As Kyle Nyeku, the indomitable leader of the Peerless Guild, parted his lips and spoke the name, Dungeon Boss, the air inside the ceremonial hall seemed to shatter.
The crowd that had moments ago been basking in the radiance of his presence, cheering like fanatics drunk on hope, fell into an instant, stunned silence.
Not a whisper. Not a cough. Not even the hum of the ceremonial lights above.
It was as if the very name had authority over sound itself.
A pressure settled over the room like a thick fog, invisible yet suffocating, heavy with dread and disbelief.
And somewhere in the front row, Tyrone Gardon blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His expression flickered between confusion, disbelief, and something dangerously close to amusement. Then, as if his brain finally accepted what his ears had heard, he slowly tilted his head to the side, brought the microphone up to his mouth, and spoke in his usual dry, deadpan drawl.
"Wait… that's it? That's the big reveal?"
A few people exchanged nervous glances.
Tyrone turned to the audience, gesturing with a lazy wave of his hand, then pointed a casual finger at Kyle like he was calling out a magician for showing a rabbit instead of a dragon.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Neonsvale," he said with exaggerated solemnity, "you heard it here first. Another clown has risen from the ashes of ego to slap the Devil and call it foreplay."
A few chuckles slipped out, sharp, surprised, and a bit desperate. Not true laughter, but more like the wheeze people let out when they realize the rollercoaster has no brakes.
Tyrone, sensing the awkward tension, leaned into it like a seasoned performer working a grim crowd.
"Seriously? Dungeon Boss? You're gonna walk into that monster's house like it's a bake sale? What, you bringing cookies and optimism?"
He sighed heavily into the mic, theatrically rubbing his temples like a man who'd just watched someone put a fork in a toaster.
"I've been doing this a long time, folks. I've seen all kinds. The noble martyrs. The hot-headed rookies. The mid-life crisis crusaders. And every single time someone says Dungeon Boss with a straight face, I start mentally drafting their obituary with a big, bold 'Oops' at the top."
This time, the laughter was a little louder, but still uneasy.
Because despite the jokes, everyone in that hall knew the truth.
Dungeon Boss.
The name didn't just invoke fear, it summoned memories. It was a scar on the collective mind of every hunter, every guild, every nation.
It was a wound that had never closed.
And the whispers began again.
Low. Hushed. Terrified.
"They say it's alive…"
"No one's ever come back."
"A hundred S-ranks went in last year… we didn't even get corpses."
"My cousin went with an elite unit. The comms cut off two minutes in. Static. Just static."
Even the fresh-faced rookies, the ones too young to have lived through the first failed expedition, were shifting in place, knuckles whitening around weapon hilts, eyes darting around like prey animals sensing a predator.
Tyrone, always one to push the line between comedy and cruelty, grinned as he twisted the knife.
"Well, Kyle…" he said, voice rich with sarcasm, "if you're planning to knock on Death's front door, at least bring snacks. I hear he likes his meat bold, seasoned, and very brave."
A ripple of laughter broke through again—this one more genuine.
But Kyle?
He didn't laugh.
Didn't smirk.
Didn't even blink.
He simply stepped forward, a single stride that echoed like a drumbeat on marble, his eyes never leaving Tyrone's.
The atmosphere shifted again—no longer tense, but focused.
When he spoke, his voice wasn't raised.
But it carried like a declaration from a king, or a blade being unsheathed.
"I'm not going in to die," he said, every syllable carved from iron. "I'm going in to end it."
Silence.
No punchline followed. No mocking rebuttal. Tyrone's grin faltered, just slightly, as a fresh wave of unease passed over the room.
Someone near the back whispered again, louder this time.
"The place eats S-ranks for breakfast."
That was the truth.
And everyone knew it.
Tyrone cleared his throat, eyes narrowing as he searched Kyle's face for the slightest crack—fear, uncertainty, bravado. But there was nothing. Only calm, grounded conviction.
He turned back to the crowd, shrugging with a dramatic flair.
"You all heard him," Tyrone said. "He wants to walk into the pit that chews up gods and spits out ash."
He gestured around the hall, his voice louder now, cutting across the growing tension.
"How many have tried? How many with legends, titles, sacred relics, and invincible egos walked into that dungeon... and never came back out?"
His hand dropped.
"And now you want to follow that same path, Kyle?"
But Kyle remained still. Like a statue forged from divine ore.
His presence didn't just inspire—it challenged. He wasn't inviting followers. He was setting a line in the sand.
And when he spoke again, it wasn't just to Tyrone.
It was to everyone.
To every hunter watching.
To the world.
"I'm not chasing fame. I'm not chasing glory. I'm walking into that dungeon… because it's time someone did what needed to be done."
Kyle stood firm at the center of the ceremonial hall, the golden insignia of the Peerless Guild gleaming on his chest like a sunburst of defiance.
His gaze swept over the sea of doubting eyes—seasoned hunters shifting uncomfortably, veterans lowering their heads, and newcomers caught between awe and fear. Whispers still lingered in the air, clinging to the silence like ghosts too afraid to speak aloud.
But Kyle didn't waver.
Didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward again, slowly, letting the sound of his boots echo through the vast chamber like war drums.
"How many more years," he said, voice steady and cold as mountain wind, "are we going to let that dungeon haunt us?"
The question struck like a stone tossed into still water—ripples of uncertainty spreading through the crowd.
"It's been ten years," Kyle continued, his tone rising with each word. "Ten years since the first Dungeon appeared on Earth. Since the skies cracked open and monsters spilled through the rifts. We've bled. We've lost cities. We've lost heroes. But through it all, we pushed back."
He paused, letting his words hang.
"Through the chaos… we adapted."
Heads turned. Some straightened in their seats. Others clenched their fists.
"We built the Guilds. We trained Awakened. We cleared dungeons. Fought horrors most people only see in nightmares. And every time we fell, we stood back up. Humanity didn't break."
He lifted a hand and pointed toward the giant, floating screen behind him—a rotating display of cleared dungeon records and defeated bosses, each bearing the seal of the Peerless Guild.
"We've conquered thousands of dungeons—each deadlier than the last. We tamed the wild zones. We reined in the Leviathans of the Deep Craters. We took back the skies from the Sky Eaters. We've done it all."
A murmur of agreement stirred in the crowd now. Faces that had been hardened with doubt began to soften—just a little.
"But one dungeon…" Kyle said, lowering his hand slowly. "One dungeon has remained. A scar in the heart of the world."
He let the name linger.
Dungeon Boss.
"Ten years," Kyle repeated, quieter now. "And not a single soul has cleared it. Not one. The strongest of our kind, the legends we built statues for… not one came back."
A cold hush returned to the room.
Kyle's voice cut through it like a sword.
"And do you know what's worse than death?"
He looked around.
"Cowardice disguised as caution."
The words stabbed deep. A few S-rankers flinched. Tyrone shifted in his seat, brows furrowed.
"They say it's impossible. That it's suicide. That no one can defeat the Dungeon Boss. So they don't try."
He stepped forward again, eyes burning now.
"But that ends today."
A flash of light danced in his irises.
"I have full confidence in the Peerless Guild," Kyle declared, his voice ringing with unshakable conviction. "We've mapped eighty percent of the dungeon. Eighty percent! We've done what no one else has even attempted. We've faced horrors in that place that would break armies—and we've lived. We've adapted. Grown stronger. Smarter."
He clenched a fist, raising it skyward like a banner.
"This last stretch? It's ours. A piece of cake."
Some in the crowd scoffed. Others chuckled nervously.
But the fire in Kyle's voice didn't falter.
"Yes, those S-rankers are dead. But let me say it loud for all of you who keep comparing us to the past—we are not them."
The Peerless Guild members behind him rose to their feet in perfect unison, like a tidal wave of discipline and belief. Their armor gleamed, their eyes unwavering.
"We are the Peerless Guild," Kyle roared, his voice crashing like thunder. "We don't chase glory. We define it."
The hall was still for a heartbeat.
Then:
"We go in Peerless."
"And we come out Peerless."
A roar erupted from his guild members, fists raised high, echoing the chant.
"Peerless in! Peerless out!"
The final echoes of the chant—"Peerless in! Peerless out!"—reverberated through the ceremonial hall like the distant thunder of war drums.
The members of the Peerless Guild stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes blazing with loyalty and unshaken belief.
And then…
Hiss.
The sound was subtle at first—like steam escaping a cracked pipe—but it multiplied. One by one, hunters across the hall began jeering, scoffing, sneering with thinly veiled contempt.
Some shook their heads.
Others outright laughed.
Kyle's jaw tightened. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected—not after that speech, not after baring his convictions in front of everyone.
Instead of reverence, he got ridicule.
One hunter near the back leaned toward his companion and muttered, loud enough to be heard:
"Tch… I skipped my cousin's wedding for this crap?"
Another snorted beside him. "You think that's bad? I pawned my sniper rifle to afford the dress code!"
Laughter spread like wildfire.
Mocking. Disrespectful. Scalding.
Kyle's fingers curled into fists at his sides.
And then, like a vulture swooping in for the kill, Tyrone Gardon stepped forward again—eyes gleaming, voice already primed for performance.
He tapped the mic twice, the reverb intentionally jarring.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said with theatrical flair, "you heard it here first. Straight from the lips of our Peerless Prophet himself—another death march has been scheduled!"
A few choked on their laughter.
Others applauded sarcastically.
"That's right," Tyrone went on, striding to the edge of the stage like he owned it. "Tonight's exclusive? The Peerless Guild is serving up premium-grade S-rank meat for the Dungeon Boss. Bon appétit, you nightmare-loving freak!"
The hall roared with laughter now—genuine, uncontrollable belly-laughs. Even some Guild members flinched, their earlier zeal now looking oddly misplaced.
Tyrone turned to one of the holo-cameras hovering nearby and gave a dazzling grin.
"This is Tyrone Gardon with the Evening Daily. Live. Direct. And in disbelief."
He paused dramatically and leaned into the mic.
"If you've ever wondered what suicidal overconfidence looks like… look no further."
Then he gave a short bow to Kyle—mocking, theatrical.
"May your death be glorious."
The camera lights blinked. The feed was broadcasting worldwide.
Kyle didn't respond.
Couldn't.
For a single moment, he stood alone—his voice drowned by mockery, his dream trampled under boots of ridicule.
But behind his eyes, behind the silence… something cold and resolute began to burn.