hunters into the largest expedition since the Bloody Baptism.

On the first night, a horde of Rhus-Kiggurath---very ugly goats---stormed his camp, and by morning, every last one of them was inside the Hunters' stomachs. On the second night, the Kixians---very ugly public employees---declared war, and by dawn, nothing but ruins remained of their distant planet. On the third day, an alliance of Wendigos, Kajjerjocks, and Mothmen descended upon them, and by the next afternoot, Prince Volker had used the first two as bricks and the last as mortar, erecting the walls of the first---and last---human settlement inside the Seafall Inland---Il Paradiso.

The news that the Last Dungeon was on the verge of conquest spread like wildfire through the Empire, and hundreds of eager volunteers rushed to claim their place in history. Yet, the moment they arrived in the youngest city on the planet, they realized something was…very wrong.

Engraved into the stone of the clock tower---the tallest structure in Il Paradiso---were three axioms---three absolute commandments, not to be questioned:

First Rule: Everyone is weaker than me.

Second Rule: Each day, a ranking sorts every citizen by their strength.

Third: The weak obey the Strong.

Dear reader, you should have heard the old tales from the Dark Century, claiming that during darkest hour of our Empire the wicked Warlords could do anything they wished to their subjects without consequence. It's, clealy, nonsense. However, in Il Paradiso, S-Class 'Villain' Volker Rolandsson wasn’t your ruler.

He was your god.

Here is where our three men step onto the stage---the ones who hated the 'Villain' the most.

The first had been Volker’s inseparable friend for most of their childhood. Yet, the god of Il Paradiso was a fair one, and his laws were alien to the concept of any kind of favoritism, including nepotism---not even for the boy who had once shared his toys. Altought, being the mind behind many of the expedition’s victories, he was treated no better than the lowest slaves

The second was the weakest of the weak, and in

Il Paradiso

, even the weak had their own hierarchy. Each day, he endured the cruelties of the other weaklings, who used him as a vessel to vent their frustrations after hours of abuse, and whenever a monster needed bait, his name was always the first on the list. Yet---by some curse or miracle---he survived every single time.

The last had arrived with his wife, a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life because she caught Volker’s eye the moment they set foot in the city. The prince assigned him as his personal slave, so he could hear her moans every night.

After a year of terror, Volker's Party finally reached Agartha and, forced by the laws governing the outside, was forced to send a designated survivor back to Manhattan---the 'Gamer.' On his return journey, Calogero saw something curious---theese three men speaking together on a lonely hill outside Il Paradiso. He found it suspicious, but dismissed it because whatever they were plotting, it would be useless against his god.

A month later, the three reappeared in the Submerged City with a stunning announcement---the expedition had been annihilated, and Prince Volker was dead. When asked what happened, they uttered---'We took our revenge.' Everyone laughed, assuming the 'Villain' had died battling the Dungeon Boss, and these three were just claiming glory they hadn’t earned. And thus, their mocking moniker was born---The Class S Slayers.

To conclude their names were---CCC-Class 'Envy' Yves Cobain, CC-Class 'Wrath' Xander Maan, and C-Class 'Pride' Jacques Dreux.

With these last three, dear reader, you now know all thirty-six Hunters who were lucky---or unlucky---enough to be at the Blue Bird Experience on that fateful day. Don’t worry, you’ll soon become well acquainted with each of them in the chapters ahead.

And now, the real story begins.

***

It took hours of restless anticipation before the long-awaited knock finally came at the door of the Blue Bird Experience.

The Drowned Monks entered first to prepare the place to receive the very important guest. They wore their signature Shell-Armonized Armor, crafted from the remains of countless marine creatures washed ashore on Seafall, resulting in thousands of seashells connected to form a colorful mosaic over their robes.

Their first act was to oust Jude’s club from their table, placing their finest tablecloth and setting a single chair and thirty-six facing it on the other side---an arrangement executed with such flawless coordination that the whole thing took less than a minute. Then, taking their places in two neat rows before the door, the Monks began to sing their haunting Drowned Chants as the door opened for the second time.

A blend of a hundred exotic fragrances heralded the arrival of a dozen women, draped in gowns so thin we wondered why they bothered with clothing at all. They danced their way inside, pirouetting around the table, teasing our breath away at each graceful twist, rentlessy revealing and concealing their magnificent legs. All ladies carried a cornucopia cradled in their arms that was overflowing with petals. As they scattered them to the floor, a flower bloomed where each petal that fell, until the carpet was no longer textile but a living field of blossoms. And for the finale, they tossed their cornucopias high into the air, releasing thousands of butterflies, dancing in perfect sync with the women below.

It was the second most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. And the first, You ask?

I remember it as if it were yesterday, the vision of my sweet lady astride a crimson Pegasus. Her masterpieces of porcelain art were encased in high-heeled stilettos, and I spent countless nights imagining myself drinking wine from them like a sacred goblet. The columns that supported the temple of beauty were as divine as those carved into the marble of a goddess’s statue---losing my breath to death amidst that warm paradise had always been my deepest dream. And when she passed beside me, thanks the gown’s wide neckline, I admired the most exquisite part of a woman---the shoulder blades.

She was truly the most beautiful flower of the Oasis. And I write this as a neutral observer.

Sadly, the more alluring the flower, the filthier the insects that buzz around it. The man escorting my sweet lady and her Pegasus could have very well be defined as a Nephilim---the man-eating giants that guarded the Gates of Agartha. He towered over everyone in sight by a generous margin, sporting a tribal outfit that left half of his body bare, shaming our male pride with the apex of masculinity, and judging from the blend of haughtiness and mockery with which he looked at us, he knew it, too. His skin was the deep red of sun-scorched clay, leaving no doubt about his origins a native son of the Great Dune.

When they reached the table, that brute had the audacity to lift my beautiful angel in his massive and filthy arms before setting her gently onto the lone throne that faced our rows of humble chairs. Then he positioned himself at her side like he was some sort of armorless knight, his smirk daring any of us to challenge him.

“Ahem! Please, everyone, take a seat---we have much to discuss.” Ah, dear reader, words in our outdated dictionary will never do justice to the sound of her voice. It was the music of a celestial harp, each note plucking at the strings of my soul. Every movement of her full lips made my heart beat faster, and the thought that a few of her atoms had crossed the air to be breathed by me, circulating through my blood to reach every organ of my body, still warms me to this very day.

“You must be Madame Syrmashy, right?” The 'Big Brother' greeted, his tone defiant as the Lawfullian Emperor beside him let his hand rest on the hilt of one of the three katanas dangling from his Logic-Assembled Armor---a cheap intimidation trick that, clearly, this time had little effect. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but are you sure you can afford this trip now that New Oasis is the private property of our Emperor?”

In response, Madame Syrmashy’s smile bloomed like a rose with hidden thorns. “Mmh, that rat face…ah, I remember now. Aren’t you the gentleman who once tried to sell me future contracts on tulip bulbs?” My sweet lady could taste the ice cracking in that fool’s eyes. “You left such an impression that the very next day I sold every single bulb, and when the market collapsed, I bought back half of New Oasis for next to nothing. So, to answer your question…” she leaned forward, elbow on the table, and her joined fingers created a pedestal for her chin. “I have more than enough to buy your former bank.”

A cheer erupted from the room---we had never seen Mr. Welf look so utterly vanquished.

Then, one by one, we sank back into our seats, thirty-six Hunters, the so-called filthiest garbage of society, now facing its most beautiful member.

"Uiilll olllu nana Kuku!" The Elf bellowed, his eyeballs dyed blue while his long and pointed ears crimson.

"Yes, my friend is right. Although this place outshines an Auxerine palace in splendor, it’s hardly the best spot for a vacation---so, tell us, what is it you really want?" Hattusili inquired, supported by our nodding heads.

"My husband is dead, and I want to remarry. So, one of you is going to be the lucky man." She winked as stunned silence fell over the room. Everyone's eyes jumped back and forth to confirm that the others had heard the same. Then, strengthening her point, Madame Syrmashy---now Lady Syrmashy---extended one of perfect legs from beneath the table, lifting her dress just enough to reveal her bare ankle---I’ve lost count of the cold nights I’ve survived simply by recalling that instant. "I’m in my late forties. Is that too old for you?"

She teased, and we hastily shook our heads to deny that filthy lie, including the youngest---David, Max, Chuck---who looked almost more bewitched than their seniors did.

"By marrying me, you would become the head of the Syrmashy Family. That means my late husband’s wealth, lands, and servants will be all yours, including complete diplomatic immunity for any past crimes---all in exchange for loving me." She smiled like someone who already knew the answer. "Not a bad deal, is it?"

The reactions of such a cast of characters should have been wildly different. However, we weren’t normal people, but survivors of an environment where deception was the one trait every species had to evolve to guarantee its survival.

"

██████████████████████,

" [Redacted] stated the obvious, voicing what all of us were already thinking.

"He is right---fuck off, whore! Do you think we’re all idiots?" Vassily’s veins bulged and glowed emerald as the crow and spider tattooed on his bare chest began to rotate with unsettling speed.

"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Hubert roared, unsheathing his Billhook. "Another disgusting Reactionary who thinks having a fancier surname makes them cleverer than the rest of us. If you think exploiting we Hunters will be as easy as it was with that filthy homunculus at your side, I’ll have fun giving you a visual demonstration of what I did to Emperor Manfred I." The Dreamcatchers followed suit, eleven blades now pointed at my sweet lady. However, one of them refused to join his comrades, the Highlander Knight---Seamus---who stayed composed on his chair, doing everything in his power to avoid her gaze.

"Oh, if only there were a noble knight to defend me from these brutes," she acted the part of the damsel in distress, emphasizing the scene with the back of her hand pressed dramatically on the forehead. And, shamefully, I must admit I failed her because the one who stepped forward to defend Lady Syrmashy was the hulking Native bodyguard, advancing straight at the Emerald Partisan and the Red Insurrectionist.

The room froze in silence for several seconds that felt like an eternity, then the ‘Hangman’ and the ‘Struggle’ lunged left and right respectively, only to lunge back the instant later, both blades aimed at his neck.

"Ahah! That’s the best you can do?" She laughed as the Nephilim effortlessly caught both blades mid-air.

*CLUNK!*

With a casual twist of his arms, he smashed the two men’s heads together. Next, the rest of Jude’s club rallied against the Nephilim, but it didn’t matter how well they coordinated, none of their strikes even grazed him. By contrast, every blow of the Dune Native landed on the target with brutal precision, forcing the Dreamcatchers into a humiliating retreat.

"Hunters are famous for their mastery of battlefield tactics. I’ve heard countless tales of Seafall's Class C defeating Class S opponents through sheer experience alone. Why? Because war is chaos, and you’ve all trained in the very heart of it. However, my loyal bodyguard is your worst possible foe." Lady Syrmashy’s fingers traced a gentle caress along the cheek of that lucky Nephilim. "Since the Miraval Family still hasn’t added translations for the many Native tongues into the [Essentia.OS], allow me to translate the words floating above his head. SS-Class 'Martial Critique'---his real name is far too difficult for the likes of you to pronounce, so just call him---Shadow Eye."

I remember clearly how, in that moment, we all let ourselves be fooled, too focused on the threat of him being Class S, while completely overlooking the far greater danger implied by Lady Syrmashy’s words.

*ROOOOOOOOOAR!*

Calixto fought to keep his saber-toothed tiger from assaulting at the Dune Native. “Shh, it’s okay, Omertà,” he murmured, running a hand over her snowy fur until the beast’s growl faded to a low meow.

Once the tiger was calm, his brother spoke for his club. “We’re neither fools nor naive. Even if what you say is true---which I frankly doubt---you must want something in return.”

“You’re right, Baldie. Dealing with the Syrmashy Family is like playing the Sootish Roulette---you either change your life forever or die trying.” This wasn’t Lennyman’s first encounter with the woman, and with his sapphire eyes locked on her, the ‘Lovely Swan’ made it clear that he was ready for their rematch.

“I’m not asking for anything too demanding. Just a small test, to see if my future husband is worthy of me.” She gave a dismissive shrug at the doubters. “I want to visit a certain special place…and any man who truly loves me ought to be willing to indulge my cravings. Don’t you agree?”

"Where, mademoiselle? The Temple of Chutlu, the Dawn Zone, or Agartha? Seafall is full of fascinating places. Tell me which one you desire to visit the most, and I'll fight abominations beyond your wildest imagination to bring my lady there." Heinrich had a habit of mapping everything he could. When he was the Tyrant of Königsberg, he forced its citizens to map each room of their homes, severely punishing anyone who made renovations without first notifying him. Now, he was obsessed with mapping all of Seafall, and wherever Lady Syrmashy wished to go, the 'Chastisement' knew the way.

"None of those places," Lady Syrmashy flatly replied, rising to her feet and extending a single manicured finger toward the window wall behind her. "I want to go over there." In an instant, all our doubts evaporated, and the reward she promised no longer felt so far-fetched.

Manhattan had hundreds of towers, but we all knew exactly which one she meant. The tallest, the largest, and the farthest---no other tower stood behind it. It was the rightful ruler of the Submerged City, and we Hunters called it---The Last One.

There wasn’t a single one of us who hadn’t, at some point, sat in the Blue Bird Experience, staring at that solitary colossus for hours---so distant, yet so alluring---as if it whispered directly to our souls. Yet, no one was foolish enough to attempt a Dungeon even deadlier than the Hunter’s Hell above it. However, now, the game had changed. If Lady Syrmashy could truly bait enough fools for an expedition, very few would pass up the chance to chase the desire that had haunted us since our first day in Seafall. And so, one by one, each Hunter nodded or raised a hand, masking their motives with boasts of lust, pride, or greed, but they were all lying. Wealth, freedom, Lady Syrmashy’s body, were, indeed, tempting rewards, but it was the cherry on top that shattered our logical fear---the only chance to see what lay inside the most inaccessible place on Earth.

Well…all of us, except one.

"Madness! She’s going to get us all killed!" The Old Man roared as he rose to his feet, eyes burning with sheer hatred. "The monsters beneath our feet make the ones above our heads piss themselves in fear! Surely you remember the reports from the Drowned Monks during the conquest of these three towers---a massacre! We have no hope of surviving!" He wasn’t wrong. Unlike the Hunter’s Hell, no one had ever returned from the depths of Manhattan---except me, of course.

"I don’t think so," The 'Big Brother,' who had just recovered from his earlier humiliation, interjected. "From what I’ve read in the reports, the monks’ main problem wasn’t conquering the floors, it was holding them. Every time they cleared out the monsters, the things came back within days or weeks, catching them off guard. So, if we move fast and never stay in one place more than three or four hours, I think we might be able to survive. Am I right, Mr. Monk?" Mr. Welf turned toward the silent man seated against the wall, under a painting of a girl in a wheelchair. The Drowned Monk lowered the book he was reading, gave a single nod, then returned to his pages without another word.

"Mr. Most Corrupted Man in History, how many people have ruined your ‘brilliant’ ideas?!" The Old Man barked. "I ain’t that stupid---I’m out." And with that, he stormed from the room, slamming the door hard enough to interrupt the song of the woman on the stage, who gave him a bitter look before restarting her melody.

An old fool, indeed, to throw away such a unique chance, all for the sake of preserving his worthless life.

"Ahem…since a seat has opened up, I propose that Shadow Eye join us on the expedition. I’m sure there won’t be any objections." Lady Syrmashy announced as the 'Martial Critique' made a little bow.

*ROOOOOOOOOOAR*!

Omertà roared her disapproval, but the rest of us kept silent since there was nothing we could do---she was the boss, after all. However, an unexpected voice chimed in.

"Ahem…" The Drowned Monk cleared his throat and slowly rose from his chair. "Let me remind everyone that Manhattan is, de jure, a Dungeon. Which means Lady Syrmashy’s proposal is an official expedition request. That creates three problems. Firstly, due to…certain events from a few years ago, the politicians in the Pigpen passed a law forbidding women from joining expeditions with male Hunters."

The only woman in the room answered his point with a serene smile on her face "When I said I wanted to be brought there, I meant bringing a painting of the most beautiful flower of the oasis."

"The Shushan…understood, and don’t worry---I already know its proportions." He bent over, scratching something onto a crab shell with the sharp spine of a sea urchin. "Secondly, only Hunters are allowed to join expeditions. Mr. Shadow Eye, please, sign here." The Native took the sea urchin spine, bathed it in its blood, and wrote his name across the shell.

The monk handed him a Billhook, and the moment the 'Martial Critique' gripped it, he became, by law, a Hunter. "Lastly, the expedition needs a leader, a flag, and a name. You know---something to put on your graves." With that, the real war began, each of us fighting to be the first among equals.

"As the only Class A, I propos---"

"Shut up, old man. Have you forgotten what happened the last time you led anything?"

"Both of you would be terrible leaders. As we say in Miramble---it’s pointless to choose between an old, cowardly lion and a reckless young one. So, be your own leader."

The three club leaders were sitting in the three chairs nearest the table---Jude sitting perpendicular to Miss Syrmashy, Calixto and Tristan facing each other---each with their teams behind them, while the clubless Hunters scattered between whichever group felt least hostile to them. It started civil enough---at least by our standards---but each new argument carried an old grudge, and the interested party rushed to the edge of the table to defend his honor while insulting that of another Hunter, and barb after barb, everyone, including those who didn’t even know how to speak the language and the Class S Slayers, ended up side by side around the table. Eventually, Shadow Eye had to lift Lady Syrmashy out of the strife, placing her where David had once sat.

There, bathed in the bluish glow of the Submerged City, she simply stared at The Last One, her eyes bewitched by a mysterious emotion, while the ‘Martial Critique’ pushed Lennyman away from the table to face Judee. "If you can’t agree on anything, then why not me?" The Dune Native surprised everyone with a flawless Adamic. "As the only Class S here, shouldn’t I deserve that title?"

His sneer shattered the status quo, and with a quick exchange of glances, the three club leaders silently agreed to a ceasefire, uniting against a greater evil.

"No, you can’t…" The Generalissimo hastily mumbled. "None of us will be leader because a king must unite his people, not divide them. In the Submerged City, we can’t afford to fight among ourselves, and so we are in need of a neutral figure, someone who can settle disputes before they divide us. So I propose…" Jude scratched his head, glancing left and right. Then, abruptly, the 'Hyper Addiction' beamed, pointing at the chosen one. "You, David!"

The 'Recruit' blinked as thirty-five pairs of eyes pinned on him. "But…I…I’m a Class E," he stammered.

"And that’s exactly why you’re perfect," Calixto told him. "Despite your weakness, you’ve survived in a graveyard were the greatest heroes of the Great Scrumble are buried. That’s no small feat, indeed. You’re special---¿Tengo razón, hija mía?" Omertà purred in approval.

"You’re also ideal from a practical standpoint," Tristan added, folding his arms. "We all want to be Lady Syrmashy’s lucky man. If the leader could use his title to claim the major prize, he’d waste the whole expedition watching his back instead of focusing on the monsters. But if the leader is someone with no chance of winning---say, you, David---problem solved!" The left-handed compliment drew many approving nods and a fake smile from the 'Recruit.'

Still, the kid was unlucky, because at that exact moment Lady Syrmashy blew him a kiss. "Take care of my painting---leader." As Chuck and Max congratulated him, David’s eyes made it clear that he would never forget that moment---who could blame him?

"Now---let’s settle the rules." After a noisy debate, three key points were agreed upon. First, the roles---The 'Big Brother' would serve as supply king, the 'Geopolitical Threat' as tactics master, and the 'Hyper Addiction' as strategic mind. Shadow Eye, at his own request, would act as custodian of the painting. Second, the reward---Fifty percent of Lady Syrmashy’s late husband’s fortune would be split evenly among all surviving members of the expedition. The remaining half would go to whichever man the lady chose once the painting was safely delivered back to Manhattan. Third, cooperation---anyone who deliberately sabotaged the mission would face the standard punishment, consisting of every blood vessel in their brain imploding at once.

"Using our own blood to sign our death sentences…almost poetic," Bjerre Ragnvaldsson remarked, dipping the tip of his Billhook into his palm.

"That’s making me nostalgic, brother." Bund Ragnvaldsson chuckled as he pierced his hand. "Didn’t we do the same at the start of the civil war? Dipping our blades in our blood?" One by one, the thirty-six Hunters followed their example, and then, they all signed the contract with their bloody billhooks.

"For the flag, I propose full black. In that dark abyss, too much color might attract the wrong kind of attention," Mircea suggested, his tone as uninspired as his idea, and the proposal, unsurprisingly, It only elicited a few disinterested nods.

"Scarlet, like Lady Syrmashy’s flag," Shadow Eye countered, tearing down a window curtain and draping it over the table. "This isn’t exactly Syrmashy Red, but it would work fine." His arrogance earned the expected scowls, but not from everyone.

"I’m siding with the Native," Owain chimed in. "No one cares about the color. The important thing is the symbols on it. So, I humbly propose the sheep and dragon of Draig." Despite his betrayal at the moment of greatest need, his heart was still loyal to his king.

"Shut up. I’m not dying under some damn Shortlander flag. It’ll be the black Three-Headed Phoenix of Emperor Mandrake I---or nothing!" Leicester snarled, stabbing the curtain’s center with his Billhook.

"Why are you calling that usurper Emperor? The only true Emperor was Maximilian, with his green Three-Headed Phoenix!" Randolph shouted back, stabbing the curtain in the same place.

What followed was nothing short of a second Great Scrumble. Thirty-six voices shouting over one another, each demanding their own symbol on the expedition flag, and one by one, every Hunter stabbed the center of the curtain with their Billhook. A tense silence followed as we all glanced at each other, then, at the same exact time, we yanked our weapons backward, slicing the curtain into thirty-six perfectly equal triangles. Without wasting time, each of us sketched his chosen emblem onto his own piece before proudly placing it onto the table, boasting of its beauty and superiority compared to the rest.

Watching as the thirty-six triangles were finally arranged side by side, Lady Syrmashy noticed that they formed a compelling shape. Her eyes lit up, rushing to cut a piece from the dress of one of her maids to obtain a red circle bearing her family emblem. Then she placed it over the joined bases of the triangles, and the whole thing now resembled a blazing red sun, each ray adorned with a different symbol.

“Not bad,” the monk commented, nodding in approval as he sketched the sun design onto a crab shell. “Now, all that’s missing is the name.”

“Ahem…” Before anyone else could speak, Jacques Dreux stepped forward---few of us could even recall the last time he’d uttered a word. “The Great Manhattan Expedition.”

Some grimaced at the ominous symmetry to the name of a certain raid, but overall, it sounded good, so no one protested.

“The bureaucracy is finished,” the monk declared. “I advise you to settle any affairs you still have to settle, today. For us thirty-seven, this may be our last chance to do so.”

“Us?” David blinked, confused.

The monk surprised us with his first smile. "Do you really think we Drowned Monks would let such an opportunity slip away?" He extended his hand toward the ‘Recruit.’ "I am AA-Class 'World’s End Whisper' Brother Jorien, and I will be the thirty-seventh member of your expedition."

And after that final surprise, the Hunters began filing out of the Blue Bird Experience, each heading to their quarters for one last night’s rest before the big day. David was about to do the same when a strange sound froze him.

*Tweet!*

He turned toward the window wall, and there it was, something that shouldn’t exist in this place---a little blue bird, flying gracefully through the depths of the ocean. “Blugale…” he murmured, the word trembling on his lips as memories surfaced, ones about his mother’s warm voice, telling him bedtime tales.

If you ever see a Blugale, close your eyes and make a wish---it can make dreams real.

"Is it true?"

*Tweet!*

David closed his eyes, expressing the wish he had harbored in his heart for far too long, but when he opened them, the bird was gone. “Everything okay, David?” Chuck’s voice broke the silence. Max stood beside him, both staring at their friend’s strange expression.

David laughed, his tone almost oddly light. “Yeah…don’t worry about it.” After a couple of awkward glances, the two shrugged, and the three of them left the room together.

And so our prologue ends, with thirty-five Hunters, a Drowned Monk, and a Dune Native hauling his massive luggage, all standing before the elevator that would carry them down into the depths of the most unknown place on Earth.

*Ding*

As the machine’s doors opened, a bluish glow and a catchy tune welcomed the thirty-seven warriors. Determination exuded from their expression, knowing this wasn’t the usual door to the hell they had roamed their entire lives, but the last hope to reclaim what had long been lost. A door to their---Hunter’s Paradise.

“Holy fucking garbage.” Jacques bellowed, shoving the book back onto the shelf. ”This is the worst book I’ve ever read!”

“How can you not like it? It’s got mystery and suspense—I love knowing of not knowing,” explained the voice from behind the door.

“I’ve read this kind of shit a hundred times. I could tell you how it ends just from the first chapter alone.” Jacques tilted his head, arms crossed, and chin proudly upward.

“Impossible. You’re lying…” A couple of whistles were heard, followed by the creaking of the door. “But if you’re so sure…then tell me—who’s the Big Bad Wolf?”

“David. One hundred percent David.”

“Impossible—he’s the protagonist!”

“You’re so clueless.” The ’Javelinist’ waved his hand in pity. “First of all, can’t you smell it? The scent these words give off? I can. I’m now feeling what the author felt when they wrote them.”

“Ahem…happy of writing as stated in the prologue.” The Mold’s hypothesis was met with a sharp laugh.

“WRONG! If this were her last shot, the author would be hyper-careful with every single word. That’s it—paranoia. I can feel the terror soaked into these lines, the sheer belief that the reader would be too overwhelmed by the sheer number of characters and their backstories.”

“Well…I admit it’s a lot of people for a first chapter. If this really were the last chance, why risk so much on such a dumb idea? Some characters—despite being introduced—don’t even get a single line of dialogue.”

”WRONG AGAIN, Miss Squatter. Being afraid is irrational, while paranoia is the blade that presses against your carotid, forcing you to move your ass until the job’s done—to produce heat and not succumb to the cold. The author knows she made a bold choice, but she was also aware that in this chaotic mess of clashing personalities and tangled backstories, her readers needed an anchor—David. A young kid, who, after being wrongly accused by the elite, becomes the protagonist of an unlucky tale, lowering the reader’s guard and making them trust and empathize with the young boy—an island of goodwill in a sea crowded by amoral sharks. All of this, only for the author to backstab them with the final twist, using the emotional damage from such a subversion of expectations to etch the story in the reader’s mind—forever. A cheap trick that always works.”

“I can see the potential in your point,” the Mold admitted. “But where’s your proof? What’s his motive for being the antagonist?”

”You see,” Jacques began. ”Authors can’t just force a character to act however they want. First, they have to establish a motive behind their actions—such as threats that could endanger the character’s life or the lives of those they care about, or a conflict that honor, pride, or justice demands they win no matter the cost. In short, authors need to build the right atmosphere so that the reader sees the character’s actions as the natural outcomes under these circumstances. However, any audience is a various ecosystem, and rarely do two people’s logic lines up. Take betrayal, some readers think revenge is the logical consequence, while others believe in forgiveness, and choosing one risks alienating half your audience. That being said, there’s one motive that can justify any action—no matter how irrational or self-destructive it might look out of context. Do you know which one?”

There was a pause. Then, from behind the door, the girl muttered—“Love.”

”Excellent answer,” Jacques snapped his fingers. “Love is the most misunderstood thing in existence, yet the most universally recognized. For example, iImagine you’re a comedian in front of an unknown audience. You can crack a political joke and alienate half the room, or tell a sex joke and have everyone laughing—the same logic applies here. Both the protagonist and the antagonist, the two characters the reader must care about most, need sweetpassion as the motive behind their actions. Imagine a character saying—‘I did it to save the economy’—this is an objective moral motivation, since the economy affects all of us equally. However, to most readers, this character would look deranged. If instead he said—‘I did it for my woman’—then everything is fine for the public—love is the only thing that can justify anything, even the complete the collapse of reality.” The ’Javelinist’ leaned forward. “So, Miss Squatter…do you recall any character who was explicitly given a romantic backstory?”

”Oh, I know, Jacques Dreux, whose wife was stolen by the ‘Villain’!” She exclaimed excitedly before freezing mid-sentence. ”Wait a minute…so he’s the antagonist? You are wrong!”

“No, you are wrong—for the third time.” The ’Javelinist’ gasped. “Jacques Dreux is the protagonist, but he’s just painted early on as the most likely villain to double-capitalize on the final twist.”

“But David has no scene about love.”

Jacques smirked. “Are you kidding me? Do you remember Max’s words to David—‘declaring your eternal love for the witch and saying one day you two would escape together to Naturia—promising her everlasting happiness’—and how the author instantly shrugged the comment off as him being drunk? BIGGEST RED FLAG EVER. That’s the kind of shit an author plants in the beginning to make the reader feel stupid during the reread.”

”You are so good!” The Mold exclaimed, euphoric as she, too, began connecting the dots. Her series of compliments made Jacques red, although he tried to hide it behind a haughty expression. ”Another question, then—who among these characters is the author?”

”In the prologue, our narcissistic author glorifies herself in our eyes with a heroic version of her backstory. Let’s assume, for a moment, that it’s true. Then, there’s a huge hole in it. Can you find it?” He threw the book through the doorway, and the ‘Eldritch Abomination’ grabbed it mid-air, flipping back and forth through the prologue.

Once, twice, a dozen times, but it didn’t matter how much she tried, in the end she failed to see the problem Jacques was hinting at. ”I don’t know,” she bitterly admitted.

”The author being a yokel? A fucking farmboy who could read and write in the Year of Our Hero Roland 1600?” The ‘Javelinist’ burst out a laugh. ”If that were true, they’d have locked him in a zoo in Sternenhavn so the Starshitters could pay to look at him.”

”So…the story is fake?”

”Wrong again! Despite her ego soaking all over the intro, the backstory lacks the seasoned scent of fiction—she just lied about being a yokel. Which means we’re looking for someone who could write in the 1600s, but who would’ve been banned from publishing certain types of books.”

The Mold frowned, gnawing on the thought. ”That’s…a hard one. Why would someone so literate be forbidden to share the fruit of his hardwork with the worl—” Her eyes widened. ”Oh…you mean…”

Jacques’s smirk turned as sharp as Maximillian’s razor. ”Bingo. Anonymous373737 was a woman, and who’s the only lady in the Great Manhattan Expedition?”

”Lady Syrmashy!” The Mold exclaimed in awe.

Jacques snapped his fingers. ”And how is our story going to end? Everyone dies except for Jacques Dreux and David Johannes Marshall. Protagonist versus antagonist in a final battle inside the ‘Last One.’ Whoever wins gets backstabbed by Lady Syrmashy, who goes back to New Oasis with whatever treasure’s inside that skyscreaper.” He leaned back, smugging. I’ve seen this type of shit play out a thousand times in a thousand different books. Trust me—this book is mid. Maybe it had fresh ideas five hundred years ago, but by today’s standards? MIDDEST SHIT EVER!”

”I don’t know…because…I’ve never read a book,” she admitted, her tone cooling like a pyre under rain.

Jacques blinked. ”Are you telling me you’ve been locked in this basement for years without reading a single book?”

The door nodded.

”And you didn’t get bored?”

”I’m always bored.”

”Okay, you might be a dirty squatter, but that’s too much even for me. From now on, before I sleep, I’ll read you a different book every night. But you’ve got to promise to let me sleep afterward—deal?” The Mold showered Jacques with breathless thanks and praise, forcing him to hide under his sheet out of shame. ”Yeah, yeah, save it. Now let me sleep. Goodnight,” he said to the Eldritch Abomination.

”Goodnight,” she replied.

This time, Jacques managed to drift off. However, just before he could slip into the weirdest corners of the Spiritual World, a thought took over his tired mind.

Despite the book’s many flaws, I still want to know what’s inside that lone building…