Aren's stomach lurched as the floor disappeared completely beneath him. The apartment—the city—the world he knew—was gone.
Air roared past his ears. His arms flailed instinctively, useless against the invisible pull dragging him downward. The walls of his room, the ceiling, even his bed stretched and twisted in impossible ways, shimmering like liquid glass.
He tried to scream, but the sound dissolved into the rushing air. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break free of his chest.
The city outside had been silent, distant, irrelevant. Now, nothing existed. No horizon. No streetlights. Just endless motion.
And then, faintly, a sound beneath him—like a low hum, vibrating through the bones. It was alive. It was wrong.
Instinct told him to close his eyes, but curiosity refused. His vision flickered through fragments of shapes: walls warped into jagged angles, furniture melting into strange patterns, shadows crawling against the nothingness.
He tried to grasp something, anything. His fingers hit empty air.
Aren clenched his teeth. "What… what the hell is this?"
No answer came. Only the rush. Only the fall.
Time didn't feel normal. Seconds stretched into infinity. A faint glow appeared below him, soft at first, then expanding. Colors he didn't recognize bled together, illuminating strange, twisting structures. The hum grew louder, deeper, like it was alive and aware of him.
Something moved inside the glow. Not clearly. Just enough to make him freeze mid-fall. A shape that was wrong in every possible way, towering and indistinct, yet watching.
Aren's mind screamed, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to push off. Gravity felt meaningless here.
And then—
The world below surged upward, and the shimmer swallowed him completely.
Darkness, motion, and the terrible thrill of the unknown.
Aren Vale was no longer in his apartment. He was inside a Rift.
The fall ended abruptly.
Aren slammed into the ground with a force that knocked the wind out of him. Pain exploded in his shoulders, knees, and back, but he barely noticed. The moment his body hit, he realized something: the ground beneath him wasn't ordinary.
It was… alive.
The floor rippled like liquid stone, black veins glowing faintly in a blue-green pulse, as if the Rift itself were breathing. When he moved a hand across it, it shifted slightly under his touch, leaving a shimmer of light that vanished seconds later.
Around him, the space stretched unnaturally. Walls didn't exist like normal walls—they twisted and leaned at impossible angles, rising and bending toward a distant vanishing point. Light came from nowhere and everywhere at once: luminous cracks in the ground, a faint sky-like shimmer above, casting pale colors that didn't exist in the real world.
Structures emerged randomly from the air—towering spires of jagged stone, arching bridges that led nowhere, and pools of glowing liquid that reflected the distorted geometry around them. Shadows clung unnaturally to every surface, moving slightly even when there was no wind.
The air was heavy and metallic, like breathing through iron. Every inhale left a faint taste of electricity. His ears rang faintly with the hum of the Rift itself, low and vibrating, as if it knew he had arrived.
He staggered to his feet, legs shaking, and looked around.
The Rift seemed endless, yet confined. Depths that should have been floors were vertical walls, stairways rose into impossible curves, and in the distance, he could see faint pulses of color that might have been light—or might have been something alive.
And then movement.
From one of the glowing fissures, a shape emerged. Not fully formed. Not yet. Shadows twisted and elongated, forming limbs and jaws, eyes that gleamed faintly from nowhere. It was wrong. Wrong in every sense. But alive. And it had noticed him.
Aren's heartbeat raced. He had no weapons, no armor, no Covenant support. Only himself.
And the Rift… seemed to be aware.
Aren stumbled backward, trying to get his bearings. Every step was uncertain. The ground beneath him pulsed lightly, glowing veins shifting as if testing him. He realized quickly: this place didn't obey normal rules.
A drop of liquid from one of the glowing fissures didn't fall straight down—it hovered for a moment, then shot sideways as if the Rift itself was bending gravity in tiny pockets. The further he looked, the more impossible it became. Stairs looped into themselves, bridges ended midair, and pools of glowing liquid reflected not his face, but fragments of impossible shapes—creatures, landscapes, and buildings that didn't exist.
Aren swallowed hard. His instincts screamed at him: don't touch anything. Don't step on anything unusual. Don't breathe too deep.
And yet, the Rift seemed alive. The walls shifted slightly every time he moved, as if it was testing him. A faint vibration ran through his feet when he paused, almost like the ground was communicating—or warning him.
He noticed something else: small lights floating in the distance. Some seemed harmless, drifting slowly. Others darted erratically, like they were avoiding or hunting. He didn't know which was which.
A sudden gust of air—or something like air—hit him, carrying a sharp metallic scent. He stumbled again. A shard of the glowing floor cracked beneath him, disappearing before it even hit the ground.
The Rift had rules, but they weren't written anywhere. Every movement could trigger something unexpected. Every step was dangerous.
Aren's hands shook. His mind raced. He was still alive, but the longer he stayed, the more he realized: surviving this place wasn't about strength. It was about understanding, adapting… and a little luck.
And then, just as he began to focus, he felt a tingle in his chest—a faint, alien warmth spreading outward. Something had awakened. Something inside him that he didn't know existed.
Aren froze, feeling it pulse with his heartbeat. He didn't know what it was, but one thing was clear: he would never leave this Rift the same person who fell in.
Aren took a cautious step forward. The glowing veins beneath him pulsed as though warning him, but he had no choice. He needed to move—or risk being swallowed by the impossibility around him.
A spike of the glowing floor erupted ahead, forming suddenly like crystal. Instinctively, Aren leapt sideways, narrowly avoiding being impaled. The ground under his other foot split and shimmered, sending him stumbling backward.
He felt a strange warmth in his chest, faint but insistent. His fingers tingled, the sensation creeping up his arms. He shook his head, trying to ignore it, but every heartbeat seemed to make it stronger, like it was alive.
Another hazard emerged. A floating shard of black stone hovered in his path. The Rift's rules were unpredictable, but he noticed—subconsciously—that if he moved in a certain rhythm, stepping lightly and adjusting constantly, the ground pulses seemed to stabilize.
The warmth in his chest flared again. This time, when he reflexively stretched his hands toward a fallen shard, it responded. The fragment of power inside him reacted to his instinct, bending the shard just enough to let him step on it safely.
Aren froze, staring at his hands. Nothing should have happened. He wasn't Manifested. He wasn't Tier F. He wasn't anything.
But the Rift didn't care about rules. And apparently, he didn't either.
He moved cautiously, testing each step. Each time, the warmth pulsed stronger, and small fragments of the environment seemed to respond. Floating shards shifted, glowing fissures dimmed slightly, unstable ground solidified under his careful weight.
A sudden crack—a beam of light shot across his path. He stumbled backward, tripping over a floating rock that bent impossibly in midair. The warmth in his chest blazed. Without thinking, he raised his hands instinctively toward the rock. It slammed down, forming a makeshift bridge just in time.
Aren gasped. His heart raced, body trembling. This… this was power.
He didn't understand it. He didn't control it yet.
But the Rift had chosen him.
And whether he liked it or not, he would have to survive using it.
A low, guttural sound echoed through the distorted space.
Aren froze. His chest burned with the lingering warmth of the fragment. He scanned the Rift, every impossible angle, every glowing fissure, searching for the source.
From the shadows ahead, a shape emerged.
It was humanoid in form, but wrong. Its limbs were too long, joints bending the wrong way. Its skin was gray and slick, reflecting the pale Rift light like liquid metal. No eyes. Only a jagged maw that opened wider than seemed possible, revealing teeth that gleamed faintly, unnervingly.
It hissed, low and vibrating, like the hum of the Rift amplified into a predator's growl.
Aren's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He stumbled backward, nearly falling onto a shard of unstable ground.
The creature advanced. It didn't run, it didn't walk—it glided, moving with a deliberate, terrifying grace.
The warmth in Aren's chest flared. His hands tingled again. Instinctively, he raised them toward the floating shards nearby.
A shard nearest him wobbled, hovering just above the ground. His fingers clenched. It rose sharply, forming a crude barrier between him and the creature.
The monster hissed, swiping at the barrier. The shard shattered, scattering pieces across the Rift floor. Aren's heart pounded.
Another spike of glowing floor erupted in front of him, and the fragment pulsed fiercely. He reacted without thinking, raising both hands. The shard bent unnaturally, forming a bridge across the spike. He jumped, landing barely safely on solid ground.
The monster hissed again, following, relentless.
Aren realized, with a sick thrill and fear, that he didn't just survive by luck anymore. The fragment was alive, reacting to his fear, his instinct, maybe even his will. But it wasn't under his control. Not yet.
He had no weapons. No armor. Only his wits—and whatever this fragment inside him could do.
The creature lunged. Aren's hands shot out instinctively. Light flared from his chest, connecting with the shard. It twisted and struck the monster midair, sending it crashing against the glowing floor.
It recovered immediately, snarling.
Aren's breath came in ragged gasps. He backed up, eyes scanning the Rift, searching for anything—any exit, any terrain advantage.
And deep down, he knew: this was just the beginning.
Aren barely had time to steady himself when the Rift seemed to ripple in response to the first attack.
From fissures in the glowing floor, more shapes emerged—smaller, quicker, but just as wrong. Limbs bent at unnatural angles, teeth too long, eyes glowing faintly. They hissed in unison, an eerie chorus that echoed across the warped landscape.
Simultaneously, the ground itself betrayed him. Shards erupted from the floor at random, pulsing and twisting as if alive. Pools of glowing liquid bubbled violently, sending up sparks that burned on contact. A bridge he had just landed on quivered, threatening to collapse beneath him.
Aren's mind raced. Every step he took had to account for multiple hazards at once: the monsters advancing, the unstable terrain, and the constantly shifting Rift architecture.
He raised his hands instinctively. The fragment reacted instantly. A shard of floating debris lifted from the air, forming a crude barrier that deflected one monster's lunge. Another shard twisted beneath his feet, stabilizing enough to let him jump across a widening fissure.
The monsters adapted quickly. One jumped, landing just behind him, forcing him to pivot midair. A spire of glowing stone erupted in front of him, cutting off his path. He barely dove aside as it cracked the air where he had been moments ago.
The warmth in his chest flared, almost painfully bright. His fingers tingled furiously as the fragment began to respond more aggressively to his panic. Small shards of debris lifted and hovered, forming temporary shields and platforms. Aren realized, breathless, that he could manipulate the Rift's unstable objects, but only reactively. He couldn't control it consciously yet.
The cacophony of hisses, shifting ground, and glowing hazards pressed in on him. He ran, leapt, and ducked in a constant, desperate rhythm, barely surviving.
Somewhere in the chaos, a faint pulse of light drew his attention. A glowing shard, larger and brighter than the others, hovered steadily above the ground. Instinct told him it was important—maybe a way out, maybe a tool.
Aren dove toward it, narrowly avoiding another monster, and grasped it. Immediately, the shard responded, forming a bridge over the bubbling pool and giving him a brief, precious moment of solid ground.
He gasped for air, chest heaving. The Rift's hum reverberated through him, alive, testing him, shaping him. The monsters hissed again, circling, but for the first time, Aren felt something different: a flicker of agency, of reaction, of power that wasn't entirely external.
And in that moment, he realized—survival in the Rift wasn't just about luck. It was about adapting, learning, and trusting the fragment inside him.
Aren landed on the glowing shard, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. The monsters circled him, hissing, their jagged limbs twitching with unnatural speed. The Rift floor quivered beneath his feet, shards erupting and falling unpredictably.
He froze for a heartbeat, staring at them.
Run. Hide. Survive.
Every instinct screamed to retreat, but something inside him snapped.
No.
Not this time. Not like this.
His hands tingled, warmth spreading through his chest in a fierce pulse. The fragment stirred, responding to his determination. He didn't know how it worked yet. He didn't know if he could control it. But he could try.
Clenching his fists, Aren took a deep breath. "I'm not dying here," he muttered under his breath.
A shard of black stone leapt from the floor, hovering between him and the nearest monster. He didn't wait. He shoved both hands forward, and the shard shot outward, striking the creature squarely. It shrieked, staggering back, but not defeated.
Another shard twisted beneath his feet, forming a platform just before a glowing fissure erupted. Aren jumped onto it, heart pounding, eyes locked on the monsters.
They lunged again. Faster. Smarter. Hungrier.
Aren's breath came in ragged bursts, but he forced himself to focus. Each movement, each step, each instinctive command to the fragment became sharper. Shards bent, twisted, and lifted, forming temporary shields, bridges, and barriers.
He ducked under a swiping limb, slammed a floating shard into another monster's path, forcing it to stumble. He dodged a falling crystal, felt the fragment pulse as if guiding him, and leapt toward a safer vantage point.
For the first time, fear didn't paralyze him. It sharpened him. Each instinctive use of the fragment reinforced his resolve.
The monsters circled, growling and hissing, but Aren no longer felt helpless. He had chosen this fight. Survival wasn't something that happened to him—it was something he would take.
And in that moment, somewhere deep inside, the fragment recognized him not just as a survivor, but as someone who would stand and fight, no matter how impossible the odds.
Aren stumbled backward as the monsters lunged again, their shadows twisting unnaturally, closing the distance too quickly. His chest burned with the fragment's warmth, his hands tingling like fire crawling beneath his skin.
Frustration boiled over. Exhaustion, fear, and every moment of being ignored, overlooked, and invisible—all of it surged at once.
He gritted his teeth and shouted, voice raw, ragged, and fierce:
"I don't have to care when I die… so why should I fear!"
The words echoed through the Rift like a detonating force.
Instinctively, he thrust his hands forward. Light shot out, shards of floating debris bending violently, forming sharp projectiles, spinning barriers, and jagged blades that struck the monsters with impossible precision. The creatures shrieked as shards slammed into them, knocking some backward, staggering others.
The Rift itself seemed to pulse, reacting to the intensity of his rage and determination. Colors twisted, light fractured, and the very air hummed like it was alive.
Aren's eyes blazed. His body, trembling with adrenaline, moved as if the fragment were an extension of his will, shaping the environment into a deadly weapon.
For the first time, he wasn't just surviving. He was fighting back.
And in that instant, the Rift—and everyone inside it—felt the presence of someone who refused to be invisible.