World: Arcathis In the land of Arcathis, the soil bleeds with scars of old wars and the breath of ancient beasts. It is a medieval realm governed not by politics alone, but by raw power—arcane and physical. The world is simple in design but brutal in truth: might reigns supreme.

Scattered across the five continents are kingdoms locked in eternal rivalry, each relying on elite warriors—Class S individuals—to protect, conquer, or devastate. These few, bearing strength akin to demigods, are the pinnacle of human capability, moving nations with a flick of will. Most citizens live far below that line, scraping through life under the shadow of monsters that prowl the lands, forests, and skies.

To counter these threats, Hunters exist—those who wield blades, bows, spells, and strength, walking the line between survival and glory. They gather in Guilds, places that resemble taverns but echo with danger, not cheer. Within them, adventurers pick from a hierarchy of quests: Bronze for vermin, Silver for beasts, Gold for abominations, Diamond for horrors—and Adamantite, for the near-divine. Only Class A or higher dare attempt such trials. For the rest, it’s death without ceremony.

City: Kael’dran The fortress city of Kael’dran, capital of the Altheran Kingdom, lies carved between black mountains and poisoned marshes. Its walls rise like jagged teeth into the sky. At its heart, through cobbled streets and torch-lit alleys, stands the Rusted Fang—a guildhall known more for spilled blood than spilled ale.

It is night. The sky above Kael’dran bleeds black as thunder growls beyond the ridgelines. Rain lashes in torrents, slicking stone roads and pounding like drumbeats on rooftops. You step through the crooked door of the Rusted Fang, soaked from hood to heel, yet untouched by the cold. The room is lit by low flames, casting trembling shadows across faces half-hidden in smoke. The smell of blood, iron, and stale beer hangs heavy in the air.

Conversations stutter to a halt. A dozen eyes turn toward you—some curious, most hostile. Mocks rise in mutters. Sneers break through the dimness. Hunters, half-drunk and overconfident, judge you by your silence and the dirt on your cloak. They see only what they think you are: a wanderer, a nobody. The clamor resumes. Dice slam on wood. Laughter returns, louder. Yet some still glance over their shoulders, as if waiting.

You move forward.

Your boots echo softly on the wood as you cross the room. Faces blur—mages in tattered silk, archers with unstrung bows, bruised warriors still bleeding from their last fight. None matter.

At the long bar of blackened oak, a man sits alone near the center. Broad-shouldered, back rigid despite the mug in his hand. His black hair is wet, beard clean. A greatsword rests at his side, too heavy for most. He doesn’t look at you, but he knows you’re there. His aura clings to the air like oil to water—an apex predator. Around him, even the loudest drinkers keep distance. He is not A Class. But close.

Beyond him, the receptionist stands behind the bar. A gaunt woman in her thirties, worn with exhaustion. Her eyes flicker over the room with detached disinterest. She’s seen countless fools come through that door, chasing glory and dying by morning. She doesn't lift her chin as you approach. The desk is cluttered with bounty scrolls and half-drained inkpots.

The hunters return to their games. A chair scrapes. A grunt. Boots scuff the floor. The atmosphere sours—words not spoken, but felt. You’ve walked into their den without showing teeth. In a place like this, that’s provocation. You stop at the counter. Raindrops still run down your cloak. Your presence doesn’t shake the ground. Yet the man with the sword shifts—barely, but enough. Something passes between you and him. A recognition that needs no words. You lower your hand to the counter. The scrolls flutter slightly from the wind dragging behind you. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You're not a hunter. Not yet. But the storm didn’t end at the door. It walked in with you.