It was today.

  Overcoat and knives? Check. My bandages? Tucked into the side pocket of my backpack—check. Canteen? Sloshing and full—check. I knew this Rift wasn’t supposed to be large or overly complex, but I wasn't going to let a "training run" trick me into forming bad habits. Habits were what kept you alive when the world tried to stomp you out.

  Every child dreams of this day. They dream of the moment they take their first real step toward adulthood and independence. They spend their nights imagining what it’s like to "be a dragon," throwing fire from their fingertips or healing the sick with a touch. Every kid I ever saw used to play together—pretending to be Ascenders, shouting out made-up moves and laughing—except me. I’d been too busy looking for scraps to play at being a hero.

  No time for self-pity, Wren! You’ve got a checklist to complete!

  Throwing knives? Strapped and balanced in the harness, in addition to my main blade. Wait, I already checked that. I’m checking it again. Smoke bombs? Packed in the easy-reach loops—check. Fire starter, emergency rations, and a bit of dry tinder? All check.

  I took a deep breath, trying to settle the fluttering in my stomach. Okay. That was everything. I looked like a soldier, or at least a very well-prepared scavenger.

  “Sir Wren. You do realize we will be monitoring your progress—as the training rift allows for such oversight—yes?”

  The Manager’s voice came from the doorway, as cool and polished as the floor. I jumped slightly, nearly knocking my canteen loose.

  “You are being a bit meticulous—Sir Wren. Not that I am going to stop you—au contraire—a minute prepped is an hour saved in the field. In this case, however, I believe you are perhaps over-encumbering yourself for a task of this magnitude.”

  I looked down at my bulging pack and the bristling hilts of my knives. I probably did look a bit ridiculous, but I didn't care. To them, it was a magnitude. To me, it was the first time I was walking into the dark on purpose.

  “I’d rather be heavy than dead,” I muttered, tightening the strap on my backpack.

  The Manager’s mask tilted, catching the light.

  “A sentiment I find difficult to argue with—nonetheless—the threshold is waiting. Shall we move toward the gate?”

  The carriage ride to the Jester’s guild hall was sixty minutes of agonizing, repetitive motion. I spent most of it digging through my pack, counting my smoke bombs, touching the hilts of my knives, and re-checking the seals on my rations. I did it again. And then once more. Each time I finished the list, my brain found a way to convince me I’d forgotten something vital, some small scrap of gear that would be the difference between breathing and bleeding out.

  “Sir Wren, while I understand the impulse—you may find yourself developing the habits of a pack rat or a hoarder if you do not learn the art of letting go.”

  The Manager’s voice cut through the sound of the carriage wheels, smooth and unimpressed.

  “You have packed nearly every supply one would require for a multi-day expedition. I would assume—based solely on your kit—that you were on your way to a training planet rather than a single, contained rift. I will dictate this into the notes for Dr. Aris—and she will address the psychological root of this behavior with you upon your return.”

  They sighed, a sound that was somehow both mechanical and tired.

  “Now—some advice and some rules. You do not need to clear the rift. You truly do not. Simply attempt to eliminate a few kobolds to begin with—take your time. Once you have eliminated one, try to use your [Summon Mana Monster] to manifest a mana copy. Observe how the essence feels. Currently—you should have enough capacity for three summons—but it is likely you will only possess the mana to sustain one, perhaps two. Do not push yourself.”

  I stopped fussing with my straps and looked up at the porcelain mask. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

  “If you find yourself overwhelmed—run. Your objective is not to complete the rift—your objective is to live and to learn. Remember, Sir Wren—you learn nothing if you are dead.”

  I swallowed hard, the weight of my pack suddenly feeling very real.

  The weight of the bag seemed to double the moment we crossed the threshold of the guild hall. It was a massive, echoing space, filled with the hum of mana and the distant, rhythmic thrum of active gates. People were everywhere—some standing in long, impatient lines—but the Manager led me toward a section that was nearly empty. There was only a young man, maybe a few years older than me, leaning against a pillar and checking his watch with a bored expression.

  “Oh, don't mind him! He’s just waiting his turn,” a chipper voice chirped from my left. “Hi! I’m Cindy! I’m the Jester’s Guild Assistant for today, which means I’m going to be your caretaker for this rift.”

  I turned to see a young woman with a bright, professional smile.

  “My role as a caretaker is simple—I’m here to provide you with information, purchase any mana stones, ores, or anything else of note you acquire, and pull you out if you get into hyper-danger!”

  I heard her, but I wasn't really listening. My sights were locked on the anomaly ahead of us. The rift was beautiful and horrifying all at once—a pearlescent blue shimmer that swirled with streaks of silver and earthy brown. It looked like a storm caught in a sheet of glass. It was inviting. It was deadly.

  This was real. Monsters came out of these things if they weren't managed. Real, living nightmares.

  Think. Don’t spiral. The kobolds in this specific training rift were slower than the ones you’d find in the wild, traded for a marginal increase in durability. It was fine. One knife to the neck, the spine, the heart, the knees, or the elbows. Kill. Disable. Maim. In that priority.

  Remember, Wren. You're a sur—

  A firm hand gripped my shoulder, shaking me out of the trance. The Manager directed me back toward Cindy, their silence more demanding than any shout.

  “First time seeing a rift? They are pretty, I know,” Cindy said, her tone softening just a fraction as she saw my face. “I’m Cindy, if you didn’t hear me the first time. I’ll be over here managing your run and letting the masked one over there watch via our built-in patent with the enchantments in the rift binding plates.”

  She gestured toward the swirling gate, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious.

  “Basically, I buy what is of interest, and I can pull you out if you get into real danger. But for the sake of this exercise, assume that you only have the life you have. This isn’t a game, kid. If we have to pull you out, it means you would have died.”

  I looked back at the pearlescent swirl. The Manager’s hand was still on my shoulder, a heavy, silent weight.

  “The stakes are absolute—Sir Wren—as is the opportunity. Do not let the beauty of the gate distract you from the utility of the blade.”

  I nodded, my throat feeling like it was full of sand. I wasn't just a street kid anymore. I was a Delver.

  ***

  The transition was less of a physical step and more of a sensory overwrite. One moment, the sterile, hum of the Guild Hall filled my ears; the next, the air turned cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of wet stone and fungal rot.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The packet was right. It was a cave—vast, echoing, and draped in shadows. Clusters of glowing mushrooms clung to the jagged walls like bioluminescent tumors, casting a dim, sickly light that sat somewhere between a dying fire and the last bruised moments of a sunset. It wasn't dark, but the light was treacherous; it played tricks on the eyes, making the shadows of stalactites look like reaching claws.

  My heart was thundering, a frantic drum against my ribs, but my mind was doing something else entirely. It was stripping the world down to its components. I was terrified, yes, but I had spent years on the street where being terrified without being observant meant you didn't wake up the next morning.

  I noted the crossroads immediately. To my right, a flat, sandy path wound deeper into the belly of the cave. To my left, a jagged rock wall offered a climb to a high, shaded ledge. My eyes tracked the moisture on the stone; I could see where the condensation pooled and where it avoided. The silence wasn't empty. It was a language.

  I didn't say a word. I didn't even breathe for a few seconds. I knelt, pressing my ear against the cool, damp earth, closing my eyes to shut out the deceptive mushrooms.

  Everything in the world has a rhythm. People were the easiest to read. Mrs. Sanders would sit on her bench, her breathing deep and ragged after every puff of her cigarette, her head always tilting right like a clockwork doll. Fred, the sandwich-eater, only ever looked up when the bell rang. If you knew the rhythm, you knew the opening. You knew when to move and when to stay a shadow.

  The cave was no different.

  I started counting. Every six "green bananas," a drop of water fell from a stalactite somewhere to my left. Plip. Six more. Plip. The cave was breathing through the water.

  Then, at the count of fourteen, a heavy, resonant thud vibrated through the stone. It was deep, distant, and carried the weight of something massive—the two-headed bull the packet had warned about, far deeper in the Rift.

  But there was something else. Closer.

  I heard the dry, rhythmic rasp of scales on stone. Scritch. Scritch. It was a frantic, uneven shuffling coming from the right-hand path. It didn't have the steady weight of a human; it was lighter, lower to the ground, and carried a frantic energy.

  I kept my profile as low as a shadow, moving with a careful, deliberate slowness that had been hammered into me by years of avoiding the heavy boots of the City Watch. I crept toward the wall, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm that I tried to drown out by focusing on the cave’s own pulse.

  The rock face was jagged and slick with a thin film of mineral-heavy water, but the fissures were deep and frequent. It wasn't a climb so much as it was a ladder made of stone. My fingers, still calloused from the gutters, found the cracks with an instinctive familiarity. I pulled myself up, inch by inch, until I reached the overlook.

  The vantage point was perfect. From the shaded lip of the ledge, I could look directly down into the adjacent chamber where the flat path led.

  I was right.

  Two kobolds crouched there. They were small, hunched creatures with dull brown scales that looked as hard as beetle carapaces. They lacked the dignity of clothes or the threat of steel; their only weapons were the jagged claws tipping their four-fingered hands. They didn't pace or chatter. Instead, they stood with a vacant, predatory stillness, their yellow eyes fixed entirely on the tunnel entrance I hadn't used. They were waiting for a frontal assault. They weren't looking up.

  Plip. One. Plip. Two.

  I watched their breathing. It was shallow and synchronized with the damp air of the cave. They weren't just monsters; they were part of the rhythm. I reached into my belt and pulled out a smoke bomb, my thumb hooked into the ignition string. I didn't feel like a hero. I felt like a hunter.

  I pulled the string and tossed the sphere. It dropped silently, landing between them before erupting into a thick, oily cloud of grey fog. The kobolds shrieked—a high-pitched, rasping sound—as their world vanished into a haze of charcoal and sulfur.

  I didn't wait for the smoke to clear. I rolled off the ledge.

  The drop was barely eight feet, but I timed the landing to put my full weight into the center of the first creature’s back. My boots slammed into its spine with a sickening thud, driving it face-first into the cavern floor. Before it could even draw breath to scream, I had my main knife out.

  I didn't think about it. I couldn't afford to. I drove the blade into the soft crease of its neck, twisting the steel to rupture the voicebox. The creature’s struggle turned into a pathetic, wet wheeze. I followed the motion instantly, pulling the blade free and plunging it into the center of the chest plates, feeling the resistance of the scales give way to the frantic beat of its heart.

  One down.

  I spun in the fading smoke, my eyes searching for the second silhouette through the haze. The other kobold was frantic, slashing its claws at the empty air, completely blind to the ghost standing right behind it.

  The smoke was a living thing, thick and tasting of burnt copper, coiling around the remaining kobold as it shrieked in a blind, high-pitched panic. It was a frantic sound—the sound of a cornered animal realizing the air itself had turned against it.

  I didn't give myself time to feel the tremor in my hands or the slick, hot wetness of the first kill on my palms. If I stopped to think, I’d become the boy in the gutter again, the one who curled into a ball when the boots started swinging. I lunged through the haze, my boots skidding slightly on the cave floor as I targeted the silhouette thrashing in the grey.

  I grabbed its head from behind, my fingers digging into the hard, cold ridges of its brow. I didn't have the strength of a knight, but I had the desperate weight of a survivor. I swung my primary knife in a wide, desperate arc, aiming to bury the steel deep into its chest plates just like I had with the first one. I wanted the silence back. I wanted the rhythm to return to the dripping water and the moss, not this frantic, scratching chaos.

  The blade struck—but the "clink" of steel against scale wasn't the wet thud I expected.

  The kobold wasn't a statue. Unlike the first one, which I’d crushed under my weight, this one was already moving. My knife skidded off the thick carapace of its sternum, carving a shallow, sparking white line across the brown scales but failing to bite into the meat beneath.

  The creature didn’t scream. It hissed—a sound like steam escaping a broken pipe—and threw its head back with a violent, bone-cracking snap.

  The back of its skull slammed into my nose.

  The world exploded in a burst of white light and the sudden, salty taste of my own blood. My grip loosened, my fingers slipping on the waxy scales as the kobold spun in my arms. It wasn't slow. The packet had said they were slower than their higher-tier cousins, but compared to a scrawny, half-starved boy, it was a blur of corded muscle and reptilian fury.

  A clawed hand lashed out, catching me across the shoulder. The thick fabric of my overcoat saved me from being disemboweled, but the force of the blow sent me staggering back into the rock wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, leaving me gasping for air that was still thick with sulfurous smoke.

  The kobold lunged. It didn't use a weapon; it used itself. It tackled me into the dirt, its weight surprisingly heavy for its size. I felt the sharp, jagged points of its claws digging into my forearms as I held my knife up like a shield, keeping its snapping jaws away from my throat.

  Think. Don't spiral.

  The Manager’s voice echoed in the back of my head, cold and distant.

  “If you are grappled by something bigger, stronger, faster... you die, Sir Wren, unless you find a way to unbind yourself.”

  The creature was hissing in my face, a foul smell of raw meat and cave rot filling my nostrils. It was trying to pin my wrists, its yellow eyes slit with a mindless, predatory hunger. I was losing. My strength was flagging, my muscles trembling under the pressure of its superior mass.

  I remembered the laps. The tips of my toes. The shift of the center of gravity.

  I didn't try to push it off me. I didn't have the power for that. Instead, I bucked my hips, shifting my weight to the side just as the kobold leaned in to bite. The movement was small, a mere "snap" of the pelvis, but it was enough to throw the creature’s balance off for a fraction of a second.

  As it tilted, I brought my knee up hard into its soft underbelly. It wheezed, a wet, guttural sound, and for a heartbeat, its guard dropped.

  I rolled. I didn't stand up; I stayed low, scrambling through the dirt and the fading smoke like the rat I used to be. The kobold was already turning, its tail lashing the ground, eyes wide as it searched for the shadow that had slipped its grasp. It was angry now, its movements more jagged, more erratic. It broke the rhythm of the cave.

  I didn't wait for it to find me. I remembered the dumbbell. The way the Manager had shifted their hips and locked their elbow to amplify the force. I wasn't a warrior, but I understood the math of a desperate strike.

  The kobold lunged again, a low-profile leap meant to take me at the waist. I didn't retreat. I stepped into the attack, dropping my weight and pivoting on the ball of my left foot. I felt the "snap" travel from my heel, through my core, and into my shoulder.

  I grabbed the crest of its head with my free hand, pulling it down even as I drove my knife hand upward with everything I had.

  The blade didn't hit the chest this time. I aimed for the one place where the scales were thinnest, where the bone gave way to the soft, vulnerable underside of the jaw.

  The steel slid in.

  There was a sickening, crunching sound as the point of the knife punched through the floor of the mouth and deep into the brain. The kobold’s body went rigid, its claws frozen inches from my chest. Its yellow eyes rolled back, the light in them flickering out like a guttering candle.

  I held it there for a second, my chest heaving, my own blood dripping from my nose and onto the creature’s brown scales. The weight of it was immense, a heavy, cooling mass that pressed against me.

  Slowly, I let it go. The body slumped to the floor with a dull thud, joining its companion in the settling dust.