The rain in Sector-4 didn't wash the city clean; it just made the grime slicker.
It was a heavy, grey drizzle that tasted of sulfur and recycled exhaust fumes, falling relentlessly from the steel underbelly of the Upper Plates. Down here, in the slums of the Delhi-Mega-Zone, natural sunlight was a subscription service. If you couldn't pay, you lived in the shadow of the rich.
Aryan wiped a mixture of sweat and dirty rainwater from his eyes. His gloves, worn thin at the palms, slipped against the rough surface of the concrete slab.
"Heave!" someone shouted to his left.
Aryan gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles jumping. He dug his boots into the mud, channeling every ounce of strength in his lean, nineteen-year-old frame into his legs.
The slab wasn't just concrete. It was Dungeon Debris—a piece of a collapsed F-Rank Gate wall, infused with trace amounts of mana. It was three times heavier than normal stone and hummed with a low, nauseating vibration that made his bones ache.
"One... two... lift!"
With a guttural roar, Aryan and three other laborers swung the debris upward. It crashed onto the bed of the mag-lev disposal truck, the metal suspension groaning under the weight.
Aryan collapsed against the truck's massive tire, his chest heaving. His lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass. Every breath was a labor.
[ System Time: 18:45 ]
[ Shift Duration: 10 Hours ]
[ Caloric Deficit Detected ]
His wrist-link buzzed with the passive alerts. He ignored them. He didn't need a machine to tell him he was hungry. He had been hungry for three years.
"Alright, that's the last of it!" The site foreman, a thick-necked man named Rao, walked over. He was wearing a clean Exoskeleton Suit—the cheap industrial kind, but still enough to make him look like a giant compared to the manual laborers.
Rao tapped his digital clipboard, scanning the exhausted faces of the workers. His eyes stopped on Aryan.
"You," Rao barked, pointing a thick finger. "You're late."
Aryan straightened up, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through his lower back. "The crane malfunctioned, sir. The hydraulic lift on the west side froze. We had to move the last two tons by hand."
"I don't care about the crane," Rao spat, lighting a synthetic cigarette. The sweet, chemical smell clashed with the stench of wet garbage. "The contract said the site clears by 18:00. It is now 18:45. The truck driver charges me overtime for every minute he waits. Do you know who pays for that?"
Aryan felt a cold knot form in his stomach. It wasn't the cold of the rain. It was the cold of familiarity. He knew this script.
"Sir, we worked through the break," Aryan said, keeping his voice steady, though his hands were trembling. "We cleared the Mana-Sludge manually. That wasn't even in the job description. The deal was 500 Credits."
Rao laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the sound of a boot crushing a cockroach.
"The deal," Rao said, blowing smoke into Aryan's face, "was for a clean site by six. You failed."
He tapped a few commands on his tablet.
Ping.
Aryan's wrist-link buzzed. He looked down.
[ Credit Transfer Received ]
[ Sender: Rao Construction Ltd. ]
[ Amount: +200 Credits ]
[ Current Balance: 245 Credits ]
Not 500.
200.
The world seemed to tilt. The noise of the mag-lev engines, the shouting of the workers, the falling rain—it all faded into a dull, ringing silence.
500 Credits was the price of one vial of Mana-Stabilizer.
Anya needed a vial every three days. Her last dose was two days ago.
Tomorrow, the coughing would start. The day after, the black veins would spread. By the third day, she would start screaming.
200 Credits meant she wouldn't make it to the weekend.
"Wait," Aryan stepped forward. The movement was involuntary. "You can't do this. That's... that's less than minimum wage. You docked more than half."
Rao turned his back, walking toward his heated cabin. "I charged you for the overtime and the equipment rental. Be grateful I didn't blacklist you, kid."
"I need that money!" Aryan's voice cracked. He reached out, grabbing Rao's armored shoulder.
It was a mistake.
Rao spun around faster than a man his size should move. The hydraulic servo in his exo-suit whirred. He backhanded Aryan across the face.
CRACK.
Aryan flew backward, his boots losing traction in the mud. He slammed into a pile of rebar, tasting copper instantly. His lip was split. His cheekbone throbbed with a heat that promised a bruise.
"Touch me again," Rao said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "and I'll have the Guild Enforcers scrape you off the pavement. You're an Unawakened nobody, kid. You don't have rights. You have a quota. And you missed it."
Rao climbed into his cabin and slammed the door.
Aryan lay in the mud for a long moment. The rain washed the blood from his lip, mixing it with the filth of the gutter.
He looked at the grey sky.
Get up, he told himself.
Get up. Lying down costs money.
He forced himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest, but he started walking. He didn't look at the other workers. They looked away, their eyes hollow. They had their own families to feed. In Sector-4, empathy was too expensive.
The walk home was a blur of neon and noise.
The streets of the Delhi-Mega-Zone were a sensory assault. Holographic ads danced in the air, ten stories high.
"HUNTER ACADEMY: AWAKEN YOUR POTENTIAL!"
"GENE-MODS: BE BETTER THAN HUMAN!"
"FRESH DRAGON STEAK: TASTE THE POWER!"
Aryan kept his head down, his hood pulled low. He walked past the restaurants that smelled of real spices and grilled meat. His stomach cramped, twisting violently. He hadn't eaten a real meal in two days, saving every credit for the medicine.
He passed a pharmacy. The glass was bulletproof. Inside, he could see the rows of blue vials glowing softly on the shelves.
Mana-Stabilizer (Type-C).
Price: 500 Credits.
He stopped. He pressed his hand against the cold glass.
He had 245 Credits.
Maybe if he skipped meals for another week? No, he would collapse at work.
Maybe if he sold his blood? The blood banks paid 50 credits for a pint. He could give two. But then he wouldn't be able to lift the debris.
He felt a dark, suffocating pressure in his chest. It wasn't despair. It was anger. A hot, silent rage that had been burning in him for years.
The world was full of magic. People were flying in the sky, shooting fire from their hands, conquering new planets.
And yet, his sister was dying because he couldn't lift rocks fast enough.
"Dammit," he whispered, his forehead resting against the wet glass. "Just... dammit."
Suddenly, the street went silent.
It wasn't a natural silence. It was an electronic override.
The music from the bars cut off. The traffic drones hovered in place. Every holographic screen in the city—from the massive billboards on the skyscrapers to the small displays in the shop windows—flickered and turned a unified, brilliant gold.
[ GLOBAL PRIORITY ALERT ]
[ SOURCE: UNITED EARTH GOVERNMENT & HIGH GUILD ALLIANCE ]
A collective gasp went through the crowd. People stopped walking. In the slums, a Gold Alert usually meant a monster outbreak. People looked for cover.
But there were no sirens.
Instead, a fanfare of trumpets played—a sound so crisp and triumphant it felt fake against the backdrop of the rotting slums.
A face appeared on the screens. It was High Commander Varma, one of Earth's few S-Rank Hunters. He looked perfect—chiseled jaw, glowing armor, eyes that seemed to shine with divine light.
"Citizens of Earth," his voice boomed, echoing off the steel towers. "For fifty years, we have fought to survive. We have defended our Gates. We have bled for every inch of ground."
Aryan watched, his eyes narrowing. He hated speeches. Speeches were for people with full bellies.
"But defense is no longer enough," Varma continued, smiling. "It is time to expand. The High Guild Alliance has secured three new Stable Worlds. Worlds rich in resources. Worlds free of the corruption that plagues our home."
The screen shifted to show footage of lush green forests, crystal-clear rivers, and mountains of gold. It looked like paradise. It looked like a lie.
"We are launching Project: New Horizon," Varma announced. "We are not just sending the elite. We are sending Pioneers. We need builders. We need porters. We need brave men and women to lay the foundations of a new humanity."
Then, the text appeared. Giant, bold letters that seemed to pulse with promise.
[ RECRUITMENT DRIVE: OPEN TO ALL RANKS ]
[ F-RANK & UNAWAKENED WELCOME ]
[ SIGNING BONUS: 50,000 CREDITS ]
[ PERK: CLASS-A CITIZENSHIP & FULL FAMILY MEDICAL COVERAGE ]
The crowd erupted.
"50,000?" someone shouted. "That's a fortune!"
"Medical coverage? Real coverage?" a woman near Aryan wept, clutching her child. "We could leave the slums?"
Aryan stood frozen. The rain soaked through his hoodie, but he felt a strange heat spreading through his veins.
50,000 Credits.
That was ten years of wages.
That wasn't just medicine. That was a cure.
That was a ticket out of Sector-4. That was a house where the roof didn't leak. That was clean air for Anya.
"The Gates open in 48 hours," Varma said, pointing directly at the camera. "Do you have the courage to forge a new destiny? Or will you stay in the rain?"
The screens faded back to the usual ads. The music returned.
But the atmosphere had changed. The hopelessness of the slums had evaporated, replaced by a frantic, hungry energy. People were already running toward the Guild Spire, checking their IDs, calling their families.
Aryan stood alone on the sidewalk.
He looked at his bruised hands. He looked at the pharmacy where the medicine sat behind bulletproof glass, mocking him.
He knew.
Deep down, in the part of his brain that had kept him alive this long, he knew.
If it sounds too good to be true, it's a trap. The Guilds didn't give away money. They didn't care about F-Ranks.
But then he imagined walking home tonight.
He imagined opening the door and telling Anya, "I don't have the medicine. I only have 200 credits."
He imagined holding her hand while she suffocated.
The fear of the trap was heavy.
But the fear of losing her was absolute.
Aryan turned away from the route home. He looked toward the massive Guild Spire that pierced the smog in the city center.
"50,000," he whispered. The number tasted like blood and hope.
He tightened his fists. The pain in his split lip flared, grounding him.
"I'm not going there to be a pioneer," Aryan muttered to the rain, his eyes cold and focused. "I'm going there to get paid."
He started walking toward the Spire.
Step by step.
Toward the New Horizon.
Toward the lie that would cost him everything.