Ryuma smirked as he studied his features. They were all direct, all powerful in their own right. But more than that, they were fitting. They defined what he already knew about himself.
[Dragon Kin] made him stronger, faster, sharper. A being carved from the essence of legends. His body was superior. His instincts unmatched.
[Lord] ensured that everything beneath him knew their place. Weaklings feared him. He ruled himself—answered to no one.
And then there was [Fateless].
The very concept of fate was meaningless to him. The so-called divine order of things had no claim over him. No prophecy, no preordained destiny could dictate his path. His will was absolute.
A laugh rumbled in his chest.
Perfect.
If he wanted to make an impression—if he wanted to set the stage—then he would do so as a king standing before his people. And when his rival looked upon him, he would see not a mere challenger, but a monarch who had no need for fate, no need for limits.
But how?
He needed a display. Something undeniable. Something so absolute that it would burn itself into the boy's mind.
His gaze shifted to the depths of the Rift, where more beasts lurked.
A stage needed a spectacle.
Ryuma grinned.
He would make one.
Ryuma stepped into the abyss, the damp air thick with the scent of moss and decay. The cavern walls, slick with moisture, swallowed the faint light that radiated from his skin, leaving only shifting shadows in his wake. Stalactites loomed above like the fangs of some great beast, while the uneven ground, slick with unseen filth, threatened to swallow his every step.
His sharpened senses guided him. The stench of chitin and venom was pungent, pooling in clusters where the Rift's predators lurked. He followed the trail unerringly, drawn to the heart of danger. This was the stage he would set—an arena bathed in darkness, where he would carve his name in blood.
He felt them before he saw them. Eight scorpions, their bodies armored in jagged carapace, shifting in restless anticipation. Their barbed tails twitched, glistening with venom. The cavern thrummed with their presence, the echoes of their movement reverberating through the stone.
And then—footsteps.
Ryuma's lips curled. His rival was near. The time was perfect.
The moment the first scorpion lunged, he moved. His blade sang through the air, parting the darkness like lightning splitting the sky. Carapace cracked, venom sprayed, and in the span of a breath, the battlefield was his alone. The corpses lay in ruin around him, their lifeblood seeping into the earth.
He exhaled, the scent of death heavy in the air.
Now, all that was left was for his rival to witness.
Something was off.
The footsteps weren't approaching—they were retreating. Fleeing.
Ryuma frowned. His rival was running? He considered chasing after him but decided against it. There was no need to rush. He knew exactly where they were. Instead, he walked—calmly, deliberately. Perhaps the boy wanted to fight without interruption. If so, Ryuma would grant him that.
But as he arrived, the sight before him made his stomach twist with disappointment.
His rival stood there, stance unsteady, fingers trembling against the hilt of a crude bone sword. The confidence Ryuma had expected—the fire, the pride—was nowhere to be found. Just a boy, barely holding himself together.
Disappointment coursed through him like ice.
Still, he did not give up hope.
If his rival was weak, then he would sharpen him. If he was unsure, then he would carve certainty into his bones.
Ryuma let the tension build, circling the cavern with a slow, measured gait. He ignored the boy, pretending to examine the damp walls, the glistening stone, the echoes of distant life within the Rift. He let the silence settle, let it weigh heavy between them.
Then, in a voice as low as the shifting shadows, he spoke.
"Leave this place."
There it was—the anger he had been waiting for.
That fleeting uncertainty had been burned away, replaced with something sharper. Something real. Not just anyone would be crazy enough to stand against someone like him—a man who had trained endlessly for this moment, whose first Rift was supposed to be a triumph. Yet here his rival stood, steel in his voice, the crude bone sword steady in his grip, his gaze hard and unwavering.
Ryuma narrowed his eyes, his voice calm, yet laced with cold anger.
"Hell no!"
The boy's words rang out, filled with determination and irritation alike.
Defiance.
Perfect.
Ryuma nearly smirked. His rival was exactly as he had hoped—stubborn, unyielding. Their rivalry would be legendary. Still, he decided to test him a little further, to see if that fire would hold or flicker.
"I'm letting you live because you're human," Ryuma stated, his tone like ice. "Don't push it."
But his rival didn't waver.
He didn't care about threats.
He had his own will, his own wants, and he wasn't backing down.
"Look, I was here first, and quite frankly, I've been through hell. I'm not leaving the safety of this cave just because you think you're one of those Rift beasts."
Ryuma stilled. Then, slowly, a grin crept across his lips.
He's perfect.
Ryuma's glare sharpened. His test wasn't over.
It wasn't enough to see defiance—he needed certainty. He needed to make sure this boy wouldn't crumble, wouldn't run when true fear set in. Because the only person his rival was ever allowed to lose to… was Ryuma himself.
He took a step forward, his presence suffocating, his voice steady as steel.
"Then I'll kill you."
A simple statement. A clear, undeniable threat.
But his rival didn't flinch.
Didn't cower.
Didn't step back.
Ryuma watched him closely, waiting for hesitation, for doubt, for anything—but there was none. And then, just as suddenly as the tension had risen, Ryuma let it go. He sheathed his sword, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
He passed.
"Let's make a deal." Ryuma's voice was composed, almost casual, as if the killing intent from moments ago had been nothing more than a passing breeze.