I didn't think of it as combat.
Combat implied instinct, reflex, momentum.
What I was preparing for required none of those.
I started with limitations.
My stamina was finite.Shadow was powerful—but expensive.Inside a silent gate, there would be no response teams, no external correction, no margin for error.
Which meant I needed time.
And time, inside hostile space, was bought—not earned.
I made a list.
Not written.Mental.
Anything written could be found.Anything digital could be traced.
I needed tools that didn't rely on strength, speed, or prolonged engagement.
I needed denial, not dominance.
The first stop was a surplus exchange market in the industrial district. Not illegal. Just ignored. The kind of place that sold outdated equipment to people who didn't ask why it was obsolete.
I avoided firearms.
They were loud. Traceable. Inefficient in confined space.
Instead, I bought components.
Compact charge cells.Pressure-sensitive triggers.Industrial sealant rated for extreme heat.Mana-reactive wiring—low grade, unstable, cheap.
None of it looked dangerous on its own.
Together, it was enough.
Before leaving, I made one more purchase.
A blade.
Short.
Unremarkable.
The seller called it a utility knife. The classification didn't matter.
The blade was narrow, double-edged, slightly curved near the tip. Matte-finished to avoid reflection. Balanced for close quarters, not reach. No ornamentation. No markings.
An assassination-type shortsword.
Not for duels.
For silence.
For moments where distance collapsed and planning failed.
I didn't test it.
If it needed testing, I shouldn't have bought it.
Back in the apartment, I laid everything out on the floor.
No haste.
Every piece had a purpose.
The charges weren't designed to kill.
They were designed to disrupt.
Shockwaves strong enough to destabilize space. Enough force to stagger, not obliterate. In a gate environment, that mattered more than raw damage.
Riftstalkers responded to pressure.
That meant pressure could be weaponized.
I assembled three devices.
Simple. Disposable. Directional.
Each one was keyed to detonate not on contact—but on presence density. A crude method, but effective. If something moved toward me aggressively, the device would trigger.
If nothing did, it stayed inert.
No false positives.
No wasted resources.
The shortsword stayed sheathed at my side.
Unnoticed.
Unconsidered.
That was intentional.
If I reached for it, something had already gone wrong.
The second layer was environmental.
Inside a gate, terrain wasn't static. Space folded. Anchors mattered.
I prepared anchoring markers—small, reflective nodes that could be placed quickly and ignored visually. They didn't do anything on their own.
But Shadow interacted with perception.
Anchors gave me reference points.
Without them, movement inside warped space would be guesswork.
The final preparation was psychological.
I rehearsed.
Not the fight.
The failure.
What I would do if Shadow collapsed early.If stamina dropped faster than projected.If the gate stabilized instead of degrading.
Escape routes came first.Then fallback traps.Then the blade.
Everything was layered.
Nothing depended on success.
Only survival.
When I finished, I checked the interface.
[STAMINA: 82%][SHADOW OUTPUT: STABLE][ANOMALY STATUS: UNREGISTERED]
Good.
I packed light.
No excess.No noise.
By the time I left, the city had slipped fully into night. Oversight thinned. Patrol routes widened. Assumptions replaced attention.
I returned to the service corridor.
The air still felt wrong.
Like a breath held too long.
I stood at the threshold and didn't move.
This wasn't curiosity.
This was commitment.
Once I crossed, there would be no correction. No intervention. No record.
If I died, the world would absorb it without hesitation.
I activated Shadow at minimum output.
[Shadow — Sustained Activation]
The corridor dimmed—not visually, but in priority.
I stepped forward.
The space inside the gate unfolded quietly, like something opening its eye.
Pressure surged immediately.
Not from a creature.
From the environment itself.
This gate wasn't unstable.
It was contained.
Which meant whatever was inside hadn't been meant to escape.
I placed the first anchor.
Then the second.
I didn't rush.
Rushing wasted lives.
Mine included.
Something moved deeper inside.
Not charging.
Waiting.
I armed the first device and set it near a fold in the space—where pressure naturally accumulated.
A trap, not for killing.
For buying time.
My hand brushed the hilt at my side.
Still there.
Still unused.
Good.
I took one step deeper into the gate.
Then another.
This wasn't exploration.
It was a controlled descent.
And somewhere beyond my perception, something inside the gate shifted—responding not to my presence…
…but to my preparation.
For the first time since arriving in this world, the risk felt equal.
That was acceptable.