The Riftborn Hunter

Aiden exhaled sharply, planting his boots firm as the warband leader towered over him—its jagged greatsword raised like a guillotine. Blood dripped from the chipped blade—his blood, red and accusing, splattered from earlier grazes. That single crimson eye burned beneath its crude helm, unblinking, a predator savoring its cornered prey.

He wasn't in good shape. His side throbbed where the spear had gouged him—hot, sticky blood soaked his jacket, seeping into every move. His ribs ached, every breath a stab of twisting knives from that damn shockwave earlier. His left leg burned—muscles screaming after too many dodges, too many near-misses, threatening to buckle under him.

But stopping wasn't an option.

The warlord snarled—low, rumbling, its breath a rancid gust heavy with exertion. Aiden wasn't buying the tired act. This thing was strong—too damn strong to face head-on, no matter how winded it looked.

He shifted his knife, fingers slick with sweat and blood—his grip shaky but stubborn. Exhaustion weighed his limbs like lead, stamina fraying, his side a white-hot furnace of pain. "Alright, ugly," he muttered, voice rough. "Let's see who blinks first."

The warband leader attacked.

Not a wild rush like some dumb beast—it moved with purpose, measured, a hunter stretching out the kill. The greatsword dropped in a brutal arc—fast, lethal, a steel storm.

Aiden threw himself sideways—his body groaned, leg faltering for a split-second. Too slow. The blade's edge grazed his shoulder—pain erupted, sharp and searing, blood spraying across the stone floor in a crimson arc.

He staggered, vision blurring at the edges—grit kept him up, not grace. Dodging wasn't cutting it—his body was breaking down, piece by bloody piece. "New plan," he rasped, forcing his foggy brain to focus. Read it. Predict it.

Golden flickers sparked—strained, dimmer than before, his exhaustion muddying the foresight. Reaction time slipped, but he clung to the threads.

One shot.

He faked a stumble—knife dipping, stance loosening, a crack in his armor begging for the kill.

The warlord bit.

A guttural snarl tore from its throat as it lunged—all-in, greatsword cleaving down with absolute force, rusted steel a death promise.

Aiden moved—

Too late.

His side screamed—half a beat off, instincts dragging behind. The blade closed in—golden vision fractured, dozens of futures, all dead ends.

Then—his eyes ignited.

Time stretched—golden fire blazed, the world crawling. He twisted, knife snapping up—not to block, to shift. The moment hung—the warlord's strike teetered from sure to shaky. His blade kissed the greatsword's edge—steel whispered—and redirected it.

The sword slammed stone—deep, cracks webbing out, a thunderclap of force shaking the temple. Dust billowed, stinging his eyes.

Aiden surged—twisting into the gap. The warlord snarled—its free hand rocketing up, claws flexed to crush him—

He drove his knee into its gut—hard, a brutal crunch of muscle and momentum. The beast buckled—just a twitch—but its crimson eye flared, fury unyielded.

Not enough.

It was still moving—still too damn strong.

Aiden's breath hitched as the warlord wrenched its blade free—brute strength splitting stone further, shards flying. Its claws lashed—aimed for his throat, no miss this time.

Golden vision flared—one path.

He twisted—sharp, desperate—momentum yanking him past death's edge. His free hand snapped out—grabbing a rusted spear, splintered but wicked.

Every ounce of strength poured in—he roared, driving it forward—

The spear pierced—the warlord's ribs cracked open, black blood gushing.

Its roar choked—furious, ragged—body shuddering but refusing to drop. Instead—

It struck.

Aiden felt it too late—a vice clamped his forearm, bone-crushing force searing through. Pain flashed—white-hot—his knife still lodged in its throat, arm trapped.

The warlord surged—crimson eye blazing, claws digging as it yanked him closer—to snap him, crush him with its dying breath.

He couldn't move—vision blurred, ribs howling, the world tilting as its weight dragged him down. One slip—one second—and he'd be meat.

No futures left—no golden threads—just raw instinct.

His fingers tightened on the spear. "Not today," he snarled.

He twisted—jagged shaft grinding flesh, scraping bone—deeper, until something vital gave.

The warlord lurched—grip faltered.

Aiden tore free—arm screaming—as its strength bled out.

The beast trembled—then crashed, a mountain of steel and flesh hitting stone with a final, dull thud.

Aiden staggered—barely upright, blood dripping from his hands, his side, everywhere. "Got you," he rasped, chest heaving.

One second slower—he'd be dead.

A pulse roared—deep, rhythmic, no longer lurking—slamming through him.

Louder. Stronger.

He turned—breath catching.

A door.

Not stone—not normal—an abyss pulsing with that heartbeat, hidden unless you knew. It called—distant, insistent.

His vision flared—golden glow fracturing, wild.

His body shook—not pain, change.

The System blared:

[PERCEPTION +1]

[ENDURANCE +1]

[STRENGTH +1]

[MANA +0.8]

[RANK ADVANCEMENT: E → D]

Not the fight.

The Source.

That door sang to him.

Aiden steadied himself—breath ragged but firm. Beyond it—something waited. For him.

One glance back—ruins a graveyard of his win—he stepped forward.

The world shifted as he pushed through.

Meanwhile…

Reiss stepped over a shattered slab, boots crunching in the empty ruins—a battlefield turned slaughterhouse. Ruin Dwellers and their leader sprawled—blood pooled, weapons strewn, fight long cold.

His frown deepened. "Too quick," he muttered.

No squad could've carved this up so fast—not unless they were heavy hitters. He crouched by the warlord's corpse—wounds precise, surgical, not wild hacks.

"Skilled," he said, voice low, "not just strong."

He stood, scanning the temple entrance—nothing off, no Rift hum, no hidden paths. Just silence.

"They're gone," he shrugged, turning away.

Unseen beyond his gaze—Aiden had slipped into somewhere else.