On the dark and cold nights of the exile zone in Titan City, heavy rain poured down, accompanied by thunder that roared through the sky. Strong winds howled, carrying the scent of blood and death to the people of this forsaken land
In a deserted, crumbling place, Raiven sat—a sixteen-year-old boy with pale white skin and jet-black hair. His body was extremely thin, his clothes torn and filthy, and his skin stained with blood. Yet, what truly set him apart were his sharp golden eyes, eyes that seemed to have witnessed the tragedies of life far beyond his years. He held a short sword in his hands, carefully wiping off the blood that covered its cold metal. That sword was the only precious thing he owned, a symbol of the hope and vengeance that still remained within him.
Raiven had lived a tragic life, one filled with hardship and loss. His only companions were the ghosts of a past era—those who had fallen to the monsters. His home was nothing more than a crumbling building amidst the ruins, where the decayed remains of old structures stood as silent reminders of a forgotten past. Looking at his shelter, it could hardly be called a home; its fragile walls offered little protection from the harsh realities of the outside world. With no one to stand by his side, Raven had learned to rely on his wits and instincts to survive in a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty.
His body was covered in wounds, with rain soaking his skin and mixing with the blood that coated him entirely. Despite his injuries, his golden eyes remained clear, as if he had been through this situation countless times before.
"Looks like they won't let me go this time!" Raiven sighed with a dark expression, his sharp gaze filled with cunning as he listened to the approaching voices in the distance.
He struggled to breathe due to his injuries and exhaustion. "I need to finish this quickly."
The voices of three men grew louder as they neared Raiven's hiding spot, their shouts filled with rage.
"I don't think you realize what you've done, boy."
"You did something you shouldn't have... and you'll pay a heavy price for it."
"Just surrender and come with us quietly. Maybe he'll show you mercy."
They shouted angrily, their voices echoing through the ruins as they searched for him, but to no avail. Raiven remained hidden on a broken overpass that connected his home to the remains of a crumbling building in one of the narrow alleyways. From above, he watched them closely as they unknowingly walked right beneath thim.
A sharp, cold look settled on his face. He knew that if he didn't kill, he would be killed. Taking a deep breath, he didn't hesitate—gripping his sword tightly, he leaped toward the one walking alone at the back.
As the three men walked, grumbling among themselves, a loud crashing sound behind them made the two in front snap their heads around. When they looked back, they saw a young man standing over a corpse—the blade of his sword had pierced through the man's back, pinning him to the ground.
Despite the oppressive darkness of this cursed night, the flashing lightning illuminated the scene, revealing everything in horrifying clarity. The dead man's face was frozen in shock and fear—he had died without even realizing how it happened. But Raiven didn't stop there. Without hesitation, he severed the man's head. It was instinctual for him—he would never leave any room for uncertainty when he killed.
The other two were utterly shocked. All three of them were experienced fighters; they knew how brutal this boy was. He had gained a reputation for his skill and savagery. But they had always believed they were untouchable—seasoned killers who couldn't possibly fall to a mere child.
But now... what just happened? One of them was dead. Just like that.
Raiven tried to take advantage of their shock, quickly retreating to find another hiding spot. He knew his body was frail and weak, so he always relied on striking first and vanishing before they could retaliate.
But just as he was pulling back, a sudden, searing pain tore through his shoulder—he had been struck by a sword.
One of the three men was a bald, white-skinned brute with a massive build. He had thrown his sword at Raven, forcing him to dodge, before drawing another blade with a sinister grin.
"Did you really think you could escape, you filthy rat?!"
"Tsk... He has sharp instincts and quick reflexes. For someone that big, I thought he'd be slow and brainless." Raiven muttered as he took a few steps back, clutching his wounded shoulder. But despite his injuries, he remained composed, raising his sword in front of him, preparing to face both opponents.
"Attack him together!" one of them shouted.
The two men charged at Raiven with impressive speed. He narrowly dodged the first strike and tried to slash at the second man's neck, but the bald brute intercepted him, forcing him several steps back. The relentless assault continued, their swords clashing loudly against his in the dead of night.
Raiven kept retreating, taking minor wounds along the way. It was clear the two had the upper hand—or perhaps it was his accumulated injuries that were beginning to wear him down. His expression started shifting to one of fear and desperation.
Yet, despite the pressure, he had managed to avoid any fatal injuries. He deliberately let his body take small wounds to evade lethal strikes from his opponents.
Seeing Raiven breathing heavily, struggling to parry, and wearing a look of fear and anxiety, the second man grew excited. He thought Raiven was finally breaking down.
Laughing maniacally, he charged forward alone. "Hahaha! You little brat, you're going to die by my hands!"
The man was confident in his victory. He had left the bald brute behind, eager to claim the kill for himself. After all, Raiven's head was wanted by a Hunter, and earning the recognition of a Hunter in this ruthless place was no small feat.
But just as he reached Raiven, something changed.
Raiven's terrified expression vanished in an instant. His face returned to its cold, calculating state, and a sneer of contempt spread across his lips.
"You idiot. You should never have abandoned your partner and rushed in alone."
As the man's sword came down, Raiven didn't block it. Instead, with swift, fluid footwork, he took a slight step backward, then sidestepped to the left, completely evading the attack.
Now, he stood to the man's right.
Panic flashed in his opponent's eyes. He tried to retreat—but it was too late.
With a powerful swing, Raiven severed the man's arm. A sharp strike to the knee followed, sending him collapsing onto one leg, writhing in agony.
Raiven placed his foot on the man's shoulder, forcing him to look up. His eyes, filled with terror, met Raven's cold, merciless gaze.
"There is no place for fools in this world."
Raiven spat on the man's face before swinging his sword down, severing his head. It rolled across the ground, leaving a trail of blood behind.
This had been his plan from the start. He had deliberately shown fear and anxiety, deceiving his opponent into thinking he was vulnerable. He knew the greedy nature of humans—he was certain one of them would take the bait. And that's exactly what happened.
⸻
A short distance away, the bald man's expression turned serious. He shifted into an offensive stance, fully focused now. He had realized the boy in front of him wasn't just some weakling—he was dangerous.
"No wonder they call you the Cunning Angel. With skills and intelligence like yours, you could've joined any guild or clan... if only you weren't born in this forsaken place."
"Oh, that title?" Raiven smirked mockingly. "Your boss gave me that after I cut off his tail. Is he still holding a grudge?"
The bald man's face twisted in disgust. "Boy, you should never have messed with a Hunter. You've done something you can't take back. Now, every exile in this place is after you, under his command. Your death is inevitable."
Without warning, the bald man lunged at Raiven, unleashing a flurry of powerful, rapid strikes. Each blow forced Raiven back, his arms growing numb from the impact. The difference in their physical strength was immense—Raiven was struggling just to hold his ground.
As the fight dragged on, Raiven's breathing grew more labored. A deep gash had opened in his abdomen, blood pouring out.
"Damn it... He's too strong. If this keeps up, I'll die... but I can't retreat now."
After blocking a particularly strong strike, Raiven used the momentum to push himself backward, dodging the fight as if trying to escape at any opportunity.
"Do you think I'll let you run away after killing two of my men?!"
Seeing Raiven avoid most of his attacks, yet still alive, the bald man grew more aggressive. His frustration boiled over—he hadn't managed to kill the boy yet.
And this was exactly what Raiven wanted.
He needed the bald man to lose his composure, to act recklessly out of anger. All he needed was one opening.
Raiven took a powerful blow that sent him crashing to the ground, but he quickly got back on his feet. The bald man was ecstatic, convinced the fight was over, and lunged at Raiven with his sword aimed straight for his chest. However, just as he got close, Raiven threw a handful of red powder—one he had personally prepared using flammable materials—into the bald man's face.
Under normal circumstances, this trick wouldn't have worked. But with the bald man letting his guard down, fully believing in his victory, it was just effective enough. In the fraction of a second that he instinctively closed his eyes, Raiven's sword pierced his chest and sliced all the way up to his neck.
But Raiven didn't escape unscathed. The bald man's sword, thrown off course in his final moments, slashed across Raiven's abdomen in a gruesome cut, leaving his intestines partially exposed.
The bald man collapsed, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Just one moment of carelessness... and this is the result? His thoughts swirled in regret. What kind of cunning, brutal monster is he? He took a fatal wound just to kill me...?
He wanted to move, to escape, but before he could, he saw a shadow looming over him. He weakly lifted his head, only to see Raven's sword descending. The blade pierced his skull, slicing his head clean off.
Raiven fell back, resting against the wall. His guts were spilling from his body, the pain so intense that he was on the verge of losing consciousness. His breaths were heavy, and he couldn't move—not just because of his wounds, but because of his frail, malnourished body. He cursed under his breath as he assessed his condition.
"Looks like I'm going to die..."
He paused, looking down at the ground where the rain had mixed with blood, turning it a deep crimson.
With a weary sigh, his gaze drifted into the distance—toward the distant silhouette of the World Tower. It had always stood as a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness, a symbol of power and status.
Years ago, strange gates had suddenly appeared, unleashing hordes of monsters and pushing humanity to the brink of extinction. But then, as if in response, the colossal, ethereal crystal tower had emerged from nothingness, shrouded in mystery. Over time, people discovered that those chosen by the tower would receive a unique mark on their bodies—usually on their left arm—signifying their eligibility to challenge it. And those who conquered it... were granted unimaginable power.
Naturally, anyone who gained such power became known as a Hunter—highly respected and admired. But their numbers were incredibly rare.
"Am I... unworthy of entering it?"
Raiven had always dreamed of stepping into the World Tower. It was his only chance to escape the filthy hellhole he was born into.
"Don't joke with me, you damn tower! Do you think I'm not good enough?! If I wasn't born in this cursed place, do you think I'd be dying like this?! Damn you! Damn you all! I won't die! I won't die! I'll kill them all—every single one of those bastards who caused their deaths...!"
His furious screams echoed toward the tower, his fierce, unrelenting eyes refusing to accept death. He was stubborn, desperate—he still wanted to live. He wasn't ready to let his miserable life end here.
But his body had reached its limit. He felt himself growing colder. His vision blurred. His eyes became empty. He could feel his soul slipping away.
Then, the darkness swallowed him.
This... was what it meant to be born with great talent trapped inside a fragile body.