Aren finally stepped out of his apartment, the rusted door creaking shut behind him like it, too, was relieved to escape the mildew-stained gloom festering within. The hallway reeked of old ramen, burnt circuits, and broken dreams, but the moment he stepped outside?
Life hit him.
Not in the poetic sense. In the literal, suffocating, city-born chaos kind of way.
The city buzzed with the frantic rhythm of mortal existence—cars honking like enraged geese, sneakers slapping against cracked pavement, and a chorus of morning voices raised in irritation, bargaining, or caffeine withdrawal. Mortals moved like clockwork ants, swarming intersections and jostling along sidewalks, utterly consumed by their own fragile, insignificant little stories.
Lives that, in the grand design of the multiverse, didn't matter even a speck.
And yet… somehow, it was thrilling.
The Death Incarnate found himself oddly hyped up by the sheer, ridiculous normalcy of it all. He could practically taste the mundanity in the air—an atmosphere of desperate energy, unfulfilled dreams, and commercialized magic.
He glanced left and right across the sidewalk, which was more crack than concrete. The city sprawled before him—a classic high-fantasy-modern mashup, like someone took Los Angeles, dunked it in an MMORPG expansion pack, and let it simmer in economic despair.
Glass towers stabbed toward a smog-choked sky, neon billboards pulsed with caffeine ads and weapon shop promos, and magical glyphs buzzed like digital pigeons across building surfaces. Street-level energy oozed from every corner: grime, life, monsters, capitalism.
"Now then… where is this guild located?" Aren muttered, tapping a finger to his temple as he dove once again into the fading soul-echoes of the poor mortal whose flesh-sack he now inhabited.
Memories floated up like bubbles: a shabby E-rank guild office, some forgettable coworkers, and a boss whose vocal cords had clearly trained at the School of Screaming. There were flashes of hunter rotations, half-completed dungeons, awkward team dinners, and a file folder labeled "Last Warning."
"Oh. It's not far," he murmured, data assimilated with ease. "Just a few blocks down."
He gave a low chuckle as he started walking. "Hope it won't be too bad."
Before him, the city stretched like a gauntlet of poorly managed enchantments, flickering traffic lights, and billboards that promised power-ups "with only mild side effects." Aren—once the formless harbinger of eternal stillness—ambled along the concrete jungle with the air of someone who knew there were no real consequences.
Because, technically, there weren't.
And then—chaos.
A shriek ripped through the morning din.
Across the street, cars screeched to a halt. Horns blared. Pedestrians scattered like pigeons after a firecracker. A monstrous white lion, easily the size of a delivery van, barreled out from a shimmering tear in reality—its jaws latched onto the back end of a sedan. It snarled, muscles rippling as it dragged the screeching car like a chew toy, claws carving trails of sparks into the pavement.
Aren tilted his head.
"So this is what mortals call a 'dungeon breach'…" he said with faint amusement. "How… quaint."
He stepped forward, one hand rising—not to intervene, exactly, but to maybe nudge the outcome. Entertainment, after all, was the entire reason for this vacation.
But before his finger even twitched, a wave of searing flame erupted across the street, screaming past him. The blast singed the edge of his thrift-store coat and boiled the air with heat.
The lion let out a death-howl.
Charred in mid-pounce, the creature fell in two neat halves, each piece tumbling across the curb in a smoldering heap.
Aren blinked. He casually brushed a speck of ash from his sleeve.
"Huh… how quaint," he repeated, this time with genuine curiosity.
Then came the hunters.
A wave of them surged in from all directions—some dropping from rooftops, others vaulting over street barriers like acrobatic SWAT teams. Armor gleamed beneath the morning light. Weapons glowed with elemental fury. Their formation was chaotic but practiced—like a raid group that half-remembered the boss mechanics.
Two hunters carried oversized greatswords that screamed "compensating." One bore a tower shield so massive it probably could stop a freight train. The rest sported everything from crystalline bows to staffs glowing like festival lights.
"Fear not, citizens!" a man shouted, dramatically stepping forward.
His golden armor practically reflected sunlight into people's eyes. Dragons curled across his chestplate like tacky decals, and his golden spear shimmered with radiant enchantments. He raised it to the sky.
"The Rising Gold Guild has arrived!"
He hurled his spear in a perfect arc. It skewered a second white lion mid-pounce, nailing the creature to a fire hydrant with a sickening crunch. Steam hissed up from the beast's body as enchanted gold pierced corrupted flesh.
"Take them all out!" the man roared, charging in like a man who bought his own hype.
The battle raged.
As the wave of hunters stormed by, one brushed shoulders with Aren in passing. Light contact, but enough to register.
She stopped.
Jet-black hair. Flowing white robes. A staff adorned with glowing runes. Her aura pulsed with quiet magic, and her eyes—sharp, skeptical—narrowed.
"…Aren?" she asked, disbelief threading her voice like static.
Aren blinked. Oh. Her.
"Steph," he said, recalling the name from his scan. A colleague. C-rank hunter. Cleric support. Good with healing. Bad with gossip. Statistically likely to survive this week.
He smiled awkwardly—a stretch across his unfamiliar face. It looked like someone trying to emulate friendliness from a tutorial video.
"The Guildmaster's been looking for you, you know?" she said, already turning back toward the action.
Another lion lunged from the rift. She raised her staff and loosed a pulse of divine light, reducing it to ash mid-air.
"Anyway, talk later!" she called, sprinting off without missing a beat.
Aren stood still for a moment, watching the battle unfold. Roars. Fireballs. Cracks in the pavement. A vortex of chaos. The city block had fully transformed into a fantasy battleground.
And the guild's front door?
Just on the other side of it.
"…Eh. Who cares?"
He shrugged.
Then walked—directly across the battlefield.
Dozens of hunters turned mid-combat to gape.
"Isn't that… Aren?!" a tank shouted, eyes wide.
He raised his shield just in time to block a diving harpy-beast, eyes still locked on the unarmored, completely unequipped civilian casually strolling between carnage.
A charging beast—some rhino-chimera hybrid—let out a furious snarl and barreled straight at Aren.
Bad move.
It got sent flying halfway down the street, spine bent backward like an accordion, after slamming into something that wasn't quite a shield, sword, or spell.
Aren didn't even glance back.
He hummed quietly to himself, stepping over the scorched corpse of a smoking three-headed monstrosity. Bits of ash clung to his coat.
Looks like a good introduction to this world's hunters, he mused.
And without breaking stride, he walked straight through the chaos.