Snow whipped across the open plain as Mira de Beaumont and the highest-ranking members of her guild, Blades of Lyon, stood before the gaping wound in the earth. The rift pulsed like a living thing, its light bleeding into the frozen sky.
They were ready to enter when the Russian Hunter Association's representative suddenly raised a hand."Wait!"
Allan turned, frowning. "What now? The clock's ticking. I'd rather not find out what happens when that countdown hits zero."
The man adjusted his scarf nervously. "Reinforcements are on their way. They'll be joining the operation."
Mira arched an eyebrow. "Reinforcements? From where?"
"They should be arriving any minute," he said.
Allan gave a skeptical snort. "What, the Americans? Doesn't sound like them to offer help... and it's not exactly the Russian style to ask for it either."
Mira's lips curved into a faint smile. "The interest is simple. Preventing the end of the world. That's a pretty strong motivator."
Allan shrugged, unconvinced.
Hours passed. The wind grew harsher. Then, the low hum of rotors filled the air. One helicopter landed, then three more followed, kicking up clouds of snow.
Allan stepped forward as the first group disembarked. "Xiāo Mèi," he greeted with a grin. "Didn't think I'd see you out here."
He turned to Mira. "Mira, allow me to introduce Xiāo Mèi from the Tiān Cháo Guild, the Celestial Dynasty."
Xiāo Mèi approached, her steps graceful but firm. Mira began to extend her hand in greeting, but the woman stopped her with a respectful martial salute.
"You don't need to introduce yourself, Mira de Beaumont," Xiāo Mèi said with a calm smile. "It's an honor to finally meet you."
Mira returned the salute with a slight bow. "The honor's mine. And under these circumstances, your help is more than welcome."
Allan crossed his arms. "So, Jin Li didn't come?"
Xiāo Mèi shook her head. "No. The Guildmaster had other responsibilities. But he sent Xang Hu with me, and eight A-class hunters from our ranks."
A tall man stepped forward, face half-hidden by a fur-lined hood. He bowed silently to Mira and Allan. His presence radiated quiet strength.
Mira studied the group for a moment, her green eyes sharp, thoughtful. "Then we have no time to waste. The clock's already against us."
She turned toward the rift, its light pulsing like a heartbeat in the storm.
Among the world's strongest hunters were finally assembling to enter the rift.And the countdown had already begun.
Meanwhile, late at night in the Beaumont Manor…
Lucien was still at the forge. Sparks danced in the dim light as his hammer struck steel again and again. The rhythm was steady, patient and almost ritualistic.
[System Notification]Blacksmith Level: 5Skill [Appraisal]: Rank D – Can now reveal structural weaknesses.
Lucien exhaled slowly, studying the glowing blade. "Not bad," he murmured. "Progress."
Satisfied at last, he set his tools aside and stretched, ready to get some sleep. But as he turned toward the manor, that same unsettling sensation returned, the feeling of being watched.
He froze. The air felt heavier.
Lucien quietly reached for his sword and moved through the corridor, his footsteps silent on the marble floor. Then he heard it, it was faint movements coming from Mira's office.
Someone was inside.
He pushed the door open just in time to see a shadow crouched near a drawer. The figure turned sharply, faster than a blink. A blade flashed through the dark, aiming straight for his throat.
Lucien barely dodged, the edge grazed his neck.
He drew his sword in a single motion, blocking the second strike. The intruder vanished into the gloom, melting into the shadows like smoke. A stealth skill…
Lucien's eyes darted left and right. The silence pressed in.
Then, a flicker behind him.
He spun, but too late, the pain flared in his shoulder as steel tore through flesh.
"What's happening?" called a voice from the hall. Mr. Roger.
Light flooded the room as he flipped the switch.
The sudden brightness stunned the intruder just for a split second, their form became visible. Lucien didn't hesitate. He brought his blade down in a heavy arc.
The strike connected and the man screamed as his right arm was severed cleanly at the shoulder.
He staggered back, clutching the wound, then hurled himself through the window into the night.
"Lucien! Are you hurt?" Mr. Roger rushed in.
"I'll live," Lucien replied, pressing his wound. His gaze, however, was fixed on the floor.
There, lying in a pool of blood, was the attacker's severed arm.
And on it… a mark.
Not a tattoo of thieves or assassins. Not a guild symbol. But a brand, burned into the flesh, faded yet unmistakable.
A Jerusalem Cross. Five small crosses forming one.
Lucien's breath caught. That mark wasn't for pain. It was for oath.
The sacred vow once carried by the Knights Templar themselves.
He stared in silence for a long moment, the distant thoughts of the past flickering through his mind.
Then, softly, he whispered:"God… help me understand."