The Level 5 gate shimmered in the darkness like a wound in reality, purple-blue energy crackling at its edges. Jayden stood at its mouth, ten million dollars poorer but infinitely better equipped.
Mozart had proven himself worth every connection Jayden had cultivated.
The money launderer hadn't just delivered the initial million—he'd become a full-service supernatural concierge. Smart bastard had done the math: sell out Jayden now for the family's twenty million bounty, or play the long game with a future Level 150+ Luther Cross who'd remember loyalty.
Billions versus millions. Mozart might be criminal scum, but he wasn't stupid.
"Loyalty to opportunity," Mozart had said, handing over a black card linked to offshore accounts. The man looked like an accountant cosplaying as a criminal—wire-rimmed glasses, prematurely grey hair at thirty-five, wearing a cardigan that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Only his eyes gave him away—sharp as surgical scalpels, calculating every angle. "That's my religion, kid. And you? You're a walking cathedral of opportunity."
Selling out Jayden would be like dumping Apple stock in 1997 or telling Jeff Bezos his online bookstore was a stupid idea. Some opportunities you just didn't fuck with.
The shopping spree had been surreal. Ten million dollars vanishing into the supernatural economy like water into sand.
First, the armor. Silver Grade Conductive Battle Suit—designed specifically for electrical awakened. The underground dealer had sworn it could channel up to Level 50 electrical output without melting. Cost: three million.
The sword came next. Not because Jayden knew shit about swordplay, but because he needed something that wouldn't vaporize when he touched it. Silver Grade Tempest Blade, forged from monster cores and Genesis-infused steel. Another two million gone.
But the real prizes were the artifacts.
The Spatial Ring—looking like a simple black band—held a pocket dimension roughly the size of a shipping container. Spatial Artifacts were the backbone of the modern awakened economy. Why carry a backpack when you could store a warehouse on your finger? The technology, reverse-engineered from dungeon drops over decades, had revolutionized everything from shipping to warfare.
This particular ring was mid-tier, nothing like the city-sized spaces the ultra-rich carried, but perfect for someone trying to disappear. Four million for that little beauty.
The Mask of Null—ironically named for someone like him—which scrambled magical signatures and made the wearer harder to track by supernatural means. It looked like nothing, felt like less. A translucent film that adhered to skin like expensive moisturizer, invisible once applied.
You could forget you were wearing it, which was the point. No intimidating skull masks or edgy aesthetics—just pure, expensive functionality. One-point-five million.
Camping gear rated for dimensional rifts. Genesis Energy supplements. Monster-grade rations that tasted like shit but kept you alive. Medical supplies that worked on superhuman physiology.
Every purchase another hemorrhage of cash.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Jayden had muttered, watching his fortune evaporate. "I could've bought a yacht."
"Yacht won't help when a Level 50 monster tries to eat your face," Mozart had replied, tallying numbers on his encrypted tablet. "This shit will."
The dungeon itself had been the final purchase. Fifty grand to a sheriff who controlled this section of forest, a man who understood that sometimes the government didn't need to know about every little Level 5 gate.
The thing about dungeons in the new world—every single one was owned. The government controlled the majority, treating them like national resources. Corporations bought what they could, turning gates into renewable profit machines.
Legacy Families hoarded private gates like wine collections, passing them down through generations.
Even this shitty Level 5 gate technically belonged to the Department of Dimensional Resources. But when you're pulling in $200+ million a month from a single high-level dungeon, who gives a fuck about some backwater rift that barely spawns Thunder Wolves?
The sheriff—a pot-bellied Level 30 strongman who'd peaked twenty years ago—had laughed when Jayden offered fifty grand. "Kid, the government makes that in two seconds from the Angeles Prime Gate. This little scratch? It's not even on their radar."
Pocket change for a pocket dimension. Perfect.
"Three rules," the sheriff had said, pocketing the cash. "Don't die in there—paperwork's a bitch. Don't let anything escape—I'm not explaining that to the ITA. And if anyone asks, you were never here."
Now, standing at the threshold between worlds, Jayden felt the weight of his preparations.
The armor hummed against his skin, designed to work with his powers rather than against them. The sword hung at his hip, unfamiliar but necessary. The mask covered the lower half of his face, its enchantments already fuzzing his magical signature.
He'd spent three hours studying every scrap of data about this dungeon. Level 5 meant the monsters inside were stronger than normal humans but weaker than most awakened. Thunder Wolves, Static Sprites, maybe a Lightning Elemental if he was unlucky. Creatures drawn to electrical energy—which meant they'd come to him like moths to a very dangerous flame.
Perfect for training.
The gate pulsed, reality bending at its edges. Inside, Genesis Energy was thick enough to taste. Every breath would accelerate his development, push his powers harder, faster. A week in there might equal a month outside.
If he survived.
Jayden checked his spatial ring one more time. Food for two weeks. Medical supplies. The emergency beacon Mozart had insisted on—"Even gods need a panic button, kid."
Everything he needed to disappear until he could control what he'd become.
He thought about the last day. His father's shadows had found the Den twenty-eight minutes after he'd left. The news had exploded with footage of Marcus Luther Cross standing in the wreckage, playing the concerned parent. The bounty had jumped to fifty million.
Too late. Jayden was already gone, moving through the criminal underground like electricity through copper. Path of least resistance, maximum efficiency.
Now came the hard part.
The gate beckoned, promising power and pain in equal measure. Inside, he'd push himself until control became instinct. Until the lightning obeyed thought rather than emotion. Until he could walk among normal humans without killing them by accident.
"Time to see what a god in training looks like," he muttered, stepping forward.
The gate's energy washed over him like a baptism of pure power. For a moment, the world went white-blue-purple, reality stuttering between dimensions.
Then he was through.
The forest on the other side looked almost normal—until you noticed the trees were crystallized, the ground sparked with every step, and the very air crackled with potential.
In the distance, something howled. Lightning flashed without clouds.
Jayden Luther Cross drew his unfamiliar sword, electricity already dancing along its blade.
Class was in session.