"The temperature just spiked fifteen degrees."
Dr. Verna adjusts the thermostat in her small clinic, three districts away from the ARES Guild. Her elderly fingers work with practiced precision despite the arthritis that never quite leaves her joints alone.
She pauses at the window, watching heat waves shimmer above distant buildings. Something unnatural disturbs the night air, the kind of atmospheric disturbance that makes her old bones ache with remembered warnings.
"A massive Storm is coming," she mutters, returning to her patient charts. Leon's mother sleeps peacefully in the recovery bed, her breathing steady for the first time in days.
...
The double doors swing open with the weight of inevitability.
Leon steps into Tobias Virell's office and immediately understands why lesser hunters fear this man. The chamber stretches forty feet in every direction, its obsidian floor polished to mirror brightness. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer panoramic views of the city below, where normal people live normal lives without understanding the powers that shape their world.
Heat radiates in visible waves from the figure sitting behind an enormous desk carved from single piece of volcanic glass. The air itself shimmers with supernatural temperature that makes Leon's clothes cling with sudden sweat.
Tobias Virell commands the space like a force of nature given human form.
Taller than his brothers, broader through the shoulders, with silver threading through hair that still holds traces of the fire that burns in his bloodline. Battle scars map his exposed arms, some from blades, others from claws, all speaking of conflicts that would have killed weaker men.
Flames curl along his forearms like living serpents, dancing across skin that has been tempered by decades of supernatural heat. His eyes hold the same molten quality as his brothers, but brighter, more intense, as if staring into the heart of a volcano.
The moment their gazes lock, Leon's legs nearly buckle.
This isn't simple intimidation or political posturing. This is recognition at a predator level, prey recognizing predator, weakness acknowledging overwhelming strength. Leon's body wants to flee from something that should not exist.
He grits his teeth and forces his spine straight. His voice comes out steady despite the fear clawing at his throat.
"Why did you go after my mother?"
Tobias laughs, and the sound fills the chamber like breaking thunder. Deep and cruel, carrying undertones of violence barely contained.
"One good turn deserves another, doesn't it?" His eyes glow brighter with each word. "You killed my brother. And you thought you could walk away free?"
The flames on his arms flicker higher, casting dancing shadows across obsidian walls lined with trophies from conquered enemies. Weapons of fallen rivals. Armor stripped from defeated champions. A museum of violence curated by its greatest practitioner.
Leon doesn't blink. "He deserved it. A man like that would've burned half the world to feel important."
He takes another step forward, letting the door swing shut behind him with deliberate finality. The click echoes through heated air like a choice made and committed to. No escape now. No retreat.
The room grows brighter as Tobias's fury builds. Flames reflect off polished surfaces, creating a kaleidoscope of fire and shadow that makes the chamber feel like the interior of a forge.
"You think it's up to you to decide that?" Tobias's voice crackles like burning wood. "You think some F-rank nobody had the right to judge his betters?"
Leon doesn't step back this time. His system interface flickers at the edge of his vision, showing mana reserves and zombie availability. But something deeper than tactical calculation drives his response.
"When the blade is raised against you... it's either kill or be killed."
The words hang in superheated air like a challenge thrown down at the feet of a god.
Tobias roars.
His arm sweeps across the volcanic glass desk, sending papers erupting into flame before they hit the floor. Crystal paperweights shatter against walls. A bottle of aged whiskey explodes in a shower of amber liquid and glass fragments.
The flames around his body spiral higher, no longer content to dance along his arms. Fire wraps around his torso, his legs, his face, until he stands wreathed in controlled inferno that should incinerate human flesh.
"You should've chosen to die that day, Leon Graves." His voice carries the weight of absolute authority supported by absolute power. "Would've saved everyone the trouble."
He moves without warning.
Not the charging assault Leon expects, but something worse, speed that defies physics and sanity. One moment Tobias stands behind his desk, the next he's three inches from Leon's face.
Leon doesn't have time to raise his hands or summon his zombies or draw a weapon.
Fingers like iron brands close around his throat, lifting him from the ground with casual strength. Tobias's eyes burn with literal fire, close enough that Leon can feel heat radiating from the pupils themselves.
"Let me show you what real power looks like."
The world spins as Tobias hurls Leon toward the massive windows. Glass designed to withstand hurricane winds shatters like tissue paper. Leon tumbles through empty air, spinning end over end as gravity claims him.
The city spreads below like a carpet of lights. Street lamps trace patterns between buildings.
Leon crashes through the canvas awning of a neighboring building, the fabric slowing his fall just enough to prevent death on impact. He rolls across a rooftop garden, crushing carefully tended plants beneath his bloodied form.
Everything hurts. His already broken ribs scream with fresh agony. New cuts weep from glass fragments embedded in his arms and face.
But he's alive.
A sound like thunder rolls across the city as something massive lands on the rooftop's far edge.
Tobias steps through the hole he's torn in reality itself, his body now fully ablaze. Flames doesn't just dance around him, he's the flame. Flames form his outline, define his presence, announce his arrival to anyone with eyes to see.
Citizens in the streets below stop and point at the burning figure standing atop the building. They flee in primal terror from something their minds can't categorize.
"Let's settle this somewhere the whole city can watch," Tobias calls across the rooftop. His voice carries clearly despite the distance, amplified by supernatural acoustics.
He spreads his arms wide, and fire spirals around him like a miniature tornado. Heat distortion makes his outline waver, as if he exists partially in this dimension and partially in some realm of pure flame.
Leon struggles to his feet, using a damaged air conditioning unit for support. Blood runs freely from dozen wounds, but anger burns hotter than pain in his chest.
The battle is no longer contained within guild walls or political maneuvering. This is personal now. Public. A confrontation that will determine not just who lives or dies, but what kind of world remains afterward.
Leon spits blood onto concrete and summons Shadowedge. The dark blade materializes in his grip, its surface drinking the light from Tobias's flames.
Across the rooftop, the most powerful fire user in three continents settles into a combat stance that speaks of decades spent perfecting the art of controlled violence.
The main fight has begun.