Hunters

Hunters

A week had passed.

Morning sunlight filtered over the slopes of Kilimanjaro, casting long golden beams across Blake's quiet neighborhood. The air was still, yet heavy with something unspoken—fear, maybe, or awe.

The world hasn't stopped talking. Blake stands outside his house, sipping weak tea from a cracked mug. The murmur of a neighbor's television cuts through the morning breeze. He drifts closer, drawn by the news anchor's voice.

TV Anchor (from inside): "Witnesses claim the unknown man obliterated the D.V. with a single blow. Authorities still haven't identified him…"

Neighbor (shouting through window): "Did you see that guy? He crushed that thing like…! I swear—he was floating! Like, literally floating!"

Blake stiffens. His grip on the mug tightens. A flicker—the memory returns.

Blood. Screams. Empty throne. The crown on the stranger's neck. That impossible power.

His hand shakes violently. Uncontrollably. His fingers tremble like leaves in the storm. His eyes stare at his hand in shock. Fear creeps across his features.

Deep beneath the city of Seoul, inside the fortified halls of the Global Response Headquarters, a tension-choked silence gripped the war room.

Around a long, steel table sat an assembly of global leaders—military commanders, government officials, and top scientists. Screens lined the walls, each displaying chaotic footage from cities across the world. The room is dim, lit only by screens displaying footage from the chaotic streets. Several analysts and soldiers surround a table. Commander Zozi (West Africa) stands stiff, arms crossed. An officer stares at the screen, visibly shaken.

Commander Zozi (voice cold): "So, that… was one of the marked ones?"

Officer #1: "Yes, ma'am. The footage shows a clear burn pattern on the neck. Same spot as the other cases. But this one was—different."

Analyst (cutting in, pointing at screen freeze-frame): "The pattern's sharper. More developed. We compared it to the others… and the energy spikes were off the charts. Higher than any we've documented so far."

Commander Zozi (dry): "And still no explanation for what these marks even mean?"

Officer #2: "There's a theory... that the markings indicate power levels. The more defined, the more dangerous. But nothing official."

Commander Zozi (scoffs): "We're past 'theory.' That thing killed over a dozen of our men. What would you call it?"

Analyst (pause, hesitant): "If the ones we've seen so far were the baseline... this one was something else. Possibly a… higher tier. Maybe not the highest. But close."

Commander Zozi: "So you're telling me there could be worse out there?"

A heavy silence. No one answers. Only the hum of machines and the distant sound of boots in the hallway.

Commander Zozi (slowly): "We need to find out how deep this rabbit hole goes. And fast."

On the monitor, the footage paused—frozen mid-frame.

The image of the cloaked man stood still in the smoke, but all eyes were drawn to one detail: the glowing mark on the side of his neck. A brilliant white crown, etched into his skin like a brand, pulsed faintly even in stillness.

Commander Zozi (smoothly, glancing at screen): "What about our mystery boy?"

Analyst (deliberately): "The media has designated him 'King'—a title derived from the distinct crown mark on his neck. It is notably different from the markings observed on the Mindless."

The room grows quiet. The air thickens with the weight of the information. Suddenly, the door opens with a sharp hiss. A woman walks in. Cold. Composed. Her very presence radiates authority, and every eye in the room is drawn to her. She steps forward with lethal confidence.

Mysterious Woman (voice cold, cutting): "Kings, huh?"

The room freezes for a split second. Everyone turns, and the sudden shift in energy. The woman's piercing gaze lands on Commander Zozi, who stammers back.

Commander Zozi (stumbling, nervous): "General Chae-won!"

General Chae-won (sneering): "Funny, isn't it? The moment a crown appears, everyone rushes to call it a king's mark."

(Smirking) "Maybe you forgot—crowns don't bow to gender."

She steps further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the others, as if daring anyone to challenge her presence.

General Chae-won (eye narrowing): "I'm not here to fit your labels."

The camera zooms in on the woman's neck. A white crown tattoo pulses faintly against her skin, glowing with a quiet menace.

Across the globe, television screens crackled with urgent broadcasts.

The voice of a weary narrator carried over scenes of escalating chaos.

"Governments have declared a global emergency. Elite response units are being mobilized."

On-screen, blurry footage showed a battle in progress—an armored figure clashing violently with a Mindless in the middle of a burning city street. The screen shook with the force of their blows.

"A special unit has been established," the voice continued. "The D.V. Force—nicknamed 'Hunters.'"

The tone dropped lower, darker.

"Rumors swirl. Some nations may already be planning to weaponize the Awakened. What began as a miracle... may now end the world."

Night settled heavily over Blake's room.

The air was still. The only sound was the faint hum of insects outside and the occasional creak of the old walls. Inside, Blake twisted beneath his sheets, caught in the grip of a fevered dream. Sweat clung to his brow, and his eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids.

"No… no…" he mumbled; voice barely audible.

In his dream, chaos reigned.

Flames devoured everything—buildings crumbled into ash. A throne loomed, forged from blood and bone. Screams echoed in the void, distant yet deafening. Shadows twisted into things that couldn't be named.

His breathing grew faster. Shallow. Panicked.

"Stop…" he whimpered. "Please stop…"

Then, without warning, his eyes flew open.

For a single, terrifying moment—they glowed bright gold. A vivid, unnatural brilliance.

And then… just as suddenly… the light vanished.

Suddenly, he gasped sharply, "Aaah!" and shot upright in bed, his chest rising and falling quickly. Sweat poured down his forehead, soaking his hair and making his shirt stick to his skin.