Welcome to the Loop

Back to Aren, the tension on the ruined street had shifted like a coiled spring, held in place by sheer disbelief. The two B-Rank Hunters stood motionless, drenched in mana and confusion, uncertain what to do now that a man they assumed to be an S-Rank was calmly trying to de-escalate their little civil war.

"Look man, I ain't stopping if he won't give that weapon to me. I need it more than him, end of story," the Fighter finally grunted, rolling his shoulder as mana surged faintly around his gauntlets. His gaze flicked to Aren for only a moment before snapping back to the Mage, defiance sparking in his narrowed eyes.

"Same story with me. I'm not giving this weapon just because he thinks he deserves it more," the Mage snapped, clutching his staff tighter. The unstable mana core at its tip pulsed erratically, casting flickers of red light across the cracked pavement like the heartbeat of a ticking bomb.

Aren exhaled, shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated patience as he tilted his head slightly, observing them as if they were petulant children rather than battle-hardened Hunters.

"Am I really unable to convince you both?" he asked, voice even, yet tinged with disappointment.

Both men shook their heads in unison, as if bound by stubborn pride alone.

"And if you really are an S-Rank, interfering with us would cause quite a bit of drama, you know? I'm sure even someone like you won't like to deal with the repercussions…" the Mage added, clearly trying to shift the weight of accountability.

Aren raised a single eyebrow, expression unreadable as his golden eyes locked onto the Mage with clinical disinterest. His lips twitched.

"Why are you even trying to fight against me? I'm technically on your side here, since I'm stopping this..." he said, gesturing lazily toward the still-simmering battlefield, smoldering wreckage, and the very public disaster zone around them.

The Mage blinked, a flicker of clarity breaking through the haze of adrenaline.

"Actually… you're kinda right…" he muttered, chuckling awkwardly as he lowered his staff a fraction.

'Idiot,' Aren thought flatly, though his face betrayed nothing. Not even the twitch of an eyelid.

"What!?" the Fighter exploded, his face turning red as steam. His aura flared like a sudden storm front, temper rising in a full-bodied surge. "You're seriously not telling me you're picking his side!? We're both fighters—we gotta stand up for each other!"

Aren didn't bother to blink. His voice was dry, almost bored.

"I don't really know you…"

That simple sentence hit with more weight than any spell or swing. It was the tone of someone too disinterested to lie, too detached to care about allegiances forged from shared class roles.

He came for a fight—because negotiations had failed.

And somehow… ended up negotiating again, all because of a pointless misunderstanding.

A long sigh escaped Aren's lips as he glanced skyward. The glowing panel still hovered beside him, the title [Weakest Hunter – E-Rank] flashing like the world's most sarcastic punchline.

"You fucking bastards!" The Fighter roared, voice cracking with rage as he gripped his hammer tight, his veins bulging with mana and fury. His stance was wide, feral—every muscle in his body tensed like a beast preparing to charge. The sheer bloodlust radiating off him made the air feel heavier.

It was no longer about the weapon. It was pride, ego, and fury all boiling into one moment.

The Mage, wisely recognizing the shift in tone, slowly backed away, palms raised in surrender as his staff dimmed. "I'll let you handle him… even I can't deal with a furious Fighter…" he muttered, his tone equal parts nervous and relieved.

Coward, Aren thought briefly—but didn't say it.

Aren turned calmly, his coat flapping slightly as the breeze kicked up dust around him. He looked back at the seething Fighter, the glint of the Ogre Cleaver catching firelight like a wolf's fang in the dark. His grip tightened on the weapon's hilt, feet sliding into a looser stance.

"I'm still an E-Rank, you know!" he called out, lips quirking into a grin that was either suicidal or divine.

The Fighter, now fully convinced that Aren was mocking him, let his fury take the reins.

With a guttural snarl, he lunged forward—and swung.

The hammer connected with brutal force, smashing into Aren's side like a falling mountain.

The impact shattered ribs instantly, twisting flesh and bone in a single, devastating blow.

His body flew like a ragdoll, crashing into the side of a nearby building with bone-snapping force. Brick and glass exploded outward as the wall cratered.

Aren died.

There was no drama to it. No resistance. His body was simply too weak to handle the sheer kinetic force of a furious B-Rank's strike.

But then again.

He lived once more.

The building groaned behind him as dust settled. Amid the rubble, tendons reknit. Muscles reshaped. Bones snapped back into place like puzzle pieces guided by divine hands.

From the cracked shadow, Aren stepped out, brushing debris from his shoulder with casual indifference.

"I'll make you step down one way or another…" he muttered, his voice quiet but pulsing with promise. A flicker of excitement sparked behind his eyes, like a child unwrapping a gift he'd been told not to touch.

He was getting hyped.

Because fighting—real, visceral, soul-burning fighting—was starting to feel like a blessing more than a burden.

Even if it meant dying countless times.

After all, what's a little pain to a god?

If anything… it was exhilarating. Addictive.

A fun little sensation for someone who had spent eternity without ever feeling anything at all.