The response began without ceremony.
Aura users moved first.
They advanced in a shallow arc, boots striking the ground in steady rhythm. The air around them thickened, pressure settling like a weight on my chest. It wasn't aggression.
It was control.
They were experienced—at least C-rank responders. Not elite, but seasoned enough to trust the formation.
Behind them, the mages took position.
They spread out carefully, each claiming a slice of space. A wind mage shaped invisible currents to keep debris from drifting inward. An earth mage reinforced the ground beneath the frontline, turning cracked concrete solid. A lightning caster stood slightly apart, energy compressed tight around their hands.
Further back stood the support units.
Less visible. Less dramatic.
One adjusted a barrier emitter. Another watched vitals and energy flow on a tablet. A third traced faint symbols in the air, reinforcing something unseen around the perimeter.
They weren't there to fight.
They were there to make sure the fighters came back.
The gate pulsed.
The air folded inward, like space itself had been bent too far and was trying to snap back.
Something pushed through.
Not all at once.
First came a limb—long, jointed wrong, ending in a blunt, clawed hand that scraped against the concrete. Its surface looked half-formed, like flesh that hadn't finished deciding what it was.
Then the rest followed.
The creature stood upright, but only because its body forced itself into the shape. Tall. Thin. Stretched unnaturally. Dark, leathery hide clung to exposed muscle in uneven patches, torn and incomplete.
Its head opened.
Not split neatly.
It peeled apart.
Petal-like sections unfolded from the center, revealing a circular maw lined with uneven teeth. No eyes. No face. Just an opening that widened as it released a low, vibrating sound that made the air shudder.
A Riftstalker-class entity.
Minor gate. Unfinished form.
The aura users stepped forward.
The Riftstalker reacted instantly.
Not intelligently.
Instinctively.
It lunged toward the nearest concentration of presence, drawn to pressure the way metal was drawn to a magnet.
Aura-infused force met it head-on.
The strike tore through its torso, dispersing the creature into fragments that evaporated before hitting the ground. What remained collapsed inward, leaving only a faint stain on the concrete—already fading.
No celebration followed.
This was routine.
The gate pulsed again.
Something smaller slipped through.
Lower to the ground. Faster.
Its body was compact, limbs packed too tightly, movement sharp and lateral. It didn't charge the aura line.
It avoided it.
Learned.
The formation shifted.
One aura user stepped half a pace forward, aura flaring brighter as he struck—effective, but too close to the gate.
Momentum.
The mages reacted quickly. Wind redirected. Lightning followed, sharp and precise.
But there was a delay.
Less than a second.
Enough.
The support unit nearest the breach hesitated.
Not from fear.
From training.
Support units weren't meant to act first.
They were meant to reinforce.
I exhaled slowly.
There it was.
A formation built on hierarchy always broke at the handoff.
The second Riftstalker was eliminated seconds later.
Clean.
Efficient.
No injuries. No alarms.
From the outside, it looked flawless.
I saw the cracks.
This was a minor gate.The entities were unfinished.The responders were competent.
And still—
Three faults.
Frontline advancing without confirmation.Support positioned too far back.Too much reliance on role order.
Against something smarter—
This formation would fail.
I glanced across the street.
Mira Vale was still there.
She wasn't watching the gate.
She was watching the support line.
Her eyes followed the hesitation. The pause where no one moved because no one was supposed to.
She noticed the same fault.
That confirmed it.
She wasn't observing danger.
She was observing process failure.
The gate destabilized and collapsed inward, space sealing itself like it had never been disturbed.
The operation ended.
No applause. No relief.
Just reports.
As the teams packed up, I caught fragments of conversation.
"C-rank handled it well."
"Support lag flagged."
"Academy observers logged the delay."
Academy.
That mattered.
Gates weren't just threats.
They were filters.
If you wanted the right to act when things escalated—
You needed recognition.
I turned away from the cordon.
Minor gates weren't about monsters.
They were about pressure.
And pressure always revealed structure.
If I ever entered a gate—
It wouldn't be to fight.
It would be to stand where formations broke.
That was where influence began.