The Zombie System.

"The upgrades are complete."

Leon's system interface blazes with notifications as he slumps against the cracked wall. Blood dries on his lips, tasting of copper and violence. The text scrolls past his blurred vision in streams of blue light.

[WARRIOR ZOMBIE EVOLUTION: GENERAL TIER UNLOCKED]

[ASSASSIN ZOMBIE ADVANCEMENT: ELITE TIER UNLOCKED]

[NEW ABILITIES INTEGRATED]

His warrior zombie materializes beside him, but something has changed. The spectral armor gleams with fire now, flames dancing and gleaming along the edges without consuming the metal. The mantis blade radiates heat like a forge-fresh sword, orange light pulsing through crystalline veins.

Leon gives a tired smile despite the agony in his chest. Even in exhaustion, this upgrade might be the edge he needs for what comes next.

A deep gong reverberates through the guild hall. The sound carries weight beyond mere bronze and steel, it's the emergency death gong that announces when someone of significance has fallen.

Leon stiffens. In ARES Guild, that alarm means only one thing. Matthias Virell is dead.

The gong strikes again. And again. Seven times total. The traditional count for an A-rank officer's passing.

Leon clenches his fists, remembering whispered rumors from hunter circles. Tobias Virell, the eldest brother. S-Rank Flame Berserker. The bloodline patriarch who makes Matthias look like a candle compared to a volcano.

The Virells are infamous across Arcadia. A family line of relentless fire users whose flames burn hotter with each generation. If Matthias could melt marble with casual gestures, what could Tobias do?

Leon forces himself upright, using the cracked wall for support. His ribs grind against each other with each movement. Blood seeps through torn fabric where shrapnel found flesh.

The next floor stretches before him in eerie silence. No guards patrol these corridors. No servants scurry between rooms. Even the ever-present ARES banners hang motionless in air that barely stirs.

Leon's footsteps echo off polished stone as he approaches the next stairway. The marble here shows no signs of damage from his battle with Matthias. Where did the hunters all go to?

A panel slides open in the wall beside him with mechanical precision.

A young hunter steps out, maybe nineteen years old with the soft features of someone who's never faced real combat. His D-rank badge catches torchlight as he freezes at the sight of Leon's bloodied form.

"What …" the hunter begins.

Leon moves faster than thought. His hand closes around the young man's throat, lifting him slightly off his feet. But his attention fixes on what lies beyond the hidden panel.

A mechanical lifting platform gleams in the concealed shaft. Brass fittings and copper wiring snake along its frame in patterns that speak of advanced engineering. The design shows it's not from Arcadia, too clean, too precise, too deliberately functional.

Leon stares. That technology belongs to Tharion, the northwestern continent where mana flows weak and mechanical innovation thrives. Their steam-powered cities and marvels are legendary among hunters who've traveled beyond Arcadia's borders.

What is Tharion technology doing in the heart of an Arcadian guild?

The distraction costs him. The D-rank hunter squirms free, backing away into a defensive stance. His hand moves to the sword at his hip, though his technique screams amateur.

Leon narrows his eyes. "A leap of faith that'll get you killed."

He snaps his fingers.

His elite mage zombie emerges from pooled shadows, skeletal hands already weaving complex patterns. Ice magic gathers around its fingertips, condensing water from the air into crystalline weapons.

The frost bolt strikes the floor at the hunter's feet. Ice spreads instantly, creeping up his boots and anchoring them to stone. The young man tries to step backward and nearly falls as his feet refuse to obey.

Leon walks forward with casual menace. His hand finds the hunter's throat again, this time with no chance of escape.

"Which floor is Tobias on?"

The hunter's eyes go wide with terror. "Top... top floor! Floor thirty-two!"

Leon releases him, leaving the young man frozen solid from the knees down. Whimpering echoes off marble walls as Leon steps onto the hidden lift platform.

The interior is a marvel of Tharion engineering. Polished brass controls line one wall, etched with mathematical formulas and mechanical diagrams. Gear ratios and pressure readings display on small crystalline screens powered by compressed mana batteries.

Leon has seen similar technology in the border cities where Arcadian and Tharion merchants trade. But finding it here, in the heart of a traditional hunter guild, raises questions that make his head spin.

The control panel glows with soft blue light. Numbers mark each floor from ground level to the building's peak. Leon's finger hovers over thirty-two, the highest button available.

He presses it.

The doors slide shut with mechanical precision that puts Arcadian magic to shame. The lift begins to rise, smooth as silk despite the massive weight it carries.

Leon closes his eyes and leans against the wall. His broken ribs send spikes of agony through his chest with each breath. Blood loss makes his vision swim. But he's still alive, still moving forward.

The final ascent. He knows it could mean his death. Tobias Virell commands power that could reduce him to ash without effort. But vengeance burns hotter than fear in Leon's chest.

His mother's bruised face flashes behind his eyelids. The destroyed apartment. The medical bills that will never be paid if he dies here tonight.

Some debts are worth dying for.

The lift continues climbing through the guild's upper reaches. Each floor that passes brings him closer to a confrontation that will determine everything. His strength. His will. His right to exist in a world that measures worth by magical rank.

The screen inside the lift flickers briefly. A burning glyph materializes above the number thirty-two—the mark of the Virell household, glowing red like fresh blood against brass and crystal.