Ryuma stood at the precipice of his fate, the glow of his skin pulsing like a heartbeat beneath his coat. His sword rested against his right hip, its weight familiar, grounding. Unlike the standard Rift anchor pods, his was of the highest grade—a standing model, sleek and imposing.
The air around him grew thick with heat, an invisible tide rising. He could feel it—his body thrumming, his blood singing in anticipation.
Then, the light came.
Blinding. Overwhelming. It swallowed the room whole, consuming him in an instant.
And then—nothing.
When he awoke, the warmth was gone, replaced by a chilling dampness that seeped into his bones.
Darkness loomed around him, heavy and unbroken. The scent of wet stone and decay filled his lungs.
A cave.
the rift curse announced his arrival blaring alarms in his head its melodic mechanical voice slightly irritated ryuma
[Novice! Welcome to the Rift World prepare for your Journey...]
Ryuma didn't pay the eerie cave any mind. Fear? That wasn't in his nature. His only goal was simple—find a Lineage Stone. And the best way to do that? He didn't know.
So, he did what any insane, prideful, stubborn bastard would do—he attacked anything that felt like a threat.
This wasn't his first dance with the unknown. He had prepared for this moment his entire life. Countless hours spent in Tech Rifts, simulated hells designed to mimic the brutality of real Rifts. Pain, exhaustion, death—they weren't just possibilities. They were guarantees.
But Ryuma survived them all.
And now, standing in the damp darkness of this place, he cracked his neck, tightened his grip on his sword, and stepped forward.
If the Rift thought it could break him, it had no idea who it was dealing with.
Ryuma strode through the narrow pathways, the darkness nearly absolute. Yet, he saw everything. Maybe it was one of his features—some passive ability that granted him sight in the void. He didn't bother to check. Features were minor enhancements, nothing more. If it didn't make him stronger in a fight, it wasn't worth his attention.
He walked for what felt like an eternity before coming upon a Rift beast.
A drake.
Its body was sleek yet powerful, its elongated tail swaying like a pendulum. Its face was a strange fusion of bird and reptile, a twisted imitation of the ancient Deinonychus. He had read about them—silent hunters with claws deadlier than any raptor. He had no doubt the drake would be the same, if not worse.
As if reading his mind, the creature flared its quill-like feathers, sharp as daggers, and fired them at him.
Ryuma moved on instinct. The first quill clashed against his sword, the impact ringing through the cave. The second and third he dodged, his body twisting back with lethal precision. Before he could regain his footing, the drake lunged.
Ryuma grinned.
"Now this is a fight!"
With a practiced motion, he met the beast's charge head-on, his sword flashing through the air. The blade found flesh, slicing down in a clean, vicious arc. Blood splattered against the cave floor, and the drake let out a final, guttural cry before collapsing.
Then, the curse spoke.
"You have slain a Sand Drake of the Aberration rank."
Ryuma exhaled, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from exhilaration.
The real thing is fun, he mused, wiping the blood from his blade.
And yet, despite the thrill, a nagging thought clawed at the back of his mind.
Why did people cling to each other so desperately? Why did they form clans, alliances, and pacts?
They were all cowards.
Ryuma was alone. And he would become stronger because of it.
For an entire day, Ryuma reveled in the thrill of the hunt. He carved through Rift beasts like a blade through silk, each kill sharper, each battle more exhilarating. It was the perfect way to pass the time.
Of course, even he had to rest.
During one of these breaks, he made a peculiar discovery—the moss that clung to the cave walls refused to burn. No matter how much he tried, the flames wouldn't take. The laws of nature didn't apply in the Rift. Things were twisted here, reality bent and reshaped into something unnatural.
But that wasn't the only thing he learned.
With nothing but time and an excess of corpses, he came up with the idea of skinning the drakes. Their hides, while rough, could serve as makeshift insulation, and their meat—though tough and gamy—was edible enough after roasting over a fire.
He thrived in this life. The solitude. The hunt. The raw, primal nature of it all.
Then, on the second day, everything changed.
A deep, guttural rumble shook the cavern.
Ryuma's eyes snapped open.
An earthquake? No… something worse.
The ground trembled beneath him, small rocks tumbling from above. He didn't waste time questioning it—instinct screamed at him to move. He grabbed his sword and sprinted out of his makeshift resting place just as the ceiling collapsed behind him, sealing the entrance in a suffocating cloud of dust and debris.
Had he been a second slower, he would've been buried alive.
His heart pounded against his ribs. He exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow.
But now, a new problem presented itself.
He had nowhere safe to go.
Ryuma walked for a while, his boots crunching against the uneven stone floor. His mind was still sharp, wary of any lurking threats, but something in the air had shifted. The darkness ahead lightened, giving way to an opening—a cavernous space where the shadows parted just enough for him to see.
And there he was.
That same boy.
The one he had seen back home, murmuring in disdain about how unfair life was. The one who had looked so bitter, so exhausted before his Rift even began. Now, drenched and shivering, it seemed as though he had just crawled out of a pool of water, his breaths ragged, his expression twisted with frustration.
Ryuma stilled, watching.
Fate? Luck? It didn't matter.
He knew people could be Rifted together, but this? The same place, the same stretch of darkness swallowing them both? That was more than coincidence.
And just like before, the boy was complaining.
Muttering to himself, voice thick with exhaustion and despair. About how unfair it was. How cruel. How everything was stacked against him.
Ryuma scoffed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Some people never changed.
For a moment, Ryuma thought he was still looking at the same boy—the same fragile, pitiful soul drowning in self-pity. But in the blink of an eye, something shifted.
The trembling in the boy's shoulders stilled. His breath evened. The moisture clinging to his skin could have been mistaken for sweat rather than tears. And his face—just moments ago twisted in despair—became something else entirely.
Cold.
Unshaken.
Unyielding.
All traces of doubt, of weakness, vanished, leaving behind nothing but a hardened gaze. A warrior's glare.
Then, Ryuma heard it.
"Never again."
A whisper of resolve, yet it struck with the weight of a vow.
Never again what? Never again cry? Never again need someone? Ryuma didn't know. And yet, for the first time in his life, something unexpected coursed through him.
Excitement.
His heart raced, his blood roared in his ears. His lips curled upward in something between a smirk and a snarl.
This boy…
This boy was his rival.
Not a roach scurrying in the shadows of the strong. Not some weakling clinging to the false safety of a clan. No, this boy was like him. Someone who would climb, no matter how many corpses he had to leave behind.
And when they left this Rift… their rivalry would begin.
For now, Ryuma had no intention of making his presence known. He turned, slipping back into the darkness, leaving without a sound.
The entrance to their story had been made.
Now, let the real game begin.