The tension inside the raid gate simmered long after the clash with the Dark Elves. Lee Dong-ju's arrogance had been silenced by blood loss, his injured shoulder robbing him of the ability to even draw his bow. The proud rookie of Hwanseong, so long celebrated as a rising star, now stood on the edge of irrelevance. In this cruel place, weakness was a burden—one that could be discarded at any moment if survival demanded it.
Lee Seong-jun's cold glance at the bleeding archer carried that truth without words. This was no guild training hall, no sheltered stage where pride was nurtured. Here, inside the sealed domain of the raid gate, only usefulness mattered. Dong-ju paled under that reality. For the first time, he could not shout or protest.
Kim Hye-young stepped forward to steer the group away from further division, reminding them that their survival depended on unity. The discussion shifted to strategy, yet beneath the surface, other currents stirred.
Song Seung-jun, the disciple of Swordmaster Yoon Min-soo, observed Seong-jun with sharp, unblinking eyes. His mind replayed the moment before the ambush—how Seong-jun had sensed the Dark Elves long before arrows flew, how his strange martial strike had slain them in a heartbeat. Song, who had once compared the aura of his master to the sun itself, now found himself facing a darkness that could not be measured. A power hidden in shadow, impossible to gauge. His curiosity deepened. How strong was this mysterious hunter truly? That answer, he believed, would come when the boss appeared.
Jeong Yun-ho's view was different. The assassin had watched Seong-jun's strike closely and recognized its roots. A martial technique known as Short-Range Blood Strike, once used by warriors of old. Yet to Yun-ho, it seemed no more than a dressed-up version of a familiar art. Though he had felt a jolt of unease at first, calm calculation returned. In his mind, Seong-jun was nothing more than a substitute—useful for now, but unworthy of lasting recognition.
While the rookies inside the gate wrestled with tension and suspicion, a different storm brewed outside.
The vortex of the scarlet gate pulsed ominously, surrounded by the flashes of countless reporters' cameras. Normally, guild masters sent trusted officers to oversee raids, rarely appearing themselves. But this raid was unlike any other. Today, the masters of all five great guilds stood together before the gate.
Lee Ye-rin of Phoenix, serene yet sharp, was the first to voice her surprise. Why had so many come in person? It was unprecedented.
Ahn Ho-won of the Grim Reapers sneered at her feigned ignorance. The answer was obvious: the future of the guilds rested on the rookies inside. Each was a carefully nurtured seedling, worth more than gold. No master would risk leaving such a harvest unwatched.
Kim Dong-hyun of Hwanseong exuded confidence, his smile directed like a blade at Oh Kyung-hyun of Baekho. He mocked the rival guild for sending a mere mercenary instead of a trained rookie, declaring that Lee Dong-ju—his carefully groomed archer—would prove superior. He boasted of specialized training tailored to this very gate, of data-backed preparation no other guild could match. To him, Baekho's so-called champion, Lee Seong-jun, was nothing more than a placeholder destined for failure.
Oh Kyung-hyun, though anger flickered in his eyes, did not take the bait. He remembered the contract signing, the unwavering gaze of Seong-jun, the confidence that came not from arrogance but from unshakable experience. The man was a returnee, forged in another world where death and monsters were daily companions. Perhaps he could not secure first place, but third—a goal Baekho had quietly set—was within reach. That was enough. And if Seong-jun exceeded even that? The humiliation of Hwanseong would be all the sweeter.
Yet in this gathering of giants, no one underestimated the true competitors. Song Seung-jun of Nuri, the swordmaster's disciple, and Jeong Yun-ho of the Grim Reapers, the assassin armed with poisoned blades. One fought with unmatched swordsmanship, the other with lethal cunning and contribution-focused strikes. Both were expected to dominate.
Still, hidden variables lurked within the gate. A darkness unmeasured, a returnee with power beyond prediction. None of the guild masters, no matter how certain of their calculations, could ignore the weight of that possibility.
And so, while smiles and barbed words passed between them, all eyes turned to the gate's crimson swirl. They waited—not for rumors, but for results that would soon reveal which rookies would rise, and which guilds would be left in shame.