The Riftborn Hunter

Aiden needed money.

First problem, plain and simple—nothing fancy about an empty wallet.

The Hunter Association had cut him loose, no "congrats on not dying in an S-Rank Rift" bonus included. No savings, no backup, no guild to toss him a lifeline. Hunters got paid for Rift clearances, sure, but F-Tiers? They got table scraps—if they were lucky.

Aiden wasn't even sure he was still F-Tier. Not after… whatever the hell that Rift had done to him.

He slumped on a rusted bench in a quiet city corner—some forgotten nook where the neon didn't reach—staring at job listings on his Hunter-issued device. His fingers hovered over the scratched screen, scrolling the dregs of the mission pool.

[Hunter System: Mission Listings]

[E-Tier Rift – Hunters Needed | Status: Low Threat | Combat Level: E to D-Tier | Reward: 1000 Credits + Material Drops]

A Rift cleanup.

Nobody sane wanted those gigs—low pay, mind-numbing, and a sneaky chance of getting skewered if the Rift wasn't fully tamed. Perfect for blending in, though.

He wasn't here to flex.

He just needed to know if he'd actually changed—or if his head was still scrambled from that shadow show.

Aiden's thumb hovered over "accept" when his phone buzzed—sharp, like a jab to the ribs.

His stomach sank.

Only one pack of jackals ever messaged him.

[Kain Family Group Chat]

His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging in before he even tapped it open.

He'd spent his life hearing their venom through that synthetic voice—every cutting word flat and cold, a robotic kick when he was down.

Now? He could see it.

And damn, that made it sting worse.

Cailen Kain: You survived an S-Rank Rift?

Lena Kain: Are they serious? No way.

Reiss Kain: What, did you run and let everyone else die?

Aiden exhaled hard through his nose—same old song, just a new screen.

No "glad you're alive," no "what happened"—just disbelief, like he was still the blind, useless runt they'd scrubbed from the family crest.

Cailen Kain: Association says it's an anomaly. Figures. Another fluke.

Aiden's jaw clenched.

Fluke.

That's all he'd ever been to them—before he'd even touched a Rift, before he'd outlived a squad of better Hunters.

Lena Kain: Quit while you're ahead. That Rift luck won't hold.

Reiss Kain: You got lucky. That's it.

His thumb twitched over "Leave Chat"—tempting, so tempting.

Then he paused, flicked to settings, and killed the Text-to-Voice.

The silence felt… final. Like slamming a door on the Kains' robotic disdain.

That voice had been his lifeline to words—his only bridge since he'd gripped a phone as a kid. Now? Obsolete.

Should've been a win.

Felt more like losing a crutch he'd hated leaning on.

He blinked at the screen, then typed—slow, deliberate.

Aiden Kain: Maybe.

Screw 'em. He shut it off, accepted the cleanup gig, and stood, stretching sore limbs.

His ribs twinged—still bruised from the Rift's welcome party—but something felt… off. Lighter, maybe.

Then—

[PASSIVE SYNCHRONIZATION INITIATED.]

[USER PHYSICAL LIMITS ADJUSTING…]

[STAT ADJUSTMENT: REFLEX +0.2 | AGILITY +0.3]

[SYSTEM WARNING: FULL ACTIVATION NOT YET REACHED.]

Aiden froze, breath catching.

That was new.

The System hadn't twitched since Varyn's hospital stare-down.

Now it was ticking up—small, barely a nudge, but there.

His fingers curled into fists, a smirk tugging his lips. "Guess I'm not total trash anymore, huh?"

His stats weren't cemented.

F-Rank wasn't forever.

The meeting spot was a crumbling loading dock on the city's outer edge—a grimy pit where low-rank Hunters gathered like stray dogs sniffing for scraps. Dim lights flickered over makeshift benches and a table buried in mission papers. A handful of E-Tiers milled around—gear clanking, voices droning like this was just another shift.

One stood out—a woman, D-Tier by her stance, sharp and steady.

Aiden kept his hood up, sticking to the edges.

Low profile—best profile.

A scoff cut through the murk. "Great. Another stray."

Aiden slid his gaze sideways—a broad-shouldered thug, scar slashing his cheek, cheap reinforced armor creaking as he sneered.

The face was new. The tone? Old as dirt—same arrogant drip he'd heard from every Kain who'd ever stepped over him.

"Thought we were scraping the barrel already," the guy—Garrick, going by Tess's jab—muttered. "Now they're dragging 'em off the street?"

Aiden didn't blink. "Heard worse from better," he said, voice flat.

He had—daily, from blood who'd rather he'd died at birth.

A lean girl perched on the table—dark-haired, flipping a knife like it was a toy—snorted. "Leave him be, Garrick. Maybe he's bait."

"Tess, don't bother," Garrick shot back. "Kid's a lost cause."

Laughter rippled—low, mean, familiar.

Aiden exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, this'll be a blast," he muttered, sarcasm thick enough to cut.

A sharper voice sliced in—"Alright, settle down."

Controlled, not mocking—a woman stepped forward, short and wiry, built like a runner who'd outpace death. Her eyes were knives—missed nothing.

Name tag: Jenna Vale.

No bell rang—he didn't know her. But the way she owned the space? Squad lead, no question.

"Don't care who you are or why you're here," Jenna said, scanning them. "Follow orders, don't screw up, and try not to die. It's a cleanup, not a raid. Stick together, we're golden."

Her gaze landed on Aiden. "You. Name?"

He met it, voice steady. "Kain."

Her eyes narrowed—a flicker, maybe recognition, maybe not.

Then she shrugged. "Whatever. Team three. Keep up."

Aiden nodded, falling in as the crew prepped.

The Gate loomed ahead—a swirling blue Rift pulsing in the dusk like a bad omen.

He didn't know what was waiting inside.

But his gut—that same twitchy bastard that'd sniffed out the Rift's slaughter—growled loud:

This ain't just a cleanup.