The Britania Hunter Association's headquarters loomed at the heart of London like a fortress of glass and steel. Twenty-seven floors of militarized bureaucracy. But today, only the ground floor mattered.
The Grand Hall.
A vast reception hall that could seat three hundred, with a cathedral-high ceiling painted in frescoes. White marble columns rose to balconies where cameramen were already perched, tweaking lenses. The floor was a mirror-bright checkerboard of black and white marble that threw back the light of dozens of crystal chandeliers.
And everywhere—journalists.
Cameras, microphones, flashes. Crews from BBC Britania, Sky News, Channel 4. International correspondents from CNN, Al Jazeera, France 24. Even a small NHK team from Japan, the ones who specialized in Hunter documentaries. They swarmed like ants, elbowing for the best shots, bargaining with security for a few extra inches closer to the red carpet.
The carpet itself ran from the main entrance straight to the central dais, where three empty chairs waited behind a podium bearing the Association's crest: a shield pierced by a sword, flanked by twin griffins.
Security barriers barely held back the tide of bodies. Parade-dress officers stood in a double honor guard, stiff as fence posts, ignoring the shouted questions.
A man in a gray suit, earpiece firmly in place, was jabbing frantically at his tablet near the doors. Calvin Reeves, the Association's event coordinator, was already sweating.
"VIPs in five," he muttered into his mic. "Security, sweep the side entrances. Press, back up three meters. Three meters. Yes, you too, ma'am."
Outside, a black limousine glided to a silent stop.
The door opened.
A custom Italian boot touched the red carpet. Then the rest of the man emerged, wrapped in a long white coat threaded with silver.
Kazimir Volkov.
Rank S. Russian Hunter. Cropped white hair, beard trimmed to perfection, a diagonal scar slicing across his forehead.
The flashes erupted. Questions flew in Russian, English, French.
"Mr. Volkov! Thoughts on Division 7's performance?"
"Here to poach British talent?"
"Any comment on the rumored SS Rift in Siberia?"
Kazimir offered a polished predator's smile. "I'm only here to observe, my British friends. Nothing more." He walked on, brushing past outstretched microphones, and vanished inside.
Three minutes later, a Tesla Model X pulled up. Out stepped Amara Chen, Rank A, Singaporean Hunter. Petite, mid-fifties, round glasses, understated suit. She declined interviews with a polite nod and slipped inside.
Then an Aston Martin roared in. Théodore Beaumont, Rank A, French Hunter famous for solo runs through urban Rifts. Media darling, dazzling smile, three-piece suit. He took his time—posed, signed a couple of autographs.
The press surged against the barriers.
"Mr. Beaumont! This way!"
A BBC Britania reporter thrust her microphone high and fired first:
"Mr. Beaumont, what's your take on how the recent S Rift was handled? There's even talk it was borderline SS in the early stages. Has Britania finally joined the top tier of hunter nations?"
Théodore stopped dead center on the carpet, turned slowly toward her, and flashed his smile.
"Well… I have to say I'm impressed. Truly. Britania dealt with that Rift with remarkable efficiency. Closed in four hours, nemeses neutralized in under twenty-four, minimal civilian losses. Hats off."
He gave a light round of applause, sparking laughter among the reporters.
A France 24 correspondent jumped in:
"Does this mean Britania's finally stepping into the big leagues alongside Russia, China, France?"
Théo arched a brow.
"Absolutely. And doing it in style. The Britania Hunter Association proved it can mobilize, coordinate, and—most importantly—win. No longer an emerging power; it's a power that matters. And France, of course, will always be a steadfast ally. We share the Channel, after all. When one of us wins, Europe wins."
Scattered applause rippled through the press pack. A Sky News reporter called out:
"Are you saying they were genuinely brilliant, or is this just diplomacy? Plenty of people say Division 7 got lucky—the rift opened in remote forest, not a city center like the SS that hit Nice."
Théo laughed openly, shook his head.
"Lucky? No, no. But…" He tilted his head, eyes glinting straight into the cameras. "Between us… France wouldn't have needed quite so many hunters."
The flashes went off like gunfire.
"You're serious? A suspected SS?"
Théo shrugged, still smiling.
"Let's just say we've closed worse with fewer. But I'm glad Britania didn't have to. Well done, Division 7. Well done, Britania."
He gave an elegant salute and continued inside to another burst of applause and questions he ignored with perfect grace.
A black Hyundai Genesis with tinted windows eased to a quiet stop at the carpet. The rear door opened with military precision.
Jin-Soo Park.
Rank A. Living legend of Korea, the world's second-strongest hunter nation after the USA. Deep into his forties, face carved from stone, black hair slicked back. Flawless black suit, crisp white shirt. Only one hand visible—black leather glove, tucked in his coat pocket. He didn't pause. Didn't look left or right. Just walked, steady and mechanical.
The small Korean KBS crew bowed deeply as he passed, not daring a single question. The rest, less familiar with that kind of deference, rushed forward.
"Mr. Park! Jin-Soo Park!"
A CNN International reporter shoved a mic forward:
"Korea is the second most powerful hunter nation on earth. What does Seoul make of Britania's achievement with this suspected-SS S Rift? A turning point?"
Jin-Soo Park stopped cold. He turned his head slowly. Black eyes swept the crowd.
"You want to know what I think?"
Dead silence fell over the red carpet.
"I have nothing to say to journalists who know nothing about Rifts. Is this entertainment to you? A game? Headlines, clicks, views?"
He took one step forward. Microphones retreated on instinct.
"Men and women from my country—and yours—put their lives on the line inside that Rift. Some never came out. They bled, screamed, held the line so you can sleep safe tonight, so your children never have to see a Nemesis on their streets. And you want an 'opinion' like it's a football match."
He held their gaze a second longer.
"Keep your questions."
He walked on without looking back. The press stood frozen.
A midnight-blue Rolls-Royce Phantom had pulled up behind the Genesis. Out stepped Sir Reginald Hargrove, British billionaire, owner of Hargrove Industries—arms, energy, and now heavy investments in Rift artifacts. Bespoke suit, tie, shark's grin.
As he passed Jin-Soo entering the hall, he called out loud enough for every mic to catch:
"Come now, Mr. Park, no need to be so harsh. They're journalists, not the enemy. Are all Asians so… stiff?"
Jin-Soo didn't answer, didn't even turn. The glass doors closed behind him.
Hargrove happily stopped for the pack, which turned on him like wolves.
He raised a calming hand, smile blazing.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let me say this: Britania is one of the world's top five economies. We've always had the money, the tech, the brains. But until now… well, we hadn't quite claimed our rightful place among the hunter powers. This S Rift—borderline SS? Closed clean, fast, minimal damage. Division 7 showed the world what we can do. The curtain's finally rising. And me? I'm investing. Heavily. Training, gear, artifacts. Britania is about to become a hunter superpower. And anyone who gets in early… front-row seats."
Questions exploded again, but Hargrove lifted a hand with a wink.
"Later, later. Tonight's announcement will keep you busy for months."
Inside, the Association orchestra struck up a discreet, elegant welcome piece—a string quartet.
Then, as if the weather itself had been briefed, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and lit the entrance just as a three-vehicle convoy rolled to a stop.
First vehicle: a matte-black armored Ironveil 4x4 bearing the company emblem. The rear door opened.
Borin stepped out.