As soon as the earthquake stopped, an uneasy silence followed.
For several breaths, no one moved.
Then voices rose outside the guild hall as people hurried out, trying to understand what had just happened.
On the second floor, Draven stood beside the guildmaster. Neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other, both sensing the same thing—
This was not natural.
"Let's go," Draven said quietly.
Victor Hale nodded.
They descended the stairs just as a receptionist hurried toward them. She wore her uniform neatly, but her hands were trembling despite her effort to remain composed.
"Grandmaster," she said, lowering her voice,
"the scouts we sent earlier… they're visible on the horizon. They appear to be running at full speed."
Victor paused.
For a brief moment, his gaze hardened, as though something he feared had just been confirmed.
"This is bad," he said. His voice was heavy, stripped of all hesitation.
He turned to the receptionist before she could respond.
"Send every available adventurer to the front gate immediately. Evacuate all civilians from the outer districts—no exceptions. Anyone who cannot fight must be moved to the rear."
The authority in his voice was overwhelming, yet the tension beneath it was impossible to hide.
"And," he added after a short pause, "request reinforcements from the King. Now."
The receptionist stiffened. She nodded without asking a single question.
"Understood."
She left at once.
Victor exhaled slowly and turned to Draven.
"Can you fight?"
There was a brief silence.
"Yes," Draven replied. "I'm a swordsman. Draven Schroeder."
"Draven…" Victor repeated, his brows knitting faintly. "That name reminds me of someone from long ago."
He shook his head.
"Never mind. Victor Hale. Guildmaster of this city."
They exchanged a brief handshake.
Before either could speak again, a distant boom echoed through the city.
The ground trembled—only slightly—but it was enough.
Victor's expression darkened.
"Let's move."
At the front gate, adventurers were already gathering, weapons in hand. Soldiers stood among them, fewer in number than they should have been.
An adventurer rushed toward Victor, barely slowing his pace.
"Guildmaster—the scouts!"
He pointed beyond the gate.
From their position, they could see it clearly now.
A plume of dust rising unnaturally fast.
No—smoke.
"They're coming in too fast," someone muttered.
Victor stepped forward.
Outside the gate, figures emerged from the haze, sprinting with desperate speed, their footsteps tearing into the ground behind them.
"Grandmaster—!"
The shout came before the scouts arrived.
When they finally reached the gate, their faces were pale, eyes wide with something deeper than fear.
Recognition struck Draven.
So it really is them…
One of the scouts staggered forward, struggling to catch his breath.
"Grandmaster… this isn't normal," he said hoarsely. "There were too many."
Victor didn't react immediately.
"Estimate," he said.
"A year ago… during the first stampede," the scout continued, swallowing hard, "there were around ten thousand."
His voice cracked.
"This time… it's more than double."
The surrounding adventurers stiffened.
"And that's not the worst part," he added. "They're different."
Draven spoke before he realized it.
"Different… how?"
The scout—Cedric, the group's leader—looked at him.
"You're here?" He forced a bitter smile. "Yes. Stronger. Faster. And some of them…"
He hesitated.
"They moved wrong."
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"Are you certain?"
Cedric nodded. "We won't last if we're not ready."
Victor turned away without another word.
As he walked back toward the gate, his voice carried calmly across the battlefield.
"Prepare for battle."
The command was quiet.
And that made it terrifying.