On stage, actors move beneath flickering spotlights, their voices echoing in dramatic cadence—but Tristan pays none of it any attention.

From the privacy of his velvet-draped viewing room, he stares past the performance, lost in the storm of his thoughts.

His mind burns with the humiliation he endured at last night’s dinner.

He wants them dead—all of them. Every brother and sister who laughed at him, who mocked him.

But he can’t. Not because of blood ties or familial affection. That means nothing to him.

He can’t because he doesn’t have the power.

Maybe he could take one or two down before anyone reacted—but he’d be caught. And Tristan Valmont does not plan to die for a petty half-measure.

So that revenge must wait.

But not the other.

Not Adam.

He’s already posted a bounty on the dark web—100 million credits to anyone who brings him Adam’s head.

For days, nothing. Silence.

Until this evening.

A message. A reply.

Someone finally accepted.

The meeting is to take place here, in this private room overlooking the stage. But Tristan has no intention of making it easy.

He gave no names, no guards to escort. If the assassin is real—if they’re worth anything—they’ll find their way into this room unnoticed.

That’s the test.

If they fail, his guards will intercept them and toss their bodies into the Bali River to bloat and rot with the fish.

If they succeed… then maybe, just maybe, Adam Taylor will die.

Tristan checks the time—two minutes left until the meeting.

He counts down the seconds in his head, eyes fixed on the gold-trimmed clock across the wall.

When the hands strike 10:00 p.m., he sighs, already preparing himself for disappointment.

Maybe he’d have to do it himself.

He lifts his head—and freezes.

A scream climbs up his throat, but he clamps it down, forcing a slow breath to calm his racing heart.

Two figures stand in the shadowed corner of the room, cloaked in garments that merge perfectly with the darkness.

Silent. Unseen. Until now.

One of them speaks, voice like smoke. “We passed your test. Now fulfil your promise.”

Tristan’s fear twists into fascination. His lips curl into a curious smile. “And who do you think I am?”

He leans back. “You’ll get the thirty per cent deposit before you leave—but first, tell me… are you two some of those extraordinaries

the Federation hides?”

The second figure answers, “Yes.”

Tristan nods slowly. “Then what should I call you?”

“You can call us X and Y,” the first replies.

“And who is X and who is Y?”

“You decide,” the second one says.

Tristan shrugs. “I don’t care about your names.”

He pauses, eyes gleaming with greed. “I’ll give you another hundred million if you teach me how to cultivate your extraordinary way.”

The first one replies, “Let us finish the job first. Then we’ll consider it.”

Tristan grabs a bag by his feet and tosses it across the room.

The second catches it without a sound.

The first speaks again, “You’ll hear from us in a week.”

Tristan watches as the shadows seem to ripple, and the two vanish, swallowed by the dark.

He steps forward, searching the spot where they stood. Nothing.

He returns to his seat, the play unfolding unnoticed on stage.

His mind races, a plan beginning to take shape.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

When they return for the remaining seventy per cent… he’ll be ready.

He’ll trap them.

Torture them.

Extract every secret of their extraordinary path—whether they like it or not.

—–

Demon hunter headquater.

In a large meeting room, twelve chairs circle a long, polished table—each one filled by men and women ranging in age from fresh-faced youth to seasoned elders.

At the head sits an old man, stern-eyed, gripping a cane carved with serpents and runes.

He taps the table once. “Everyone is here. Let’s begin discussing our new problem.”

Green lines flare across the table’s surface, forming a holographic projection that hovers in the air above: a dense forest, cloaked in shadow, and deep within it—a dark hole.

From the hole, figures emerge one by one—snake demons, tall and scaled, slithering into the world.

Gasps, whispers, and startled murmurs ripple through the room.

A woman with golden hair cascading over one shoulder speaks up, her voice smooth but alert. “Master Teak, where did this portal open? It doesn’t look like Federation territory.”

The old man nods grimly. “It’s not.”

A young man with electric blue spiked hair smirks. “Then it’s not our problem.”

But another man—curly-haired, voice sharp—shoots him a glance. “Rubel, if Master Teak called this meeting, it is

our problem.”

Master Teak speaks again, calm but heavy. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But in the coming years—it will be.”

He taps the table once more.

The image shifts to a full map of the continent.

Blue shades mark the Federation’s land. Red covers the vast, untamed wilds ruled by giant beasts. A single yellow dot pulses at the centre-west of the landmass.

Master Teak’s finger hovers over it.

“That’s where the portal opened,” he says. “Too close for comfort.”

He scans the room, eyes sharp. “Many of you already know—we have those in power among us who would gladly bow to demons, hoping for a taste of greater strength.”

Rubel slams his fist on the armrest. “We should’ve crushed the tech movement before it bloomed. Smashed it in its cradle.”

Murmurs of agreement and dissent rise again, but Master Teak says nothing.

He only leans forward, cane tapping once more against the floor—his silence heavier than any shout.

The young man with black curly hair breaks it. “It’s not the technology’s fault. It’s the parasites who rose to power through it.”

A mature woman with straight silver hair, calm but sharp, says, “Not all of them are parasites.”

“I wasn’t talking about your family, Sylvia.”

Sylvia nods without taking offence.

A bald, slightly older man leans in. “Isn’t the real issue the blockade? We’ve kept them cut off from any real knowledge about the Demons.”

Rubel scoffs. “And for good reason. Every year, they’re caught running illegal and banned experiments. If they learn even a fraction of what we know about the Demon Race, who knows what horrors they’d unleash?”

The bald man—Vance—folds his arms. “Then let them. Let them experiment on the Demons. If we’re ever going to fight them, we’ll need an edge.”

A woman with light green bobbed hair snaps back, “Vance, are you joking? Fight the Demon Realm? You know the difference between our worlds. We’d need at least a thousand years of uninterrupted rapid development just to begin to challenge them.”

And she’s right.

The Federation’s plan was never to fight the Demons.

The power disparity between the two worlds is so vast, it’s laughable—any resistance now would be suicide.

Their goal is time.

To delay the inevitable transformation of their world.

To grow strong enough that, when they do submit to the Demon Race, they can do so with leverage.

With enough strength to be treated like a middle-tier Demon Clan.

To retain even a sliver of autonomy after surrender.

The green-haired woman says, “Which might never happen. The Demons have left us alone because they know we’ll eventually join them. The only conflicts now come from middle-tier Demon clans… and the Church of the Void Demon.”

Rubel nods grimly. “Exactly. And if those parasites learn about the Demons and start poking around, they could escalate things. The middle clans are already unstable. If conflict flares, we won’t survive it.”

Murmurs rise. Arguments spark. Voices overlap.

Teak slams his cane against the floor.

A shrill, piercing ring bursts into their minds, jarring, painful.

Everyone winces, silence crashing over the table like a wave.

Teak speaks, calm but iron-willed. “Let’s end this discussion. The question now: will we send forces to counter the Snake Demon Clan or not?”

The hologram shifts, zooming out to show the surrounding terrain near the dimensional breach. The Snake Demon Clan’s army is bordered by wild zones—populated by massive beasts, some armoured, others standing upright like men.

Vance squints. “That territory belongs to the Sheep Apostle. We should talk to him before making any move.”

The black-haired youth nods. “Agreed. Sending troops without his consent could spark conflict. First, we request permission. In the meantime, we form a blockade. No Demon steps into our territory, and none of our people stumble into theirs.”

Teak taps his cane once, decisively. “That’s the plan, then. All in agreement?”

Twelve heads nod as one.

Vance pushes back his chair. “I’ll speak with the Sheep Apostle myself.”

Rubel’s body begins to shimmer, fading at the edges. “Then I’m leaving.”

Teak frowns. “The meeting isn’t over.”

Rubel pauses. “What else is there to discuss?”

Teak taps his cane against the table. The hologram flickers and shifts, now showing an ancient stone archway embedded with glowing runes.

Sylvia narrows her eyes. “What is that?”

A woman with shimmering violet hair answers, “That’s a permanent portal gate.”

Teak nods. “Specifically, the stone portal at the Exploration Department. They’ve discovered a new dimension.”

Gasps ripple through the room.

Three voices rise at once: “What?” “Seriously?” “When?”

Teak remains steady. “It was found a month ago. And now, with the gate stabilised, we can access it freely.”

Rubel’s fading form solidifies for a moment, his eyes gleaming. “Let me be the pioneer!”

Vance immediately cuts in. “You can’t.”

Rubel scowls. “Why not?”

Vance replies, “Because if you—or any Demon Hunter—steps inside, the Demon World will sense it. And once they become aware, that dimension will no longer be ours to claim.”

Teak adds, “Which is why we must send only martial artists. Let them explore and conquer first, quietly.”

He taps the cane again. “The first wave will include twelve King Kong Realm martial artists. Each of you will select one from your faction.”

The room settles as nods pass from one member to another.

With the date of the expedition finalised, one by one, the members’ bodies flicker and vanish, revealing them as mere remote projections.

Only Teak remains in the room, silent and still, the cane resting beside his chair like a watchful sentinel.

—

Merin walks out of the diner into the cool stillness of a late Friday night and starts his way home.

Today he had to work late—tomorrow is Saturday, and unless emergency work comes up, both weekends are his to rest.

He takes the familiar shortcut through the park, but as he steps beneath the trees, his brow furrows.

There are no night critters, no rustling wind—only silence.

His biological field extends instinctively, brushing the edges of two figures—one ahead, one behind.

“Come out,” he says, voice calm.

Two cloaked figures materialise from the shadows.

Merin wastes no breath on questions.

His fists ignite, molten gloves of magma wrapping over his hands as both assassins charge, daggers glinting under the moonlight.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep