The Riftborn Hunter

The Rift checkpoint was supposed to be routine—just another D-Tier cleanup, a crumb for the desperate. Reiss Kain stood near the entrance, arms crossed, his face a slab of icy control. His team had rolled in late—too late for the clash, just in time for the wreckage.

The warband leader's corpse stretched across the stone, still warm, its crimson eye fading to a lifeless sheen. Blood painted the ruins—Ruin Dwellers sprawled like shattered marionettes, their rusted weapons beside them, edges gleaming with fresh crimson—a brutal testament carved into the temple's bones.

Reiss crouched by the leader's body, pressing two fingers into a deep, meticulous wound. "Clean," he muttered, voice sharp. Too clean for a D-Rank raid—too exact, too deliberate.

His team figured a squad had done it—standard guess.

Reiss knew better.

Only one had gone in.

And that made no sense.

He rose, turning to a checkpoint Hunter—a wiry figure with a nervous twitch. "Check the logs," Reiss ordered, tone slicing. "Who entered?"

The Hunter frowned, swiping his tablet. "Uh… one name. Nathaniel Crane."

Reiss's brow flicked—fake, obvious. "No real ID?" Suspicion edged his voice.

The man shifted, antsy. "Well, there's an ID, but… no records. Probably an alias."

A fake name. Someone hiding.

Whoever tore this place apart didn't want eyes on them.

Reiss exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple—a rare crack in his composure. "Where is he now?"

The Hunter pointed to the Rift's dying glow. "Walking out."

Reiss turned—gaze narrowing.

There he was.

Aiden limped into view—wrecked, raw, alive. Blood crusted his jacket, a dark record of the warlord's rage. His ribs throbbed—cracked, every breath a jagged stab from that earth-splitting strike. His legs ached—muscles wrung dry like soaked cloth after dodging death too long.

But he wasn't dead.

He'd walk it off—for now.

He'd gained something—Surge Sight, a shard of something immense—but that took second place.

Because Reiss locked eyes on him.

Aiden slowed—limp faint, face steady. No flinches—just burying the pain gnawing his every step. He had to play this tight.

Reiss's voice cut low—flat, probing. "You."

Aiden tilted his head, as if placing the sound. "Me."

Silence stretched—dense, charged.

Reiss wasn't buying it.

This was the first time Aiden truly saw his brother—not just heard that biting edge through years of darkness. Reiss looked older—lean muscle carved for speed, not bulk. His uniform was crisp—expensive, B-Rank privilege woven into every thread. Short black hair framed a chiseled face—Kain traits, cold and unrelenting.

Aiden hadn't caught it before—blindness had left him guessing.

Now? Every detail stood stark—vivid, real.

And Reiss didn't know what he faced.

His brother's eyes raked over him—blood, torn jacket, limp—trying to stitch it together.

Then: "What happened in there?"

Aiden blinked—slow, measured. "What do you mean?"

Reiss waved at the Rift's husk. "Who cleared it?"

Aiden met his stare—flat. "Me."

Silence.

Reiss's eye twitched—just a flicker.

A checkpoint Hunter coughed, tense. "Uh, logs confirm—he was the only one in."

Reiss turned—slow, deliberate—calm fraying. "You're saying," he said, voice too even, "my battered, bloody, F-Rank, blind little brother soloed a dungeon?"

The Hunter squirmed. "T-Technically, yeah."

Reiss inhaled—exhaled—inhaled again, like he was choking down a roar. "Explain."

Aiden shifted—easing his weight, pain flaring but masked. "Went in."

"And?"

"Came out."

Reiss's jaw tightened—patience buckling. "Aiden."

"Reiss."

"Tell me what happened."

"I did," Aiden said, voice level. "Walked in. Walked out."

Reiss shut his eyes—a full second—battling the urge to snap. "The dungeon didn't clear itself," he gritted out.

Aiden shrugged—shoulder twinging, a wince he hid. "Maybe the monsters sorted it out themselves."

Reiss's face shadowed—glare sharpening. "MONSTERS DON'T JUST KILL EACH OTHER."

Aiden rubbed his chin, calm. "Could've been a bad day."

"You—" Reiss's fists clenched—knuckles whitening.

But the logs held—one Hunter, one clear.

And that Hunter stood here—bleeding, breathing, defying logic.

Reiss exhaled—forcing control. "Fine. We're leaving. Now."

Aiden raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"You're coming to the Association," Reiss said, cold as iron. "If something's off—"

Aiden leaned aside—slight, testing.

Reiss lunged—hand darting—but grasped air.

Aiden slipped between two Hunters—smooth as a shadow's glide. His body shouldn't have managed—torn, battered—but Surge Sight pulsed, guiding every step.

Reiss's gut sank. No.

He spun—scanning.

Nothing.

He turned again—Aiden stood twenty feet off.

Reiss froze—impossible.

His brother—F-Rank, blind, broken—moved like a specter.

Their eyes met.

Aiden tilted his head—then waved, slow, deliberate—a quiet taunt.

He turned—fading into the checkpoint crowd. Reiss stepped forward—gone.

No flash, no rush—just precise steps, vanishing in plain sight.

Reiss stared—hands clenching. "No way," he muttered. "No damn way."

Aiden shouldn't—couldn't—do that.

Logic buckled—facts stood firm.

"What if he did it?" Reiss breathed.

For the first time in years—no answer came.

Aiden wove through the crowd—pain spiking with each step, but he pressed on. He needed out—and he needed his payout. Broke was yesterday—credits and drops were his ticket to breathing room.

The handler's booth loomed—a battered metal shack, reeking of oil and stale sweat. Aiden limped up, slamming his wristband down. "Nathaniel Crane," he said, voice rough but steady. "Job's done."

The handler—a grizzled hulk with a lazy eye—grunted, scanning the band. "D-Tier cleanup—solo. Logs check." He slid a credit chip—1000 credits—and a sealed pouch over. "Monster haul—teeth, claws, maybe a core. Standard stuff."

Aiden pocketed them—credits clinked, pouch heavy with grisly loot. Enough to eat, gear up—survive another day. "That'll do," he said, turning off. Worth the blood staining his hands.

A pulse hit—low, deep, familiar.

His vision flared—golden, Surge Sight humming.

A phantom flickered at the Rift's edge—shifting, eyeless, too real.