The air at the bus terminal was thick with dust and the faint scent of diesel.
Adam stood quietly at the edge of the cracked pavement, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets as the old, worn-out bus rumbled into view.
He wasn't heading to the rift yet.
There was somewhere else he needed to be first.
When the doors hissed open, Adam climbed aboard, took a seat near the window, and stared blankly at the blur of buildings as the bus rolled on.
The ride didn't last long.
Within minutes, the driver called out the stop, and Adam stepped down into a quiet, wind-swept street.
Before him stretched a vast open field, fenced by metal bars that had long lost their shine.
People moved in and out through the rusted gates, some with flowers, others with candles or offerings.
Lining the fences were men and women curled up under ragged blankets, the kind of forgotten souls Sector 516 had too many of.
To the right of the gate sat an old lady in a purple dress, her gray hair mostly hidden beneath a black scarf.
She handed out roses with a trembling but warm smile.
When she saw Adam approach, her face lit up with familiarity.
"Oh, lad, you're here again," she said, voice rough but kind.
She bent slightly, lifting a small bouquet of roses she had kept aside.
"I picked these ones, especially for you."
Adam accepted them gently.
"Thank you, Martha."
He gave her a small nod, then turned toward one of the homeless men by the fence. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the last money he had on him a $5 bill and placed it quietly into the man's tin bowl.
"Thank you Adam," the man murmured, recognizing him.
Adam only nodded in reply before walking through the gate.
Inside, people stood before tombstones, some whispering prayers, others clearing weeds or setting up small picnics.
But Adam didn't linger on any of it.
His steps carried him toward a far corner, where an old tree stood with roots like gnarled fingers gripping the soil.
Carved into its trunk, was a single name that was faint but unmistakable —Aurora.
Adam stopped in front of the tree, the bouquet trembling slightly in his hand.
"I'm back again, Mom," he said quietly.
The wind brushed past him, carrying the scent of roses and earth.
****
Aurora had died nine years ago during the Sector 516 Rift Disaster. She had died to save Adam, but the way she did it was looked down upon by most: she had used Dead Mana.
Dead Mana was an invisible remnant of life essence that lost its purity, released only when those who possess it take their own lives.
Although useless in combat, it possessed a peculiar property: monsters despised it, and any area thick with the scent of Dead Mana became a natural deterrent, keeping beasts far away.
Yet, while harmless to humans at first, if left to build up, it slowly poisoned the air and the ground, warping life itself.
That was why the bodies of those who had Dead Mana and used it were never buried; the authorities burned them to oblivion, ensuring no trace of Dead Mana remained.
Because of this, Adam had no body to bury.
A name he carved into bark at age nine and a few pictures, were all that stood as proof that his mother had ever lived.
He had wanted to build her an altar at home, but it wouldn't have felt right.
Those who rest among the dead, even as symbols, would never be alone.
That was his own belief.
So Adam came here instead, to this lonely corner of the cemetery, beneath the tree that carried her name.
He stood for a long moment, the wind tugging gently at his hair.
Before he bowed his head for fifteen minutes in respect, then placed the bouquet of roses at the tree's base.
The petals fluttered in the wind as he turned and walked away, his steps heavy but resolved.
Adam had made it his routine to visit his mother's memorial place every day since he was nine, never missing a single visit.
This time, however, was different.
For years he had come for the small comfort the ritual brought; now he came with resolve. Resolve to cast off his weakness.
Resolve to start anew.
Resolve to never surrender.
Adam had changed, and soon the monsters would bear witness to that change.
****
Adam arrived at the site of the unranked level 1 rift, Gob valley.
The place was exactly as he remembered.
A tall metal fence surrounded the rift's perimeter, its surface rusted by time and storms, but it still stood firm.
At the only entrance, two guards waited, their uniforms bearing the insignia of the Mission Hall.
They were Acolytes, official staffs of the mission hall and not freelancers like most martial artists.
While every martial artist was required to register under the Mission Hall, they still worked for themselves.
Their was no fixed salaries or stability, just missions, blood, and whatever money they could scrape from the chaos of the rifts.
But the Acolytes were different.
They didn't only fight.
They also worked under the Mission Hall directly, drawing steady pay for administrative or support roles.
Adam approached quietly, as one of the Acolytes raised a hand.
"Martial licence," the man said flatly.
Adam handed it over without a word.
The Acolyte scanned it with a small detector before nodding for the entry slip.
Adam passed that too, the same one the Mission Hall receptionist had given him earlier.
After verifying both, the Acolyte's gaze lingered on him for a second, then he stepped aside.
Adam gave a small nod and walked through the gate.
The moment he stepped inside, a rush of essence pressure hit him.
Groups of martial artists were gathered near the Mirage like vortex that marked the rift entrance.
Some entered with cautious confidence.
Others stumbled back out, bloodied and exhausted with their armor dented and smeared with monster blood.
Their faces were pale but victorious.
The air smelled of metal, sweat, and faint decay.
Adam stood still for a moment, watching them.
'They all have proper conduits.
*****
{Authors Note}
You've read this far, so go ahead and add it to your library.