The city woke in fits and starts—a baby's cough from a curtained alley, the sharp bark of a stray dog, the metallic slam of a market shutter rolling open. Above the slums, pink and gold dawn light tried to break through a canvas of gray smoke, painting the battered rooftops in hesitant color.
Mira's boots traced old mud ruts as she stalked the training yard, every step pressing dew-soaked grass underfoot and crushing fragile wildflowers that eked out an existence. Her pulse pounded in her throat; today's session wasn't just routine. New rift rumors had spread, and half the hunters had vanished before breakfast, drawn by fresh promises—or threats—of survival.
"Min-ho," she called, her voice rasping with sleep, "stance!"The boy jerked upright, nearly dropping his spear. His knees wobbled, but something in Mira's expression made him grind his teeth and square his shoulders anyway.
Lightning split the sky, so distant it arrived as a tremor rather than a roar. Distant thunder, heavy as a closing vault, reminded everyone that the slums were hemmed in, battered by more than monsters.
"Form!" Mira demanded, sending the spear flying with a crack. Min-ho's stick clattered against hers, wood vibrating in his sweaty palms.
From behind the scrap-metal fence, Ka-jin watched, arms folded over his chest. His gaze was alert, every sound in the yard registering: the shuffle of bare feet, the tick tick tick of distant tools, the acid whisper of neighbors arguing over breakfast rations. The world was full of little warnings for those who listened.
"Imagine you're facing a real beast," Ka-jin intoned, tossing Min-ho the battered helmet he'd found in the last raid. Sweat stung Min-ho's eyes as he struggled to slip it on, heavy and slightly too large. Leather that once might have smelled of smoke now reeked of old milk, damp, and someone else's terror.
"Don't lose your head—literally," Mira warned. Her stick rapped Min-ho's shoulder with a sound like breaking branches.
Meanwhile, in the ruins, all was not quiet. A group of hunters—Dae-ho's team, faces drawn and haggard—pushed forward into a corridor riddled with runes, their boots crunching old beetle shells. The air was thick: humid and salty, like breath fog on winter glass. Every inhalation carried the foggy scent of rusted iron, in its dust form.
Song-yi's axes gleamed through rays of sickly purple light as she signaled halt. Up ahead, something moved—too quietly to be beast, too erratically to be human. Cloaked in flickering shadow, a monster with razor-sharp mandibles edged from the darkness. Its movements were oily, sliding across stone so slick Min-jun swore he felt cold scales brushing his bare arm.
His mind flashed with yesterday's terror, fingers clenching on his weapon until splinters dug into his flesh. Dae-ho's hand landed reassuringly on his shoulder, rough and warm.
"Wait for my call," Dae-ho said, every word a slow push through heavy air. "Don't rush it."
The monster darted. Chaos erupted—a sharp, ringing clash as Song-yi's axe bit chitin, a high scream as the beast snapped and missed, and Min-jun's heart nearly stopped. Dust drifted up, catching in his mouth, gritty and sour.Jin-woo's voice rang out, trembling. "Watch the ceiling!"
A slab above shuddered; moldy stone rained down, stinging eyes, clogging noses. His scent was clouded by the bad smell. For a moment, Min-jun's world narrowed to sound—distant howls, the thud of boots, the gallop of his tightening heart.
Then—quiet. Blood and mucus stung his lip; he flexed his aching hand. The beast lay dead, green-black blood leaking out, sticky as syrup and smelling like a butcher's shop at noon.
The survivors caught their breath. Min-jun could not taste victory, only terror laced with longing for home.
Ji-hye's tent felt smaller than ever. Rain drummed a gentle, solid rhythm on the patched tarp overhead. She hummed softly to Yoo as she rocked him; beneath her fingers, his skin was warm and startlingly smooth. She smelled the morning's soup—a salty broth thick with carrot greens and just a breath of bone, promising strength but hardly sating hunger.
Jae-sung hobbled in, wet socks slapping on the trampled floor mat. Rainwater clung to his jacket, the earthy smell of a hard night on the streets coming in with him.
"They say three more rifts opened," he murmured, voice flat.
Ji-hye's stomach dropped. "Anywhere near here?"
"Not yet." His hand came to rest on Yoo's round head; the baby didn't flinch, just stared with an intensity that made Jae-sung's scalp prickle.
Inside Yoo's mind, information whirled: enemy movements, energy spikes, the pulse of another newborn rift throbbing through the city's bones. He could almost taste the coming danger—as real as sucking on a copper coin.
His resolve sharpened, fueled by the anxious, repeated brush of Ji-hye's fingers against his hair.
In a quiet alley, Han-sol passed a slip of coded paper to a man in a gray cap. The paper felt greasy, and its faint perfume was of cheap soap and old ink.
"Interest is growing in the anomaly baby," Han-sol whispered, voice barely audible over the slow drip drip drip of a cracked gutter. "But I'll keep the heat away for now."
The man accepted the slip, lips twisting. "Don't be too sure you can."
Their hands brushed in the exchange—Han-sol's palm cold and clammy, the other's radiating dry heat.
Far beyond the slums, chaos and Aethon watched. The chessboard stretched beneath an infinite night, pieces carved of crystal and bone.
Aethon's fingers lingered over a pawn—Min-ho, perhaps, or Mira—his touch causing a faint shivering ripple across the emotional ether. The air there was neither cold nor hot, neither sweet nor bitter; it simply was, a blank waiting to be filled by fate.
"Let's see if they're ready," Chaos purred, the words a flood of sound and color, all senses blending in a storm.
Pieces moved. And on the slum's edge, thunder cracked again—close, insistent, calling the living and the hopeful out of hiding for another day's struggle.