The first report came in from the north coast.
A small fishing town—empty. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Just... gone.
The local guild scouts sent footage back to the Hunter Association. A rift stood in the center of the harbor, a swirling black mass shot through with jagged veins of white light. It was wide enough to swallow a building whole, its edges rippling like something alive.
At first, they thought it was a Rank SSS gate. Then the readings came in.
The magic signature didn’t match anything on record. It wasn’t just high—it was off the charts, the instruments stuttering before cutting out entirely.
Three days later, another one appeared in the western badlands.
Then another, in the middle of the southern capital’s abandoned quarter.
By the end of the week, there were seven of them.
The Association called them Oblivion Gates.
And they gave a direct order: No hunter, under any circumstance, is to enter.
The directive wasn’t a suggestion—it was law. The Guild Code was amended in a single night, every branch warned that stepping into one would mean permanent removal from the Hunter registry, if they even came back alive.
Inside the Association’s main hall, tension clung to the air like static. The chamber was built for big decisions—a wide, circular table, the emblem of the Hunter’s mark carved into the polished floor. Screens floated above, each one streaming real-time data from the gates.
But none of the screens showed movement inside. The sensors couldn’t see through the rift’s veil.
The chairman sat at the head of the table, his heavy frame leaning forward, hands clasped. His voice broke the silence first.
"We need Lucian Black."
The words drew a shift in the room. Some of the senior hunters exchanged glances, others frowned.
One of the council members, a pale woman in a white coat, spoke up. "You’ve tried before. No one knows how to reach him."
"I’ll try again," the chairman said, already pulling up the private channels on his wristpad.
They watched as he keyed in an encrypted link—one that should have pinged Lucian’s system directly. The signal went out... then failed.
The same thing happened with the next three channels.
"Dead lines," the chairman muttered, more to himself than to them. "It’s like he doesn’t exist on the grid anymore."
Another voice—older, gruffer—cut in from the far side of the table. "What about Dean Garos? If anyone can reach Class Zero, it’s him."
The chairman’s jaw tightened. "I’ve already tried."
He brought up another secure feed, this one patched to the Dean’s private comm.
A minute later, the feed opened to Garos’ office. The man didn’t even look up from his desk.
"If you’re calling about Lucian, save your breath," Garos said before the chairman could speak. "I can’t get to him."
There was a pause in the room, the chairman leaning slightly forward. "Can’t, or won’t?"
Garos looked up at that, his eyes hard. "If I could, I would’ve done it already. You think I want these gates hanging over us?"
The chairman exhaled slowly. "Then tell me how to reach him."
"I don’t know," Garos said plainly. "He and his team... they move when they want to. No one tells them otherwise. Not me. Not you."
The feed cut without ceremony.
The room stayed quiet for a few seconds before one of the council members suggested, "Athena, then. She’s with him often enough."
The chairman didn’t hesitate. Another channel lit up, this one patched into the Academy. Athena’s voice came through clear before her image even resolved.
"If the Dean can’t reach them," she said flatly, "what makes you think I can?"
The chairman’s brows drew low. "You were the one that trained him. You’ve been in the field with him. That’s more than anyone else here can say."
"That doesn’t mean I have his leash," Athena replied. "Lucian goes where he wants, when he wants. He’s not bound to the Academy, and he sure as hell isn’t bound to me."
The feed cut again, leaving the chamber in a heavier silence than before.
The chairman leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. "So... no one can get to him."
One of the senior hunters, a broad-shouldered man with grey in his beard, folded his arms. "Even if we did, how do we know he’d help? Last time I checked, he’s not exactly our biggest fan."
"Because if those gates are what I think they are," the chairman said quietly, "he’s the only one who might walk out of them alive."
That settled over the room like a weight.
Someone else—tall, with the look of an archer—spoke up. "We could assemble an elite strike unit. Top ten hunters from each branch, full support teams—"
"No," the chairman cut in, his tone sharp. "We send anyone in, they die. You’ve seen the readings. That isn’t just another gate—it’s something else entirely."
The pale woman spoke again, softer this time. "Then what’s our move? Sit here and watch them multiply?"
The chairman looked toward the largest screen, where the feed from the northern coast still showed that silent, swirling rift. "We contain. We monitor. And we pray someone out there knows what the hell to do before one of those things opens on our front steps."
The words hung in the air. No one liked the answer, but no one argued it.
The meeting wound down with low voices and tense glances, the sound of chairs sliding back echoing against the high ceiling.
Outside the council chamber, the hallways of the Association were just as tense. Lower-ranked hunters clustered in groups, whispering about the Oblivion Gates, trading theories and rumors. Some swore they’d seen shapes moving inside. Others claimed the gates were alive, that they were waiting.
None of them dared suggest going in.
Not after seeing what happened to the scouts who tried.
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