The air outside the rift gate still carried that post-dungeon sharpness, like cold iron just pulled from water. It stung in the lungs, thin and charged, a flavor only runners knew. Most people would be gasping, crashing, or at least sitting down.
Lucen barely had the strength to complain.
But he still tried.
They stepped out onto the cracked concrete lot behind the outpost. No crowd. Just dull lights overhead, half-dead fixtures buzzing, and a mana vent whining like an old kettle.
Lucen's shoulders slumped. His coat was half-zipped, still streaked with dried blood and mana soot.
He blinked hard.
Then dragged one hand down his face.
"Okay," he said. "So. That was a secret-level rift. We lived. Congrats. Can I die now?"
Varik didn't slow his stride. "No."
"Right. Because resting's for people who don't get surprise-punched by magical Leviathans."
Varik came to a stop near a training circle etched into the stone, faded, but still viable. He turned around, arms crossed.
