The Author's Draft

Chapter 95 - 14: The Chairman’s Offer

The main atrium of the Hunter Association headquarters roiled with noise—callouts and clarion voices, magitek displays running urgent banners, the accumulated stench of hundreds of anxious teenagers layered atop ozone and burned coffee. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate a medium-sized dragon, though at the moment the only thing soaring was paperwork and the spiraling rumor that an SS-rank had blown out a reinforced testing orb upstairs.

Aiden paused at the top of the staircase, the black demon mask secure against his face, hood up, hands in pockets. If any of the Association staff objected to his refusal to unmask, the fact that he’d just forced an A-rank Enforcer and a roomful of guild reps to their knees kept their comments non-verbal. Below, the crowd looked even denser than when he’d entered, a shifting sea of hopefuls and family members, some already in tears over failure or success.

His gaze found Callum almost immediately. His brother was at the perimeter of the first floor, standing alone at a registration counter while the rest of the new awakeners clustered in small, conspiratorial huddles. Callum gripped a newly-issued Association ID with white-knuckled intensity, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between the card and the entryway as if hoping to spot an escape route.

Aiden moved down the stairs, people parting before him with the fluid instinct of prey animals. It was an odd sensation—being both invisible and the center of every conversation—but the mask made it easy to tune out the stares.

He stopped three meters from Callum, who looked up, clocked the mask, and made a noise somewhere between a relieved sigh and a nervous laugh. "You made it," Callum said, then, as if worried he hadn’t made himself clear: "I mean, I figured you would, but..."

"I made it," Aiden replied. He let the words settle, then gestured at the ID in Callum’s hand. "So? Did you blow anything up?"

Callum looked at his shoes. "I... sort of. It glowed a lot. Then the examiner got confused, ran the test again, and then called over a supervisor. It said ’Summoner,’ but the rank was just a string of question marks. They sent me here for paperwork and told me to wait."

Aiden’s eyes widened just enough to show interest behind the mask. "That’s it? No S-rank label, no dramatic lightshow, just question marks?"

"They said the equipment must be malfunctioning. But the lady at the desk checked my file twice and it still showed ’Summoner’ and ’???’." Callum’s voice dropped, the humor draining. "Is that bad?"

Aiden reached over and squeezed Callum’s shoulder, the gesture firm. "It’s not bad. It’s interesting. We’re going to test it ourselves at home." He let go and glanced toward the exit. "You ready to get out of here?"

Callum nodded, but before they could move a single step toward the doors, a polite but unyielding voice cut through the background static:

"Mister Jus?"

Aiden turned. The man approaching was neither large nor threatening—Chairman Reginald Cross carried himself like someone accustomed to never needing to rush. He wore a muted grey suit, no visible weaponry or obvious mana signature, but as he closed the distance a subtle chill came with him, the kind that registered as danger to anyone with functioning instincts.

He stopped a courteous distance from the brothers, gaze flicking to the mask and then to Callum with open assessment, before returning to Aiden. He inclined his head. "I hoped I might catch you before you left. I realize you declined all Association and guild offers in your evaluation, but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not personally congratulate you on your SS-rank result."

Callum’s mouth opened a little, the reaction automatic. He tried to say something, but Aiden put a hand lightly on his shoulder—a silent warning.

"Thank you," Aiden said, the syllables shaped carefully to betray no emotion. He waited, and the silence stretched.

Cross smiled, the expression warm but precise. "We do not require an answer now. The world is changing too quickly for certainty. But in seventy, well, sixty-one hours, when the barriers fall and the Valdris armies come through, I believe you will be among the core figures to help us with this issue at hand."

Aiden shrugged. "Maybe. But I still work best alone."

"You say that now," Cross replied, "but there will come a point, I think, when even the most stubbornly independent soul realizes a little support is not the same as a chain." He tilted his head, the movement subtle. "I know who you are, Mister Jus. Not merely the mask, but the whole story. If you or your family need anything before the war begins, you have only to ask." He slid a card from an inside pocket—a simple white rectangle with a single number printed in black ink—and offered it.

Aiden hesitated, then took the card with two fingers and tucked it into his pocket. "Thanks," he said, with a politeness that was neither forced nor quite genuine.

Cross turned his gaze to Callum. "Congratulations, young man, on your Summoner awakening. That is a rare and valuable gift." To Aiden: "Take care of him, please. There are always those who would use uncertainty as an excuse for cruelty."

With that, the Chairman stepped back, gave a parting nod, and vanished into the crowd, absorbed as efficiently as if he’d been a shadow passing through sunlight.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as Cross’s wake carried murmurs and stares through the sea of people. Here and there, a few faces in the crowd watched Aiden with more than the usual curiosity; several bore the calculated gaze of power brokers who’d just seen their future get more complicated.

Aiden turned to his brother. "Let’s go home."

They walked together, Callum keeping the ID card pressed flat against his palm, his stride gradually relaxing as they put distance between themselves and the Hunter Association. Behind them, the buzz of rumor expanded exponentially:

"Did you see the guy with the demon mask? They said he broke the orb—"

"I heard he’s SS-rank, independent. The Association’s pissed."

"Summoner with no rank? That can’t be right. Maybe it’s some new kind of power..."

The doors to the outside closed behind them, but the stories kept multiplying, passing from mouth to mouth like a virus.

On the street, the sky glowed a sullen red, split with the occasional flicker of lightning from the rift horizon. Aiden and Callum walked side-by-side, silent until they reached the block where the crowds thinned enough to speak without fear of eavesdroppers.

"You think the Chairman meant all that?" Callum finally asked. "The ’if you need anything’ part?"

"Cross doesn’t waste words," Aiden said. "But he’s not a philanthropist, either. He just wants to keep an eye on anything he can’t control." He glanced at his brother, a slantwise look that cut through the mask’s empty eye sockets. "You sure you’re okay?"

Callum nodded, and for a moment, the resemblance to their father was uncanny—same stubborn line to the jaw, same refusal to let a little existential terror ruin his afternoon.

Aiden clapped him on the back, the motion abrupt but reassuring. "Good. Because if we’re both in the system now, there’s going to be a lot of people looking to see what we can do."

"And if the system doesn’t work for us?" Callum said, a hint of old sarcasm in his voice.

"Then," Aiden replied, as a red bolt flickered across the sky, "we’ll make our own."

They rounded the last corner toward the flat, the weight of the Hunter Association’s gaze behind them, the war ahead, and the unknowns multiplying with every heartbeat.