The ferry gave a low mechanical groan as it docked at Verusa Island, steam rising off its cold steel plates and lapping over the silence of the early morning mist.
A man stepped off.
Tall, poised.His boots echoed lightly against the metal ramp—calm, deliberate steps.
He wore a long leather coat that swept just below his knees, immaculate despite the journey. Tight-fitting leather gloves covered his hands, and at his hip, sheathed neatly, hung a thin, elegant sword—more suited to a ballroom duel than a battlefield.
His long blond hair was tied into a low ponytail, not a strand out of place. His face was aristocratic—sharp jawline, straight nose, eyes the color of pale ice, studying his surroundings not with interest, but calculation.He took one step onto the cracked, muddy shore of Verusa, looked around once—then continued walking forward as if the world had opened for him.
Most hunters were asleep in clusters around makeshift camps or under ripped tarps. A few caught sight of him—wide-eyed.Someone whispered, "Who the hell is that?"
A soldier stepped in his path. Rifle slung lazily over his back, he raised a hand and barked, "Hey, stop right there. This area's restricted—only registered hunters are allowed near the inner perimeter."
The man didn't speak.He simply reached into his coat, pulled out a small black card, and handed it over.
The soldier narrowed his eyes as he read aloud:"Leon Vaslav…?"
Silence.
Then realization.
His throat tightened.
"…You're that Leon Vaslav?"
No response. Only a faint, almost invisible smile. The kind you'd miss if you blinked. The soldier stiffened and stepped aside without another word.
Leon slid the card back into his pocket.
"Would you be so kind," he said, his voice refined and cool, "as to assign someone capable of leading me to your base? I dislike walking in circles."
The soldier nodded—almost bowed—then turned and barked orders to a nearby private. The young man, barely out of training, looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"Y-yes, sir! I'll take you."
Leon merely nodded once and followed. His posture was relaxed, yet not a single movement wasted. Grace without effort. Control without dominance.
A danseur among war dogs.And he had just entered the stage.
As they walked through the muddy paths and winding trails of the base, Leon's calm gaze remained fixed ahead. His long coat fluttered gently in the cold breeze, boots brushing past scattered shell casings and footprints soaked into the dirt.
He finally spoke, voice low and polished—like it belonged in a concert hall, not a battlefield.
"And when do the hunts commence?"
The private guiding him, a young soldier with a constantly nervous blink, glanced at his watch.
"In the next three hours, sir. Everyone is to be ready by then. Full squad deployment."
Leon hummed softly in response, nodding.
"Efficient enough. Then I presume I have a moment to familiarize myself with the terrain."
He turned slightly toward the eastern gate—the fog-shrouded wild beyond the fence catching his attention.
"I'd like to step outside. Alone."
The private froze mid-step. "Uh… I-I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir."
Leon arched a brow.
The soldier cleared his throat awkwardly. "That is—no one is allowed outside the perimeter without clearance. Especially not alone. Orders from above."
Leon's eyes remained still, but there was something behind them now. Not frustration—curiosity. Like a chess player contemplating an unexpected move.
"Above?" he asked coolly. "Who sits above now?"
"The commander... or Ren. The S-rank Hunter."
Leon's eyes narrowed at the name. He rolled it over in his mind like a coin between fingers.
"Ren," he repeated quietly, tasting the weight of it. "The man whose decisions decide whether we live or die on this island."
The soldier gave a quick nod. "Yes, sir. And... respectfully, even the best still follow protocol out here. Verusa isn't like the mainland. We've lost men—good ones—for simply stepping outside without a team."
Leon's lips curved—again, not quite a smile.
"I see."
Ren adjusted the strap of his reinforced shoulder guard as the final buckles clicked into place. Around him, the elite team moved with seasoned discipline—Lysa tested the tension of her twin wakizashis, Karn stretched like a predator before a hunt, and Rina calibrated her gauntlets one last time. The air in the prep room was thick with silent focus.
A knock interrupted.
A junior officer entered quickly, her posture rigid.
"Commander Ren. Someone's here to see you. He says his name is… Leon Vaslav."
The room froze.
Lysa blinked. "Leon Vaslav? The Leon?"
Karn stopped mid-stretch. "Didn't think he did real combat."
Ren gave a half-smile. "He doesn't. Not in the way we do. But don't underestimate him."
He walked out of the room without another word.
Ren watched Leon Vaslav walk away toward the edge of the yard, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his long leather coat. The man moved with elegance, like someone dancing through a battlefield he already mapped in his mind.
A junior officer stepped up beside Ren, visibly puzzled. "Sir… if I may ask, is he really not a hunter?"
Ren didn't take his eyes off Leon. "No. He's an adventurer."
The officer blinked. "Isn't that the same thing?"
Ren scoffed lightly. "Not even close."
He turned slightly, arms crossed as he explained.
"Hunters work under contract—tied to guilds, military factions, or governments. They follow protocol. Bound by missions, ranks, reports. Everything they do is tracked and authorized."
He glanced toward Leon again, who was now speaking politely to a soldier at the gate.
"Adventurers are different. No allegiances. No chains. They don't hunt for rewards or reports—they travel to study, explore, collect. They go where they please. Alone, most of the time. No backup. No rules."
The officer furrowed his brow. "But… doesn't that make them unpredictable?"
"Exactly," Ren said. "Unpredictable—and dangerous. Not because they fight more than us, but because they don't have to ask permission to enter hell. They just go."
Leon Vaslav was a name spoken in low tones, often followed by long pauses or skeptical glances.
Known across a few circles as the Danseur of Blades, Leon wasn't a hunter, nor was he affiliated with any guild or faction. He was an adventurer—one of the rare few licensed to operate without borders, answerable to no command structure. While hunters operated under contracts, regulated by departments and bound to protocols, adventurers like Leon followed their own paths. They appeared suddenly in remote ruins, vanished for months, and occasionally re-emerged with stories no one could verify.
Leon's reputation was built on ambiguity.
Some claimed he had once defeated a beast classified as A-rank without drawing his sword, using only his footwork and a steel fan. Others insisted he had solved the Evershade Cipher, a puzzle that had driven multiple scholars to madness. But no documentation supported these claims. They lived only in rumors, mostly passed around in old bars or muttered by retired gate guards.
What was undeniable was his unusual fighting style—a fusion of ballet-like precision and ruthless swordsmanship. He moved like he was performing to an invisible orchestra. Graceful, fluid, and deliberate. The kind of combat style that made it difficult to tell where the dance ended and the killing began.
He wore long gloves and a leather coat that reached his knees. His long blond hair was tied into a precise ponytail, never out of place. His sword was always sheathed at his side, thin and elegant, rarely seen drawn. And he spoke like a man always half-listening to something no one else could hear.
To most soldiers and hunters on Verusa Island, Leon was just a stranger with a black card—a credential recognized across continents, yes, but earned in ways no one could quite confirm. He claimed no titles, no victories, and offered no stories unless asked.
And even then, his answers were measured, polite… and elusive.
No one could tell if he was a genius, a fraud, or simply an observer passing through history.
But they all agreed on one thing:
The Danseur of Blades wasn't someone to be taken lightly.