The sports bag sat beside me like a sealed vault, holding more than just relics—it carried pieces of a man who refused to be forgotten. Alexander Valentine wasn’t just a prodigy blacksmith. He was a fanatic. An architect of death. His weapons weren’t crafted; they were born. And now, they were mine.

Sinjin leaned back against the worn-out armchair, arms crossed, watching me with that ever-present smirk.

"If this bag holds a corpse, I am not helping you move it."

I snorted. "Thanks for the faith."

Sinjin was evasive by nature, the kind of person who took nothing seriously except himself. He had been there the day my father returned from battle, had seen the wounds Alexander refused to acknowledge, had watched the man forge with bleeding hands because he couldn't stop—because he wouldn’t stop.

Unzipping the bag, I felt my fingers brush against something tightly coiled—long, thick, and crafted with unnerving precision. As I pulled it free, the whip unfurled slightly, its weight undeniable. Eight to ten feet long, thick, aged—but eerily flawless, as though time itself dared not tarnish it.

Sinjin let out a low whistle, his voice edged with a mix of awe and wariness.

"Damn. The old man wasn’t stingy at all. That’s about 2.4 to 3 meters—a bullwhip, sanctified with holy water and blessed by the Pope himself for centuries. The Sanctum Impetus."

John leaned forward, his keen eyes narrowing behind silver-rimmed glasses. "Sanctum Impetus…" he echoed, voice measured, analytical. He was the historian among us—the one who researched instead of throwing out guesses. "The first head of the Valentine family wielded it in the War against the Nether Realm. Legend says it doesn’t just cut flesh—it scorches the soul."

I stared at the whip in my palm. A pulse ran up my arm, like a vibration from the weapon itself.

"The Sanctum Impetus?"

Sinjin folded his arms, expression tightening. "Yeah. 'Sanctum' for sacredness, 'Impetus' for force. It's not just a weapon—it’s a burden wrapped in leather. Alexander never touched anything unless it was flawless, unless it meant death. And this? This doesn’t just kill—it purges."

The whip seemed to breathe in my palm.

Sinjin shifted uncomfortably. "It's looking at you."

I frowned. "It's a weapon, Sinjin."

"No," he muttered, "it’s Alexander."

I reached deeper, my fingers grazing cold metal. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled out a rapier, its black-and-red sheath tied with a golden ribbon.

I unsheathed it.

Swoosh.

Sinjin whistled again.

"Dramatic."

The blade gleamed obsidian-black—a darkness so deep it felt like it was swallowing the light rather than reflecting it.

John inhaled sharply.

"Orichalcum," he murmured. "A legendary metal, said to hold mystical, divine qualities."*

The rapier felt different in my grip—too perfect, too well-balanced, too aware.

Sinjin scoffed. "Of course, he left behind a soul-bound weapon. Weapons weren’t just tools for Alexander—they were family. **"

John adjusted his glasses. "They were more than that. You understand what this means, don’t you?"

"The only weapon to survive his overwhelming mana," I muttered.

John nodded. "And Sinjin couldn’t wield it."*

Sinjin shifted, jaw tightening. "Don’t remind me."*

"Because it didn’t choose him," John continued. "It rejected him."*

Sinjin gave a short laugh, but there was frustration behind it. "That damn thing nearly shattered my wrist when I tried to wield it."*

The room seemed colder.

"Alexander’s weapons aren’t just steel—they’re alive," John said. "They carry fragments of his soul. They remember. And they choose their master. This sword belongs to you."

I tightened my grip.

Sinjin narrowed his eyes. "So… what are you going to do with it?"

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I lifted the lid of the box.

A sweet, velvety scent drifted up, mixing with the musk of old paper and worn fabric. John leaned closer, eyes flickering with curiosity.

Inside lay a sealed letter, a messenger bag, and a property deed. Further down, I uncovered a black duster coat, a white blouse with both long and short sleeves, and black velvet platform stiletto ankle boots. Beside them sat tight black gloves, crested with a red rose insignia.

Then, the knife straps—two for the thighs, each holding six daggers. A belt strap, designed to maintain both the rapier and whip.

Further in, a compact box, its lid barely containing thousands of poisoned needles and talismans.

And gold-rimmed glasses, their frames polished but aged, as though they had seen too much. A pair of ruby earrings, glowing under the dim light. Two golden rings—crafted from Orichalcum itself, unnervingly pristine despite their age.

Sinjin picked up one of the rings, rolling it between his fingers.

"You realise Alexander didn’t just own weapons—he lived them. They weren’t just tools. They were extensions of his will. And now? Now they’re yours."

John smirked. "Obsessed is an understatement."*

I picked up the diary, running my fingers over its worn cover.

Sinjin chuckled, shaking his head. "If there’s one thing Alexander couldn’t live without, it was making sure every weapon he touched could end a life in one strike."

John exhaled. "And judging by this haul, I’d say he succeeded."*

The weight of everything pressed down on me—history, power, obsession, and echoes of a man who still refused to fade.

Sinjin gave me a sideways glance. "Think he ever loved anything besides weapons?"

John snorted. "He loved making sure other people didn’t get to keep theirs."*

Sinjin laughed. "That checks out."*

I exhaled, staring at the rapier.

Alexander never just owned weapons.

He was them.

And now, they were mine…... The room was silent, save for the hum of old wiring and the soft flicker of candlelight. The sports bag sat before me, heavy, almost suffocating in presence.

Alexander Valentine was dead. His legacy, however, refused to fade.

His weapons were more than steel and craftsmanship. They carried fragments of his soul, remnants of his obsession. Every blade, every dagger, every whip breathed, pulsed with an unnatural awareness.

And now, they had chosen me.

John sat across from me, silver-rimmed glasses catching the dim light, his gaze focused but unreadable. Sinjin lounged beside him, lazy yet too calculated to be indifferent.

Then, without a word, John slid a card across the table.

"This is the Hunter Organisation," he said, tapping it with two fingers. His voice was calm, measured, and too well-rehearsed. "The Vermillion Guild. Think about joining."

I picked up the card. The emblem—a stylised blade intertwined with a celestial sigil—felt strangely familiar.

"What exactly is this?" I muttered.

John folded his arms. "The Hunters fight the things that come through from the Palicids beasts from beyond our universe that come through hell's gates and Nether Realm—beasts, entities, things that shouldn’t exist here."

Sinjin scoffed, flicking a dagger into the air before catching it effortlessly. "Sounds like a cult."

John exhaled sharply, irritated. "It’s an institution, funded by multiple religious factions across three realms—Earth, the Nether Realm, and Heaven. They aren’t just warriors. They’re protectors."

Sinjin smirked. "And you’re just going to throw them into it without warning?"

John ignored him, instead sliding a paper toward me.

"Newcomers are trained to wield forces beyond mana—beyond mere skill. They master energy itself."

My eyes skimmed the list.

Cosmic Energy – A force connecting all things, tied to enlightenment and higher consciousness.Prana (Life Force Energy) – The breath of existence, used in meditation and restoration.Chi/Qi – A fluid energy flowing through the body and nature, used in martial arts and spiritual balance.Emotional Energy – Power derived from pure emotion, influencing vibrational states.Mental Energy – The ability to manifest reality through thought, shaping perception.Heart Energy – A force rooted in love and compassion, often linked to healing.Soul Energy – The pure essence of existence, representing a deep spiritual connection.

I frowned, my grip tightening around the card.

"You want me to join them because of Alexander’s weapons?"

John nodded. "Yes. If they bound themselves to you, you already have the potential."

Sinjin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "And what exactly do you think will happen if they say no?"

John’s gaze darkened. "They won’t."*                                                                      

A silence stretched between us.

Sinjin sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, fine. Let’s just skip to the part where I reveal the actual reason I’m here."*

John glanced at him, annoyed. "Sinjin—"

"I’m a top hunter in the global organisation," Sinjin interrupted, smirking at my shock. "Funded by multiple factions, split between Heaven, Earth, and the Nether Realm. I don’t just kill beasts—I negotiate with them. I keep the balance intact."

I blinked. "You’re—"

"One of the best," he confirmed. "And let me tell you—if you think Alexander's legacy isn’t tangled in all this, you’re wrong."*

Something inside me clenched.

Alexander had never joined any faction. He had been his force, untamed, unrestricted. For Sinjin to have authority over Heaven, Earth, and the Nether Realm meant something bigger was happening.

"So, what, you’re here to recruit me?"

Sinjin leaned back, amused. "I’m here because your father’s weapons didn’t just belong to him. They belong to the war itself. And now? They belong to you. *"

The whip hummed softly beside me. The rapier shifted, its obsidian surface breathing.

And deep down, I knew—Sinjin was right.

I didn’t have a choice anymore.

"I’ll join," I said, pocketing the card.

John nodded, satisfied.

Sinjin grinned. "Oh, this’ll be fun."

So, I would join the organisation...