The hallway outside the briefing room was empty, save for the rhythmic, restless sound of leather soles pacing against the polished floor. Damien Leone, the Captain of the Wombat Squad, walked back and forth, a pendulum of nervous energy and cold determination.
The adrenaline of the meeting was fading, replaced by the heavy, suffocating reality of what he was about to do. He had secured Commander McArthur's reluctant permission, but that was only half the battle. The military hierarchy was a beast with many heads, and the true power lay not in the Pentagon, but in the White House.
He needed to convince the Prime Minister.
He needed to convince Michael Thompson.
'If Michael agrees to it, he will be the one who will handle all the backlash,' Damien thought, his brow furrowed as he turned on his heel. 'He has the political capital to silence the Hunter Association and the UN. But if he doesn't... if he tries to protect me like he's been trying to do for the last five years, I'll be grounded. Locked in a cell "for my own safety" while the world burns.'
Damien stopped pacing and leaned against the cold wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself.
'I still have my own trump card. Though it is still early for him to know that I have this. No one knows. Not even Ricky.'
He opened his eyes and focused his intent.
'Status.'
The air in front of him shimmered, distorting like heat rising from asphalt. A semi-transparent blue window materialized, hovering silently in the sterile hallway. It was a sight that defied the laws of nature, a privilege reserved for the Awakened—the Hunters.
And yet, there it was, floating in front of a man who was, on paper, an unawakened human soldier.
[Name: Damien V. Leone]
[Class: Soldier]
[Rank: A]
Damien stared at the word [Soldier]. It was the anomaly that had haunted him for five years.
'Hunters have classes,' he mused, tracing the glowing letters with his eyes. 'Swordsman, Mage, Martial Artist, Gunslinger, Assassin, Healer... even the rare ones like Necromancer or Paladin. They all fit into the database. The Hunter Association has spent decades cataloging them, understanding their skill trees, their mana growth, their limitations.'
But [Soldier]?
It didn't exist. He had hacked into the Hunter Association's classified archives—using passwords Melissa had once shared with him—and scoured every database, every forum, every dark web rumor board. There was no record of a "Soldier" class. There were "Mercenaries," but that was a job title, not a System Class.
'Why do I have this?' Damien questioned, a frustration he had felt a thousand times bubbling up. 'Is it because I refused to leave the military when I awakened? Or is it because the System simply didn't know what else to call me?'
He looked down at his skills, the glowing text mocking his confusion.
[Gunslinger Master (S)]
[Rifle Expert (A)]
[Stealth Specialist (A)]
These made sense. Before the System, he was a sniper. He was a spec-ops operator. The System, when it integrated with him inside that cursed dungeon five years ago, seemed to have taken his existing talents and amplified them with mana. The [Gunslinger Master] was a high-tier skill usually found in S-Rank Hunters who specialized in dual pistols. The [Rifle Expert] and [Stealth Specialist] were standard, albeit high-ranked, skills for Rangers or Scouts.
But then his eyes drifted to the skill that defied logic.
[Knife Master (SS)]
'This is the one that doesn't make sense,' Damien thought, his jaw tightening. 'From five years ago until now... it hasn't changed. It started at SS.'
According to the global tier lists and the Hunter Association's "Bible of Awakening," the highest starting proficiency for a skill was usually A or S rank for geniuses. An SS rank skill was something that took decades of honing, or a specific, legendary class evolution.
Furthermore, [Knife Master] was the bread and butter of the Assassin class. He had read the forums. The S+ Class Hunter "Viper" from Germany, widely considered the best assassin in Europe, only had [Knife Mastery (S+)]. Viper had bragged about it in interviews, stating that breaking the barrier to SS was impossible even having a Divine Item or a specific limit-break quest.
'And yet, I have it,' Damien thought bitterly. 'I have a skill superior to the best assassin in the world, and I'm just a soldier with a broken heart.'
He flexed his hand, and for a split second, he could feel the phantom weight of a blade. The skill wasn't just a stat boost; it was knowledge. It was the muscle memory of a thousand lifetimes of killing. It whispered to him exactly where to cut to sever an artery, how to slip a blade between ribs without hitting bone, how to dismantle a living being in seconds.
It was a butcher's skill. And it suited him perfectly.
'Maybe that's why,' he thought darkly. 'Maybe the System saw what I was willing to become. A weapon.'
His mind drifted back to the catalyst of it all. The "Twin Dungeon." Operation Blackwater.
Five years ago, the intel had been "solid." A standard A-Rank Gate. Difficult, but manageable for a full military battalion supported by a team of B-Rank Hunters. But the intel was wrong. It wasn't an A-Rank. It was a Twin Dungeon—two dungeons occupying the same space, resonating with each other, amplifying the mana density and the monster tier to SS.
The Hunters had fled. They had used their escape stones, leaving the soldiers—who didn't have the mana capacity to use such expensive items—behind as bait.
Damien remembered the blood. He remembered the sound of Melissa's spine snapping. He remembered the rage that had shattered his mind, and in that moment of absolute despair, the blue screen had appeared.
Status.
It was his secret. His curse. And his only hope.
He had never trusted the Association since. He had stopped relying on their threat assessments, their monster encyclopedias, or their "support." He did his own recon. He killed with his own hands. And he remembered the day, a week after the funeral, when he had stormed into the Oval Office, bypassing the Secret Service, and held a knife to the President's throat, demanding to know why the backup never came.
If it weren't for Michael Thompson—Mel's father—talking him down, Damien would be dead or in a supermax prison. Or the President would be dead.
Damien sighed, the breath escaping him in a long, weary exhalation. He looked up at the ceiling tiles, counting the specks of dust.
'Was this the right choice? Going alone?'
The face of Ricky, terrified and tearful, flashed in his mind. The faces of his squad, the rookies who looked at him like he was a god of war.
'Yes,' he decided. 'Better me than them. Better the broken soldier than the ones who still have a life to live.'
He waved his hand through the air.
'Close.'
[Ding! Affirmative]
The blue light dissolved into particles and vanished.
'Let's just go to the Prime Minister's office. Time to face the music.'
He pushed off the wall and walked toward the exit, his stride long and purposeful.
The parking lot of the Pentagon was a sea of drab military vehicles—Humvees, Jeeps, generic black sedans. But amidst the sea of olive drab and matte black sat a beast of a different breed.
A Nissan GTR. Nismo edition. Deep, metallic grey that looked almost black in the failing light.
Damien walked up to it, the keys heavy in his pocket. He didn't buy this car. He couldn't have afforded it on a soldier's salary, even a Captain's. It was his inheritance.
His parents had been diplomats stationed in Germany. They were good people. pacifists. And they had died screaming when a dungeon break occurred in Berlin twenty years ago. Damien had been young, hidden away in a boarding school, safe but orphaned. The insurance payout and the liquidation of their assets had left him with a small fortune, most of which he had donated to veteran charities.
But he kept the car. His father had loved cars. It was the only memory Damien had left of a man he barely remembered.
He slid into the driver's seat. The interior smelled of expensive leather and stale tobacco. He pushed the start button.
***
-VROOM!
The engine roared to life, a guttural growl that vibrated through the chassis and into his spine. It was a raw, mechanical sound, aggressive and unapologetic. It was the sound of power.
Damien maneuvered the car out of the lot, the tires crunching on the wet gravel. He didn't drive recklessly, but he drove with precision, weaving through the D.C. traffic like a shark through a school of fish.
He headed towards Pennsylvania Avenue. Towards the White House.
The drive was a blur of rain-streaked windows and red taillights. When he finally pulled up to the security checkpoint of the White House, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the sky remained a menacing bruised purple.
Damien parked his sports car in the designated VIP slot—a privilege granted to him by the Prime Minister personally. He stepped out, the cool air hitting his face. He pressed the lock button on his fob.
-CHIRP-CHIRP!
The sharp, electronic sound of the lock confirmation cut through the ambient noise of the city.
'Should I change the sound of it?' Damien thought idly, staring at the sleek lines of the GTR. 'I'm already bored of hearing it. It's too... cheery. Maybe next time. If there is a next time, of course.'
He suppressed a morbid smile. The thought of dying in the dungeon didn't scare him. It excited him. It felt like an appointment he was finally keeping.
He walked toward the pedestrian gate. The usual relaxed security detail seemed to have been rotated out. Instead of the familiar faces of the Secret Service agents who usually nodded him through, two towering guards in black suits with earpieces stood blocking the path. They stared at him with cold, professional suspicion, scanning his uniform, his messy hair, his general aura of danger.
One of the guards, a man with a buzzcut and a scar on his chin, stepped forward.
"State your business," the guard asked, his hand hovering near his waist.
Damien stopped, looking the man up and down. New guy. Definitely a new guy.
"Damien V. Leone," Damien said, his voice flat. "I have an appointment with Prime Minister Thompson."
The guard didn't blink. He stared at Damien for a few seconds too long, trying to intimidate him. It was almost cute. Damien had stared down Behemoths that could swallow this man whole.
"Hmm." The guard looked at his partner, then tapped his earpiece, muttering something indistinguishable. After a pause, he nodded.
"Alright, come in," the guard said, stepping aside but keeping his eyes locked on Damien. "And—"
The guard leaned in, his voice dropping to a warning tone. "No funny business, Mister. We know who you are. We know what you're capable of."
Damien didn't even break stride. He ignored the threat, or maybe he just didn't care enough to acknowledge it. He walked past them as the heavy iron gates buzzed open.
'Seems a new hire for me,' Damien thought, shaking his head slightly. 'Most of the guards before, the ones who were here when I usually visited Mel... they knew better than to posture. Ehh, if Mel heard that, she'd really discipline those bastards. She'd have them doing laps around the Rose Garden for five days straight while she drank lemonade and critiqued their form. Lol.'
The memory of her laugh, bright and sharp, pierced his chest. He pushed it away. Focus.
He walked up the long driveway, the White House looming ahead, a symbol of power that felt incredibly fragile against the threat looming in Nevada.
As he approached the West Wing entrance, his eyes were drawn to a specific patch of the garden. Amidst the manicured roses and the perfect hedges, there was a cluster of flowers that looked slightly out of place.
Geraniums. Deep, vibrant purple Geraniums.
Damien stopped. The sight of them stopped him dead in his tracks.
'The Geranium Flower still exists here... eyy,' he thought, a lump forming in his throat.
He remembered the arguments. The President—a man obsessed with aesthetics and poll numbers—had wanted to remove them a year ago. He said they were "too common," "too messy" for the White House grounds. He wanted imported white lilies.
But Michael Thompson had fought him. The Prime Minister, usually a man of compromise, had drawn a line in the sand over a patch of dirt.
'I bet the President didn't succeed because of how hot-tempered the Prime Minister is when it comes to family,' Damien mused. 'Those flowers... they were Mel's.'
Melissa had planted the first seeds herself, years ago, when her father was just a Senator. She loved them. Not because they were expensive or rare, but because they were tough.
'Hey Mel,' Damien whispered in his mind, staring at the petals glistening with rain. 'Seems your flower still stands. No matter how many disasters it experiences, it won't give up. The storm today beat the hell out of them, but they're still standing.'
He reached out, almost touching a petal, but pulled his hand back.
'You were right. Purple flowers are the epitome of Perseverance. Stubbornness, really. Just like you.'
He checked his watch.
'Though I should hurry up. Your Dad might scold me for being late. And I can't handle two lectures in one day.'
Damien took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of wet earth and flowers, and turned toward the door. He straightened his uniform, put on his mask of indifference, and entered the White House.
The office of the Prime Minister was less an office and more a library of history. Dark mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled with legal texts and framed photos. A large window looked out over the lawn, framing the Washington Monument in the distance.
Prime Minister Michael Thompson sat behind a massive oak desk that was cluttered with files, maps, and half-empty coffee cups. He looked older than the last time Damien had seen him. His hair, once a distinguished salt-and-pepper, was now almost entirely white. Deep lines were etched around his mouth and eyes, the physical map of grief and stress.
But when he saw Damien enter, his face softened. The politician vanished, replaced by the father.
"Damien, my son," Michael said, his voice warm and raspy. "You finally visit your Father-in-Law, eyy?"
Michael stood up, bypassing the formal handshake, and pulled Damien into a tight hug. He smelled of old paper and stress. Damien hugged him back, squeezing tightly. For a moment, they weren't a soldier and a statesman; they were just two men united by a ghost.
"Sit, sit," Michael said, releasing him and gesturing to one of the plush leather chairs opposite the desk.
Damien sat, his posture rigid.
"So, why are you here today?" Michael asked, settling back into his chair and clasping his hands. He offered a tired smile. "Want to say sorry for not visiting earlier? Today is... well, you know what today is."
Damien looked down at the Persian rug, unable to meet Michael's eyes.
"I know," Damien said quietly. "I went to the grave. I... I know how shameful it is that I put my responsibilities first, before visiting you and Mom. I should have been here for tea. I should have been here to share stories."
Michael waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes remained sad. "Ohh, don't be gloomy, son. I'm just joking, y'know. I know the burden you carry. Melissa would have kicked your shin if you skipped work to mope around with old people. She always put the mission first."
Michael leaned forward, his expression sharpening. The warmth remained, but the politician's keen intellect came to the forefront.
"So, I want to ask again. Why are you really here at my office? You're in your dress uniform, but you look like you're ready for a war. What's going on?"
Damien took a deep breath. This was it. There was no going back.
He looked up, locking eyes with the man who had treated him like a son.
"I have a proposal, Prime Minister," Damien said, his voice steady.
Michael raised an eyebrow. He didn't like the formality. "Proposal? Since when do you make proposals? usually, you just demand things or break things."
"Yes," Damien ignored the jibe. "I know already there's a dungeon appeared. And worse, it's an SSS+ rank one."
Michael froze. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. He sighed, a long, heavy sound that seemed to deflate his entire frame. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"So, McArthur told you," Michael murmured. "I told him to keep a lid on it until we figured out a strategy. That old fool."
He looked at Damien, studying his face. He saw the determination there, the cold fire that had terrified the President five years ago. He saw the look of a man who had already made up his mind.
"Sigh, fine. Let's hear it," Michael said, putting his glasses back on. "What is this proposal? You want the Wombat Squad to lead the vanguard? You want better equipment? Name it."
Damien shook his head slowly.
"No."
Damien leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair until the leather creaked.
"I want you to send me," Damien said. "Only me. For this operation."
For a second, there was silence.
Then—
"WHAT?!"
Michael slammed his hands on the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet office. Coffee cups rattled. A pen rolled off the edge.
-SLAM!
Michael stood up, his face flushing red with sudden anger.
"Are you serious, Damien?!" he shouted, his voice losing all its paternal warmth. "You want to go alone?! Into an SSS+ Dungeon?! That is a suicide mission! That is madness! We are talking about a threat level that wipes out countries, and you want to play hero?!"
He walked around the desk, towering over Damien.
"Do you think I will allow this? Do you think I will let the only thing I have left of my daughter walk into a meat grinder? Absolutely not! I will ground you! I will strip you of your rank before I let you do this!"
Damien didn't flinch. He remained seated, looking up at the raging Prime Minister with calm, dead eyes.
"Dead serious, Prime Minister," Damien said softly.
He stood up slowly, matching Michael's height.
"I am dead serious."