The Hunter Association headquarters towered above the skyline like a concrete fortress. Surveillance drones hovered overhead. The outer gates were flanked by guards in enhanced armor, weapons idle but eyes sharp. A line of hopeful applicants stretched down the sidewalk, all waiting, all buzzing with nervous energy.
Leon walked past them.
No hesitation. No line. Just the echo of his boots on marble as he entered through the reinforced glass doors.
Inside, the lobby bustled with activity—reporters with camera drones, armored hunters lounging between contracts, digital billboards looping footage of recent raids. The Hunter Association seal glowed bright above the reception desk, rotating slowly in holographic gold.
He approached the front desk.
The secretary was typing furiously, chewing on her stylus. She didn't look up. "Name, intent, and current registered rank?"
"Leon Graves. Rank evaluation," he said. "F-Class. Necromancer."
She froze.
Her eyes lifted.
"You're F-Class?" she asked, blinking twice. "As in... the one who solo-cleared a B-Rank dungeon last week?"
"Yes."
"You're the guy in that footage? With the undead knight and the—?"
Leon nodded once.
She stared, mouth slightly open, then flicked her eyes to the terminal. Her fingers moved faster this time.
"Well, uh... alright. I'll need to notify the Evaluation Division." She stood, smoothed her blazer. "Follow me."
They passed through a security gate that scanned Leon's hunter ID. The gate beeped once, hesitated, then flashed red.
"Still tagged as F-Class," the secretary muttered. "That won't last."
They moved down a hallway lined with steel doors and thick-paneled glass. Some rooms held training simulations—flashes of magic and bursts of kinetic energy lit the halls like lightning behind frosted windows.
As they walked, voices murmured behind them.
"Is that him?"
"Graves? The necromancer?"
"No way he's F-Class. He cleared that dungeon alone."
"With no backup. No healer. No tank."
"I heard he doesn't even belong to a guild..."
Leon kept walking.
The evaluation room was sterile—white walls, a reinforced floor grid, ceiling-mounted projectors humming softly. A tall man in a silver-trimmed coat greeted Leon with a professional nod.
"Leon Graves," he said, tapping a tablet. "You'll undergo the standard three-stage assessment: physical strength, magical potential, and applied combat technique."
Leon cracked his knuckles once. "Let's get on with it."
The first test was raw physical power—how much force he could exert against a mana-calibrated impact panel.
Leon stepped forward.
Punched.
The sensor shrieked.
The screen flashed.
[Result: Physical Output = 4,932 units | Class: A]
The evaluator blinked. "You're a necromancer, right?"
Leon didn't answer.
The second test was magical output. A sphere hovered in the center of the room—measuring the intensity and control of his mana.
Leon raised his hand.
Necrotic energy coiled around his fingers like smoke. He focused, funneled it into the sphere.
It pulsed once.
Twice.
Then cracked.
The system beeped.
[Result: Magic Potential = 8,810 units | Class: S]
The evaluator stepped back.
The third test was combat—live simulation. A set of automated training dummies loaded with randomized attack patterns surrounded Leon. Three. Then five. Then ten.
He didn't summon.
Not at first.
He moved—quick, efficient. Bullets, bone spikes, shadow warps. Then his undead appeared, rising in perfect formation. The warrior. The mage. A new one—a long-range skeletal archer, fast and lethal.
They danced around him like chess pieces under command.
The simulation ended after two minutes.
[Result: Combat Rating: S]
The evaluator stared at the readouts. Then turned to Leon.
"Wait here."
Three hours later, they called him into a private chamber.
Six officials sat behind a long steel desk, each with a personal screen and a file open in front of them.
The man in the center leaned forward.
"We've reviewed your performance."
Leon stood still.
"We've reviewed your footage. The dungeon clear. Your evaluation scores."
A pause.
"You're being promoted to S-Rank."
No applause. No ceremony. Just a truth dropped like iron into silence.
"S-Rank," another official said, adjusting her glasses. "The first necromancer in recorded history to achieve it without cursed amplification. No corruption. No soul-forging. No sacrificial binding. Just control."
The lead official nodded. "Effective immediately, your status is updated in the global registry. You may now take on any contract, establish a guild, or act as an independent faction. Do you understand the weight of this?"
Leon gave a small nod. "Yeah."
The moment Leon stepped out of the chamber, the silence shattered.
Every terminal in the Association lobby lit up with red banners and blinking alerts. Datafeeds flickered. Holo-screens popped open. An electric buzz swept through the building.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: NEW S-RANK REGISTERED]
[NAME: LEON GRAVES]
[CLASS: NECROMANCER]
[RANK: S]
[STATUS: CONFIRMED]
A tremor passed through the lobby like a fault line had just cracked.
Then chaos.
Media drones swarmed like hornets. Security tried—failed—to hold the line. Reporters sprinted forward, heels clacking, cameras bobbing, holographic mics pushing through the air like bayonets.
A blinding volley of flashes hit Leon's face as the first drone hovered inches from his jawline.
"Leon Graves!"
"Sir, is it true you cleared the B-Rank dungeon solo without backup?"
"Did the Champion of the Demon Lord really appear before you?"
"Leon, do you have anything to say about necromancers being classified as a taboo class?"
"You just became the only living S-Rank necromancer on record—what's next?"
"Is it true you raised undead without sacrificing any human souls?"
"Are you planning to form a guild?"
"Leon, just one quote—please!"
Leon kept walking.
Unhurried.
Unmoved.
Unbothered.
He didn't blink. Didn't glance. The air around him seemed to harden, silencing the crowd with every calm step. Reporters fell in beside him, cameras practically scraping his coat, throwing questions like grenades, hoping one would land.
He didn't give them anything.
No smile. No denial. No deflection. Just silence sharpened to a blade's edge.
Behind him, above the reception area, the main bulletin glowed in a fresh crimson overlay.
[S-RANK HUNTER IDENTIFIED]
[LEON GRAVES – NECROMANCER]
[RANK VERIFIED | GLOBAL BROADCAST ISSUED]
A hunter lounging by the bounty board nearly dropped his drink.
Another spat out her gum, jaw slack.
An old man in a wheelchair—retired, scarred, dead-eyed—sat up straighter for the first time in a decade.
Somewhere in the corner, a veteran mage whispered, "Impossible…"
Leon reached the glass doors.
The sunlight outside glared down, warm and bright, casting long shadows across the pavement.
He pushed the door open.
The roar of the city hit him—traffic, sirens, and the distant beat of helicopters. The crowd beyond the gates had already caught wind of the news. Civilians. Guild reps. Black-market scouts. They stood on their toes, straining for a glimpse.
He stepped out without hesitation.
The moment the sun touched his face, the drones faltered. Their sensors adjusted. The crowd noise dulled to a low, collective breath.
Leon didn't look back.
He disappeared into the masses—not as a man chased by fame, but as a force that had just been unleashed.
Not a word. Not a gesture.
Only movement.