It was another cloudy day, and two figures were seen walking into a local tavern—Abaddon and Orlan.
From their appearance, they seemed different. Their clothes were rough and plain, and most notably, both had strange locks clamped around their right legs. Abaddon had tied his hair back and had gained noticeable muscle from the relentless work of digging ores in the mines for the past three weeks.
The pair took a seat, and Orlan ordered some drinks, placing three pieces of silver crowns on the counter—equivalent to ninety standard crowns.
Sitting down, Abaddon leaned back, crossing his arms on the table. His gaze drifted out the window as he reflected silently to himself.
'Three weeks since we arrived here at the Arcane Citadel. It's hard to believe such a place actually exists—a massive town entirely populated by slaves. From what Orlan's learned, this place used to be a Myth Nest until it was cleared out by the S.T.E.E.L. Organization's main headquarters. Now, it's a mining site, but the organization has built it up like any other town, with buildings and infrastructure. It almost feels normal... except it's anything but.'
As his thoughts wandered, his eyes caught sight of a young girl outside. She was running around playfully until she tripped and fell to the ground. Her sobbing was quickly silenced when her mother appeared, scooping her up and comforting her.
The scene made Abaddon tighten his grip on the table, but he remained outwardly composed as he continued to reflect.
'Three weeks ago, around the same time we were brought here, Archimedes' research base was reportedly attacked by one of his own experiments—G-66. Rumors say it took five Common-rankers to subdue it. I just hope Eleanor is safe...'
"Young master."
Orlan's voice pulled Abaddon from his thoughts. The older man gestured toward the drinks and roasted chicken set before them, silently urging him to eat. Abaddon glanced at Orlan, then back at the food, before slowly nodding.
'Orlan has changed too in these past three weeks. Ever since what happened to Eleanor, he hasn't recovered. Not fully. But I'm no different. I might look fine, but deep down, I'm furious—furious at myself for being so weak.'
As they began eating in silence, a deep, resonating clang echoed through the air. The colossal bell in the town square had been struck, its sound reverberating across the entire settlement.
Abaddon's face darkened as he scanned the tavern. The once lively chatter had turned to quiet dread. One by one, the patrons rose from their seats and began filing out. Outside, men and boys left their homes and workplaces, pickaxes in hand, all marching toward a single destination.
Orlan stood, looking down at Abaddon, who was only halfway through his meal.
"Young master, it's time. We'd best move before we draw any unwanted attention."
Without protest, Abaddon rose from his wooden chair, and the two joined the growing crowd. As they walked, Abaddon's thoughts drifted again.
'Three weeks of this, and I've learned one thing: there are three types of bell rings in this town. The first bell, at 8 a.m., summons all slaves—men and women alike—to the monastery to worship the gods. The second bell, in the afternoon, signals the men to hunt while the women prepare meals. The final bell, at sunset, marks the start of the mining shift, which lasts until midnight. During these times, the title of 'slave' truly becomes reality, and rankers from the Arcane Citadel come to oversee everything. There's no escape.'
As they reached the town square, two individuals sat astride mechanical horses. Both wore green uniforms, leather boots, gloves, and caps. One was puffing smoke from a pipe, while the other gripped a whip, exuding an air of smug authority.
The man with the whip surveyed the crowd before barking out orders.
"Listen up, slaves! It's time to hunt. Each of you is expected to bring back at least one myth. You may form groups of four to make it easier. You have until noon. The last group to return will face serious punishment from the higher-ups."
The square erupted into murmurs, but Abaddon's focus was elsewhere. His gaze turned upward, past the towering mountains that seemed to pierce the sky, to the massive floating island looming above the town.
'The Arcane Citadel—a branch of the S.T.E.E.L. Organization devoted to arcane research and magical exploration which is also under the command of Archimedes—rules over this territory. They employ mages from across the world and use the slaves here for their expeditions. To them, our lives hold no value. I've heard their leader is from the Phoenix Elf race.'
Abaddon's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of a whip slicing through the air, instantly silencing the crowd of slaves. The soldier wielding it cast a deadly glare over them before shouting harshly.
"I said group up into fours and hunt! Every group must bring back a Myth, even if it means using one of your lives as bait. Now get moving!"
The soldier's harsh words struck a nerve among the slaves, but no one dared to protest.
'Most of the men here were drifters and homeless who had willingly come to this place for the promise of a silver crown each week, along with free food and shelter. A town full of slaves might not seem ideal, but for many, it was better than the alternative. However, for those of us brought here against our will, escape was a constant thought.'
Abaddon glanced down at the lock fastened to his leg, his golden eyes narrowing in frustration
'But there's no escaping this place. An invisible energy barrier surrounds the town, isolating it completely. That bastard Archimedes thought of everything. The barrier prevents anyone with these slave locks from crossing. If you try, you'll be incinerated. Every slave here—man, woman, or child—is bound by these cursed devices while the soldiers remain free.'
As Abaddon stood, staring at the distant horizon, Orlan busily tried to recruit two additional members for their group. After what felt like an eternity, Orlan returned with two individuals about Abaddon's age, a girl with short black hair and a round, fat baldy boy.
Abaddon studied them as Orlan introduced them.
"Hey there, newbie. I'm Jane,"
The girl said, blushing slightly as she looked at Abaddon.
Fatty stammered nervously before introducing himself.
"I... I'm Orin."
Abaddon gave them a smile devoid of any emotions as he introduced himself as Abaddon.Pointing to Orlan he introduced him as his uncle.
Orlan raised an eyebrow at being called "uncle" but decided to play along, offering a small nod.
With the groups formed, the soldiers assigned numbers and handed out crude weapons for the hunt. Soon, the groups dispersed, each heading into the dense forest.
Several minutes later, the forest came alive with activity as the groups dispersed in different directions. Meanwhile, Group Eight—Abaddon's team—gathered atop a mountain peak, overlooking the forest below. At the forefront stood Abaddon, his golden pupils gleaming with confidence as he gazed downward, arms crossed in a commanding stance.
Turning to his group, he spoke decisively.
"I believe you've noticed that the easier Myths have already been claimed by the other groups. The remaining ones are no less dangerous. Even the weakest Vermin Class-I Myths pose significant threats to ordinary humans like us."
Jane, visibly concerned, asked.
"So, do you have a plan, boss?"
Abaddon nodded and crouched, using a stick to draw a rough map in the soil. As he explained his strategy, the group listened intently. His plan seemed sound, and for the first time, their unease began to subside.
With a clear plan in mind, they entered the woods, moving cautiously through a maze of ancient trees that towered above them making their way toward their target.
Group One, led by Sedric—the strongest slave in the town—was already battling a Bone-Claw Alligator in the swamps. Despite the danger posed by Vermin Class-I Myths, Sedric and his team were holding their own. These beasts might be deadly to ordinary humans, but to rankers, they were little more than pests. That's why the groups were formed—to minimize casualties.
Meanwhile, Group Eight finally reached their chosen destination, the entrance to a dark, ominous cave.
"This is it."
Orlan pointed toward the cave just a few meters away as they crouched behind a tree.
"This is the Cave of the Fire Tempest Wolf,"
Abaddon muttered under his breath.
The cave was home to a Fire Tempest Wolf, a formidable myth even among Vermin Class-I creatures. Its ability to wield fire made it far deadlier than its peers, and it was rumored to possess a rare myth Soul-Ore. Defeating it would require at least fifteen fighters as strong as Sedric.
Yet here stood Group Eight, woefully underprepared but determined. They were about to attempt the impossible: hunting an Alpha Myth of the Vermin Class-I tier.