Chapter 25: “Invitations”

Two Months Later…

Dusk had settled, and the last traces of sunlight bled into the horizon. Shadows stretched long across the dense forest, where a lone figure raced through the trees, his movements swift and calculated.

The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a black and gold uniform—a distinct attire marking him as a member of the Venom Hunter Association's surveillance team. His breathing remained steady, but his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as he moved with urgency.

Nightfall was approaching.

He knew all too well that lingering after dark—especially while carrying these particular invitations—would invite the kind of attention he was desperate to avoid.

Ahead, the silhouette of an imposing estate loomed into view. The Poison Sect Manor.

As he approached, the guards at the entrance barely spared him a glance. They had been expecting him.

Still, the moment he stepped inside, an icy sensation crawled up his spine—as though unseen eyes were already dissecting his every move.

He took a deep breath before striding into the grand hall, where an elderly man sat at the head of an ornate table.

This was the Patriarch of the Poison Clan.

Despite his aged appearance, his presence alone carried the weight of absolute authority.

The messenger bowed slightly in respect before speaking.

 "Greetings, Patriarch of the Poison Clan." His voice remained even, though his pulse quickened. 

"I come on behalf of the leader of the Venom Hunter Association to personally deliver an invitation."

He presented a sealed parchment with the official insignia of the VHA.

"This is an invitation to participate in the upcoming Selection Exam, which will be held in three days' time."

The old man remained still, his sharp, discerning gaze never leaving the messenger's face.

For a brief moment, the hall was silent.

Then—

The Patriarch reached forward and took the invitation.

He examined the seal with a flick of his finger before looking up, his previously neutral expression hardening.

"I was expecting your leader himself," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with undeniable weight.

 "Or, at the very least, an Arcane Hunter to deliver such an important message."

The air in the room seemed to shift.

The messenger felt his stomach twist into knots.

"Surely," the Patriarch continued, his tone turning cold, "your Association isn't looking down on the Poison Sect… are they?"

Suddenly—a heavy pressure flooded the room.

The very air trembled, distorting into waves of color as an invisible force pressed down on the young man's shoulders.

'This pressure… it's suffocating…'

His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being screaming at him to stay alert.

'This is… the Conqueror's Pressure!'

His knees nearly buckled. Cold sweat dripped down his temple. His body screamed at him to kneel, to submit—yet he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay upright.

'He barely released a fraction of his Aura, and yet… it's suffocating!'

The overwhelming force made his breath ragged, but he swallowed hard and quickly responded.

"O-Of course not, Patriarch! We would never dare!" He bowed deeper, his mind racing for the right words. 

"The Leader and the Arcane Hunters were simply too preoccupied with… urgent matters."

He prayed the excuse was convincing enough. 

Because if it wasn't—

He might not make it out of this manor alive.

A tense silence filled the air.

The young man stood frozen, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as the weight of the patriarch's aura still lingered.

Then—

Laughter.

A deep, hearty chuckle erupted from the old man's lips.

"Hahaha! Don't look so stiff. I was only messing with you." The patriarch waved a hand dismissively. "You may raise your head."

The messenger exhaled sharply, relief washing over him. He had truly thought he was about to die.

But just as he straightened up, the old man's gaze flickered toward the stack of invitations still clutched in the young man's hands.

His eyes narrowed.

"That symbol… is that the Lightning Clan's insignia?" The patriarch asked, his voice suddenly laced with curiosity.

The messenger hesitated before answering. "Yes, Patriarch."

A knowing smirk curled on the old man's lips. "Oho? So they're participating in this year's Selection Exam as well."

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Just how many young souls does that damn Lightning Clan Patriarch plan to sacrifice this time? Always chasing that impossible dream of his…"

The messenger clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Because, deep down, he knew the old man was right.

Thirty.

That was the number of young warriors the Lightning Clan had lost in past Selection Exams.

And yet, their patriarch never stopped sending them.

The young man sighed, forcing himself to stay neutral. "I'm only following orders given to me by the leader."

The Poison Clan Patriarch studied him for a moment before leaning back with a faint smirk. 

"It's alright. You may leave now."

The messenger bowed quickly, eager to escape.

And in the blink of an eye—he was gone.

The moment he disappeared, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Dressed in all black, the stranger knelt on one knee behind the patriarch and bowed.

The patriarch's smirk widened.

"You know what to do," the old man said, his voice carrying an unspoken command.

"Yes, my lord," the stranger replied before vanishing just as swiftly as he had appeared.

Meanwhile…

The young man raced through the forest, moving as fast as his body allowed. His task was almost complete. He had delivered every invitation except for one.

The Lightning Clan.

He slowed his pace as he reached the entrance of their secluded stronghold. The towering gates stood before him, their surface engraved with ancient storm sigils that crackled faintly with electricity.

He stared down at the final invitation card in his hand, his expression clouded with doubt.

'Should I just… leave them out of this year's Selection Exam?'

The thought gnawed at him as his grip tightened.

'Thirty. If I remember correctly, that's how many have died in past exams.'

A bitter taste settled on his tongue. 'Just what the hell is the leader thinking, sending them an invitation?'

"Tsk…" He exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. This wasn't his decision to make.

He raised a fist, preparing to knock—

But before he could—

"You can come in."

A deep, knowing voice called from within.

The messenger stiffened.

He hadn't even touched the door.

His eyes darted around, but he sensed no movement. The realization sent a shiver down his spine. The old man had sensed him from this distance.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

The Lightning Clan's patriarch sat calmly in a chair, his piercing blue eyes already locked onto him.

"I thought you might turn back," the old man mused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But you're here. Good."

The messenger swallowed hard.

'He knew what I was thinking… but he's choosing to ignore it.'

Clearing his throat, he composed himself before bowing.

"Greetings, Patriarch of the Lightning Clan. I am here on behalf of the leader to—"

"Spare me the small talk."

The old man's voice cut through the air like a blade.

He extended his hand, fingers slightly curled.

"Just hand it over."

The messenger hesitated only for a second before obediently placing the final invitation into the old man's palm.

The Lightning Clan Patriarch examined the invitation card in his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I expected Anaya to deliver this, yet they sent you instead."

The young man straightened his posture. "Yes, Patriarch. Anaya is currently on a mission."

The old man sighed. "What a pity. My disciple won't get to meet his senior."

At the mention of a disciple, the young man's eyes subtly darted around the hall, searching. Who is the unlucky soul doomed to be sacrificed this year?

But then—

Something shifted.

A chilling presence loomed behind him, one so overwhelming that every instinct in his body screamed danger.

A venom.

And a terrifying one at that.

His instincts took over before his mind could process.

"Who are you?" a voice rumbled from behind him.

With a sharp turn, he gathered every ounce of his aura into his fist and unleashed a devastating punch at the unseen figure—

Only for his attack to be caught.

With bare hands.

The impact sent a dull shockwave through the surrounding area, yet the person holding his fist stood unfazed.

"Oi, what gives?"

The voice was laced with genuine surprise.

The young man's breath hitched as he finally took in the person standing before him.

A boy—no, a young man with piercing purple eyes and raven-black hair tinged with a faint violet hue. His expression was relaxed, too relaxed, as if catching a full-powered punch from a Grade 4 Venom Hunter was nothing more than an afterthought.

The young man's instincts flared as he swiftly slid backward, distancing himself.

Dera twisted his wrist slightly, flexing his fingers. "Whoa, you're strong. That punch actually hurt a little." He said, shaking off the impact as if it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

The young man, still frozen in place, felt his world shatter.

His mind raced in sheer disbelief, heart pounding violently in his chest.

'That… That was him? The terrifying venom I sensed?'

His hands trembled slightly.

'No. That can't be right.'

The Lightning Clan Patriarch chuckled. "Ah, you must forgive my student. He's developed a habit of sneaking up on people lately. Even I have tried to kill him a few times—just as you did."

His tone was nonchalant, as if he were discussing the weather and not multiple failed assassination attempts on his own disciple.

The messenger's lips parted in disbelief.

'This monster… is his student? No freaking way.'

His gaze darted back to Dera's hand—the same hand that had effortlessly caught his punch.

'That punch—he caught it. With just his fist.'

'And not just anyone's punch—a strike packed with the full strength of a Grade 4 Venom Hunter.'

His throat went dry.

'I heard rumors from the leader that the Lightning Clan had finally produced a true genius, but I dismissed it. Every clan exaggerates when requesting an invitation…'

He swallowed hard.

'But this guy… He's the real deal.'

'This is something even beyond genius.'

'Just what kind of a monster did the Lightning Clan create!?'

Dera tilted his head. "You okay?" His voice pulled him back to reality. His tone was lighthearted, but the young man could still feel the sheer weight behind his presence.

"O-Oh, I'm fine." He forced a weak chuckle.

"I was just… surprised that you caught my punch." He let out a shaky breath before attempting a grin. "You must be really strong."

Inside, however, his thoughts churned.

'This year's Selection Exam is going to be… interesting.'

The Lightning Clan Patriarch suddenly scoffed. "Of course he caught that weak punch of yours." His voice held an edge of irritation, as if it were an insult to even call it an attack.

The messenger flinched. Weak? That punch could've shattered boulders.

But the old man wasn't finished.

He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"After all…"

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before dropping the bombshell.

"…he survived the Seven Lightning Strikes at the Temple of the Thunder God."

Silence.

Then—

CRACK.

Something in the young man's mind snapped.

His pupils dilated.

His breath hitched.

His body stiffened.

"The s-s-seven lightning…"

Before he could even finish his sentence, his mind short-circuited and his brain shut down.

His knees buckled.

His vision blurred.

And then—

THUD.

He collapsed, unconscious.