After Christian spun his laptop around to reveal the hunter's profile, the executives leaned in, squinting at the screen. But no matter how much they strained their eyes—young or old—they couldn't make out the image.
It wasn't their age that was the problem. Some of the executives were indeed middle-aged, but a few were still in their early to late thirties, and Christian himself barely looked over twenty.
The real issue was Christian's computer. It had been damaged when he dropped it earlier—right after they'd witnessed the grotesque smile of that otherworldly creature. The screen was cracked, dim, and discolored.
"Who is that?" one of the executives muttered, snatching the laptop and trying to discern the blurry face.
"Well, that's—" Christian began.
But no one was listening. The room had erupted into murmurs as the computer passed from one executive to the next, each asking the same question Christian was about to answer.
The cycle went on for a minute. Even the younger executives couldn't identify the face on the screen.
Eventually, the device landed in the hands of one of the oldest executives in the room—Executive Madara. He looked even older than Chairman Cryer himself. His age was undeniable, and he held a staff carved with ancient patterns and lined with golden dragon-scale inlays. The head of the staff was either a dragon or a serpent—it was hard to tell—but the gleaming emerald eyes made it clear the object was more than decorative.
Madara adjusted his glasses, peering hard at the image.
"Young man," he grumbled, "how in the hell do you expect us to see anything on this tiny, busted screen?"
"Allow me, Executive Madara," Chairman Cryer said calmly, extending his hand.
Madara stared at him for a moment, a strange intensity in his gaze, before handing over the laptop.
Cryer studied the screen. "Who the hell is this?" he muttered, just as confused as the rest.
Christian sighed and quickly stepped forward. "May I?" he asked.
"Go ahead," Cryer replied, sliding the laptop toward him.
Christian began typing at an impossible speed. His fingers blurred across the keys, and although Cryer sat right beside him—eyes sharp, trained by years of experience and enhanced by his Third Eye—he couldn't follow a single keystroke.
Then, click—the static from the large screen on the wall vanished.
In its place, a clear image appeared.
Christian stepped back and gestured at the display.
"Everyone, I present to you... the last remaining hunter."
The room went still. All eyes locked on the screen.
There he was—finally clear, in high resolution.
And to everyone's horror… it was a disappointment.
An awkward silence filled the boardroom.
"…Who is that frail-looking doll?" Executive Madara asked, breaking the tension with a scowl.
Christian straightened his posture. "This, my esteemed colleagues, is Maximus Nicklaus Knight. Our last standing hunter."
Not a single executive looked impressed. In fact, they looked embarrassed.
The screen displayed the full profile:
---
Name: Maximus Nicklaus Knight
Date of Birth: 24 - 08 - 3000
Age: 25
Rank: E [Negative]
Association: Freelancer
---
"You've got to be kidding me," one executive muttered.
"This has to be a joke. A complete waste of our time," a female executive snapped. "Stop playing around, boy. Show us a real hunter."
"I wish I could," Christian said softly. "But… this is our best option."
He sounded ashamed—and rightfully so. Just from the profile picture, Maximus looked nothing like a hunter. His face lacked presence, his stats were nonexistent, and even his name sounded like someone clinging to a forgotten dream.
The dark truth was that everyone in that boardroom knew who Maximus Knight was.
That's why they were asking. That's why they looked so stunned. Not because they didn't recognize him—no, it was because they did.
The infamous E-rank failure. The weakest awakened hunter ever registered. A name long buried under mockery and irrelevance.
Except Chairman Cryer. He stared at the screen, unreadable. He wasn't impressed—but he was desperate. And sometimes, desperation was enough to give a man pause.
He leaned back, folding his arms. "Would someone please explain who the hell this is—and why you all look like you've seen a ghost?"
No one answered.
Cryer scanned the room. Not a single executive met his gaze.
"Fine," he snapped. "I don't care anymore. Someone contact my secretary. Get in touch with this guy. Tell him to prepare himself."
He clenched his fist tightly.
---
Elsewhere...
Maximus Nicklaus Knight, the last remaining hunter, was seated in a tiny, dimly-lit apartment that looked like it hadn't seen a broom in years.
He was slouched into what could barely be called a couch—torn cushions, mysterious stains, old fast-food wrappers clinging to its surface like barnacles. It was more trash pile than furniture.
Dressed in a faded bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, Maximus lazily sipped from an empty Sluppy cup. The straw squeaked against the bottom.
A mountain of unwashed dishes loomed nearby. The TV blared explosions and gunfire.
Maximus was playing video games.
Unbothered. Unmotivated.
Unaware that the world outside was collapsing—and that he was now humanity's last chance.
Maximus was deeply locked into his video game—so much so that he didn't even notice his phone buzzing beneath the mountain of snacks cluttering his coffee table.
The game's volume was deafening, maxed out to full blast. Gunfire and explosions rattled the apartment walls, drowning out everything else—including the ringing phone.
Outside, chaos raged. But Maximus had no idea.
The curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room in darkness. Thick, heavy, and jet black—as if the apartment itself were mourning.
The outside world could've been crumbling, and Maximus wouldn't have noticed.
And, in fact, it was.
His usual online game had a multiplayer mode, but today was different. Oddly, none of his gaming friends were online—no matter how many times he refreshed the lobby. He tried messaging a few, but no one responded. It was strange. Suspicious, even. But Maximus shrugged it off and continued playing alone, laser-focused.
Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing and vibrating furiously beneath the snack heap.
Eventually, after hours of gameplay, Maximus finally slumped into exhaustion. With a grunt, he tossed his controller onto the cluttered table and switched off the TV. Silence filled the room like fog rolling in after a storm.
He sank into the couch—if it could still be called that—and let his eyes drift shut.
Then—BZZZZT! The phone rang again.
At first, Maximus groaned, half-asleep, assuming the sound was part of a dream. But the persistent buzzing wouldn't stop. Whoever was calling… really, really wanted to get through.
After several more seconds of nonstop ringing, Maximus snapped awake.
"Alright, alright! I hear it!" he muttered, groggy but now annoyed.
He leapt off the couch like an old man looking for lost dentures.
"Where the hell is it? Where is it?!"
He started ripping cushions apart, flipping the couch upside down, only to find more trash, more dust, and a few fossilized chicken nuggets—but no phone.
The buzzing continued.
Maximus paused. He took a breath, letting the silence guide him. There… in the distance… faint, but clear. The sound was coming from the coffee table.
He dove toward the cluttered mess without hesitation.
If the couch had been disgusting, the coffee table was apocalyptic—covered in opened snack packets, greasy wrappers, half-eaten food, and an entire ecosystem of insects who'd made a happy home in the chaos.
Maximus dug through the pile, swiping food aside with increasing frustration. Occasionally, he shoved something edible into his mouth mid-search.
Then, he spotted it.
A half-opened bag of cheese curls was rustling.
Inside, something was glowing. Buzzing. Wriggling.
His phone.
"Oh, there you are," Maximus said with a mix of relief and caution. "At least... I hope that's you."
The bag trembled again.
He narrowed his eyes, slowly reaching toward it like a bomb tech approaching a live wire. His hand hovered for a second, then—SNATCH!
With a burst of speed, he grabbed the phone. It was sticky, covered in neon-orange powder, and smelled strongly of artificial cheddar.
Without even wiping it off, he answered the call and brought it to his ear.
"Hello? I mean—uh—hello," he said, attempting to deepen his voice, suddenly aware of how unprofessional he probably sounded.
There was a pause on the other end.
Maximus sat frozen in his snack-pocalypse, cheese curls stuck in his hair, robe half open, waiting for whoever had tried so desperately to reach him.
"Yes, this is he," Maximus answered, trying to sound composed.
Whoever had been so desperate to reach him had finally said something that snapped him out of his stupor. Something important. Something that made Maximus sit up straighter than he had in years.
The call ended shortly after, but its weight lingered like electricity in the air.
Roughly sixty to ninety minutes later, there was a firm knock at his apartment door.
Maximus jolted up from the couch. His heart thumped as if it already knew this was no ordinary visit.
He shuffled toward the door, then paused, hand hovering over the handle. He took a deep breath.
"Phew… Maximus, this is it. This is finally your time to shine," he whispered to himself.
As he whispered, he frantically straightened his already too-tight suit—an old black number that looked sharp once upon a time, though now it creaked with age. Still, it was smooth, crisp, and definitely overkill for someone just crawling out of a snack-infested cave of an apartment.
His hair, surprisingly, was perfectly groomed. Slicked back and shiny like he'd spent the last half hour preparing for a prom, not a military or government visit.
With a final tug on his collar and a quick breath to calm himself, Maximus opened the door with an exaggerated gesture of respect.
"Welcome," he began, voice smooth and overly formal.
But the words died on his lips.
Because what stood on the other side of the door wasn't what he expected.
Not even close.
His eyes widened, pupils shrinking just slightly.
Standing before him was—
[End of Chapter]