Flash. Flash. Flash.
Outside the Black Fang's building, the front entrance was packed. Media crews pressed against the barricades, cameras snapping nonstop, reporters raising their voices above the noise.
"Victor should be here any minute!"
Photographers jostled for space, shoving their lenses higher to catch the first glimpse. The chatter only grew louder when a black limousine rolled up the driveway. Its polished surface reflected the afternoon sun, the Black Fang's insignia fixed proudly at the front: two fangs crossing over each other.
"There he is!"
"Victor's finally here!"
The crowd shouted, reporters scrambling to reposition. Microphones shot forward, each one waiting to catch his first word.
Then, all four doors of the car opened at once.
Men in black suits stepped out quickly, closing the doors behind them before forming a straight line. Their eyes swept the street, the rooftops, and the windows above, every detail scanned and measured.
Waves of camera flashes surged, bright enough to turn the night into day. The black vehicle's door opened, and a man stepped out to the roar of voices.
"Victor!" someone shouted.
Victor Morozov — the Anti-Mage.
Global Rank: 7
Dungeon Clears:
B-Class: 1,290
A-Class: 589
S-Class: 92
SS-Class: 10
SSS-Class: 1
His black suit was immaculate, his silver-crest gloves gleaming faintly under the flood of lights. He adjusted his tie, expression calm yet unyielding, before his eyes swept toward the main entrance of the building.
Another door opened, drawing an audible gasp from the crowd.
"Sergei!" someone cried, disbelief in their tone.
Reporters and onlookers surged forward, phones and cameras snapping furiously. To see two pillars of the Black Fang appear together — it was almost unheard of.
"Get pictures! Hurry!"
Sergei Volkov — the Lone Wolf.
Global Rank: 79
Dungeon Clears:
B-Class: 890
A-Class: 289
S-Class: 49
SS-Class: 3
SSS-Class: 0
His black suit fit him like armor, silver gloves flashing as he raised a hand. His white hair reflected the harsh streetlights, while his crimson eyes cut across the crowd before he broke into a broad grin.
"I've never felt this famous in my life!" he shouted, voice booming.
Victor gave him a sidelong glance — sharp, unreadable. Sergei's grin faltered, replaced by a scowl. Something was burning behind Victor's calm exterior, something he didn't voice.
"…Fine," Sergei muttered, following his lead.
The two advanced toward the building entrance, but the wall of reporters surged to block their path. Microphones thrust forward, questions fired like bullets.
"The Black Fangs are under heavy criticism! What do you say to the people?"
"Are we really safe under your watch?"
"That blonde girl—she acts like a criminal! Doesn't she care about property damage?"
"Will you accept responsibility if more innocents die during these outbreaks?"
The storm of criticism hammered against them. And then, one voice cut through the noise.
"What if a Z-rank dungeon were to outbreak?" the man shouted. "Do the Black Fangs even have the power to save Russia?"
The questions died instantly. Silence swept the crowd.
Victor and Sergei froze mid-step. Every camera, every microphone turned toward them.
Victor slowly turned, eyes locking on the man who asked. The weight of his gaze was enough to hush the restless crowd
"A Z-rank? That's a myth, no proof it ever existed. But if fate dares to summon one, remember my name. I am Victor Morozov, Russia's strongest. I will protect this country to the bitter end."
Although dismissive, Victor's words were enough to win the hearts of the reporters. The crowd outside erupted, patriotic cheers drowning out the earlier criticisms. Their voices carried even into the building, a muffled roar like the endless buzz of mosquitoes.
Victor and Sergei pushed forward, ignoring the noise, and stepped into the lobby.
They were greeted immediately by the clerk at the reception desk, her voice cheerful despite the chaos outside."Good morning, Mr. Victor, Mr. Sergei."
Sergei leaned casually on the desk, flashing a grin."Good morning! That red hat actually suits you."
The clerk laughed lightly and shrugged. Victor, however, lingered a second longer, his sharp eyes catching the gleam of her wrist."Your watch," he said in his monotone, "is pretty."
The clerk's cheeks warmed instantly, her composure cracking. She tucked her hair behind her ear, practically glowing at the compliment.
Sergei froze. He glanced between her beaming face and Victor's flat expression, his grin souring into disbelief. As they walked away toward the elevators, he jabbed Victor in the ribs."Hey, hey, hey. What the hell was that?"
Victor didn't even look at him. "What?"
"You're gonna pretend like she didn't hurt my feelings?"
Victor pressed the elevator button with cold precision. The light above flicked on."That's not her fault." He finally turned, his deadpan gaze making Sergei twitch. "Have you ever looked in a mirror?"
"Yeah. So what if I did?" Sergei snapped, puffing out his chest.
"You look scary as fuck," Victor replied in the same monotone. "Blend in. Or don't. I don't care."
The elevator dinged open. Sergei stormed inside, muttering, and caught his reflection in the mirrored walls. He tugged at his silver gloves, then at the collar of his suit, frustration bubbling."Unbelievable… a man who sounds like a broken radio is more popular than me." He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Why is life like this?"
"Hurry up," Victor droned as he stepped inside, "or I'll punch you through this elevator."
Victor let out a short laugh—still robotic, still monotone.
Sergei spun on him, exasperated. "Why is even your laugh monotone? Who's the human between us, huh?"
Victor smirked faintly but didn't reply. The doors slid shut.
As the numbers climbed on the panel, Sergei leaned against the rail, his red eyes flicking to Victor. "I've been wondering… does the Z-rank really exist?"
Victor adjusted his cuffs, gaze fixed on the rising floor numbers. "You stopped at that question, too. You've probably read the files."
"Nope." Sergei grinned. "Haven't touched them."
Victor drew in a slow breath. "Z-rank exists. But that information isn't public."
"And why's that?"
"Because Z-rank is calamity. A world-destroying threat." Victor's voice was low now, deliberate. "It's classified. Only the top mafia organizations have access to those files."
Sergei tilted his head, then burst out laughing, shoulders shaking. "So that's why you looked terrified when that guy asked earlier!"
Victor didn't rise to it. He kept his posture sharp, his tone steady. "There are only two Z-ranks recorded in history."
The humor drained from Sergei's face. He straightened, the elevator light glinting off his silver gloves. "...Two?"
Victor nodded. "The first appeared in 2008. The second in 2010."
"That's twenty years ago."
"You were still a child," Victor replied.
Sergei's brows furrowed. "So… how were they cleared?"
Victor's eyes sharpened, his jaw tightening. "The 2008 dungeon was called Frostbite. It appeared in Antarctica. No organization wanted to touch it. Only one man went."
"The Global Rank 1," Sergei muttered.
Victor gave a single nod. "He cleared it alone. Took him three months. That's how he earned his throne."
The elevator hummed quietly as they ascended. Sergei rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "And the second?"
Victor's gaze was distant, recalling it. "2010. The Gate of Hell. It surfaced in the deserts of China. Every organization wanted in—fame, rankings, power. But the Emperor barred them all. He cleared it alone. Four months."
Sergei whistled low. "And that made him Rank Two."
"Correct."
The panel beeped softly as the elevator neared its stop. Victor adjusted his tie, watching the numbers tick. "Fifteen years ago, an SSS-class appeared in the Pacific. Seven organizations joined forces." He glanced sideways. "I was there. It took us eight months."
The elevator slowed. Sergei looked at him, lips tugging into a grin despite the weight of the conversation."So what does that mean?"
Victor's eyes hardened as the doors slid open."It means we're doom"