Mason had never seen a sky like this. Not even in memories of his old world, scattered as they were, did he recall anything quite like it. The horizon to the east was swallowed in brilliant crimson, but not from the sun. A tear hung in the air above a plateau in the distance—a jagged rift in the fabric of the world itself, pulsing like a wound that refused to close. From it bled colors no natural light should produce: hues that twisted perception and strained the mind. Lightning crackled silently around its edges, illuminating the clouds that loomed like bruises against the sky.
That's the Rift, Mason thought, tightening the strap of his pack and shifting the weight of his dagger at his hip. The source of this region's instability. That's where the system wants me to go.
It was only a suggestion, for now. No system notification had forced his hand or marked it with a quest tag. But the moment he passed through the outer boundary of this area—an invisible line he had only noticed when the interface flickered—he knew the rules had changed again. The creatures were different, larger. The ground held strange growths, fungi that reacted to proximity, glowing with dull bioluminescence before shriveling. Even the trees no longer grew with uniformity; instead, their trunks twisted unnaturally, leaning away from the plateau as though in fear of what loomed above it.
Mason knelt beside a ridge and observed the landscape through a break in the underbrush. The rift was miles away still, but the terrain between here and there was broken into uneven bands of elevation, some resembling man-made terraces, others fractured naturally through erosion. Pockets of ruin dotted the landscape: old watchtowers, collapsed stone archways, and what looked like the shattered remains of a fortress wall. Whatever had happened here—whenever it had happened—it hadn't been recent. But the effects still lingered.
To the northwest, he spotted movement. A group, maybe five or six. Not monsters—people. They moved with purpose, in formation. One in front, two flanking, and one lagging just behind with a heavy pack. Adventurers, clearly. And organized.
Mason remained low, watching.
They were too far to hear, but even from a distance, body language told a story. The leader barked silent instructions, hand gestures sharp and disciplined. The others responded immediately, adjusting positions without hesitation. This wasn't a group thrown together by random system pairing. These were professionals.
I'll need to avoid them, Mason decided, shifting back into the trees. Not yet. Not until I know what they're after and how they fight.
The last thing he needed was a confrontation without understanding their strength. Not all adventurers were hostile—some formed communities, informal pacts, or alliances. But this was a Rift Zone. Tension was amplified here, and in places where high-tier resources and rare class challenges spawned, trust was often the first casualty.
He moved west, skirting the tree line and keeping his senses sharp. The enhancements granted by his Shadow Veil passive made a difference; his steps were light, his awareness expanded. He could hear creatures nearby but not see them, which was worse. The air smelled faintly of ozone, as though a storm had recently passed or one was preparing to form.
By midday, he reached a stone bridge half-swallowed by the forest. Vines and moss clung to its every surface, and beneath it ran a narrow stream, dark and slow. The map in his interface—still painfully incomplete—marked this as "Threshold Span." A system-generated name. It meant this area was significant, probably once used as a route to the Rift itself.
Halfway across the bridge, he heard it.
A low growl.
Not feral. Intelligent.
He turned, drawing his dagger in one smooth motion as a shape detached itself from the forest. It was tall—taller than any of the creatures he had fought so far—and its body seemed composed of layered carapace that shimmered darkly in the shadow. Its limbs were long, ending in curved blades that looked grown rather than forged. But what stood out most was the eyes.
They were human.
Not metaphorically—truly human. Two eyes, set in a vaguely humanoid face, filled with hatred and recognition.
***
[Target Identified: Riftbound Marauder – Tier C]
[WARNING: This entity possesses hybrid-class abilities. Engage with caution.]
***
Mason's grip tightened. This was different. Everything about the Marauder screamed apex predator, but it didn't attack immediately. It stepped onto the bridge slowly, as though savoring the moment. Its eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the world narrowed.
Then it spoke.
Not in a voice. In his head.
You walk alone. You reek of the Rift. But you have not claimed it. Why are you here, Spawnling?
The voice was coarse, deep, but curious. Not mocking.
Mason narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know things like you talked."
The creature's expression shifted—just slightly—but it might have been amusement.
You are not from this world. I see it in the fracture of your aura. Another transplanted soul. Chosen, like so many before you. But you have not bent. Not yet.
Fracture of my aura? Mason kept his expression still, his stance unmoving. What does it know about me?
He didn't respond with words. Instead, he moved—low and fast.
The Marauder was faster.
Its first strike came in a blur, one arm scything through the air. Mason twisted, feeling the blade pass inches from his neck, the force of it ruffling his hair. He ducked, spun to the side, and retaliated with a feint toward the Marauder's knee joint.
It dodged, barely shifting its weight. It was testing him, just like the creature from the previous chapter of his trial.
Except this one wasn't bound by system rules. This one enjoyed it.
The fight spiraled into chaos. The bridge became a dance floor of death. Mason ducked, rolled, sliced where he could. The Marauder never overextended. It struck with precision, always withdrawing just far enough to avoid retaliation. But Mason wasn't just surviving.
He was adapting.
Each swing taught him something new—about its reach, its timing, its arrogance. And with each pass, Mason's eyes sharpened. Not just from instinct. Something else.
***
[Skill Progression: Combat Adaptation – 23% Synced]
[Skill Unlock Pending]
***
Another notification. It fed into his clarity. Mason pushed forward, using Step Through to phase briefly and reappear behind the Marauder, landing a clean slash across the back of its leg. Not deep enough to cripple, but enough to draw that same vaporous essence.
The creature howled—not in pain, but rage. It spun, its movement less composed now, more erratic.
It bled. That mattered.
I can't kill it, Mason realized, panting, heart hammering against his ribs. Not yet. But I can survive it. I can outlast it.
He began shifting his movements—drawing the creature further along the bridge, toward the edge. The creature sensed something and tried to retreat, but Mason used the terrain now. He sliced at the stone beneath its feet with quick feints, chipping away at already weathered masonry.
The final blow wasn't elegant. It wasn't clean.
But when the bridge cracked, when that side collapsed and took the Marauder with it, Mason didn't hesitate. He grabbed the edge, heaved himself back up, and rolled onto solid ground, gasping.
Silence.
Then—
***
[Combat Evaluation: Tier C Encounter – Survived]
[Combat Adaptation Skill Unlocked: Reflex Threading (Passive) – Slight time dilation perception in close-quarters. Increased reaction time under pressure.]
[System Note: Advancement accelerated. Trajectory unstable.]
***
Mason lay there, eyes on the sky.
Unstable? You're just realizing that now?
He didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely.
He had lived.
The Rift loomed still, but the path was open.
Mason moved carefully, his steps silent over the cracked stones of the old path leading toward the Rift. The adrenaline from his encounter with the Marauder had faded, but the weight of its message lingered. He couldn't shake the echo of its voice in his head: You walk alone. You reek of the Rift. But you have not claimed it.
It wasn't just the words that unsettled him—it was the implication. The Marauder had seen through him, not just as an outsider to this world, but as something deeper. The system had never described him as "spawned," but the Marauder had used that term with certainty, as if it had encountered his kind before. That meant others had come through. Others who may have failed. Or worse, succeeded and changed the world in ways Mason hadn't yet discovered.
He paused beside a fallen pillar overgrown with moss. The column had once been part of something grand, maybe a temple or stronghold, long before this region was consumed by the Rift. Resting his hand on the cool surface, Mason called up his interface. Not out of necessity, but habit. After every major event, he found comfort in seeing his progress quantified.
***
[Name: Mason Hale]
[Level: 18]
[Class: None – Pending Class Trial]
[Attributes Unlocked: Strength, Dexterity, Endurance, Perception]
[Skills: Step Through (Active), Shadow Veil (Passive), Reflex Threading (Passive)]
[Titles: Survivor of the Fall, Initiate of the Veil]
[System Status: Stable – Class Evolution Pending]
***
Eighteen levels. It felt like both a lot and not nearly enough. Most adventurers, he had learned, didn't even make it past ten before dying or being forced into auxiliary classes that locked their growth behind regional factions or guilds. But Mason had somehow maintained his independence. No forced contract. No binding sigil. The system had allowed him to evolve on his own terms—for now.
Still, he had no Class. That would change soon. The Rift wouldn't let him approach without demanding something in return. He felt it in his bones—something was watching, tracking every decision. That was the nature of this world: everything was a test.
He continued walking. The path began to descend now, winding between cliffs shaped like fingers reaching skyward. Vegetation changed subtly with every step: trees grew darker, more gnarled; flowers pulsed with faint, unnatural light. Even the insects had shifted, their wings glassy and translucent, their movement erratic.
Eventually, Mason reached the valley basin below the plateau. Here, remnants of an old civilization lay scattered like bones. Not human bones—stone ones. Statues carved into monstrous forms, some broken at the neck, others defaced with symbols he couldn't read. A cracked obsidian archway stood at the center of the ruins, humming softly.
He stepped closer, and the system responded instantly.
***
[Point of Interest: Veiled Rift Gate]
[Warning: Initiating Class Trial Beyond This Point Will Lock Current World State]
[Recommendation: Prepare Accordingly – Class Trial Cannot Be Repeated]
***
Mason exhaled slowly. This was it.
He dropped his pack beside a headless statue, kneeling to check his supplies. Two water flasks, both half-full. Dried meat, stale bread, an herbal poultice he had traded for two days earlier. No mana potions—he hadn't found any yet—and only one tier-D healing tincture that took nearly an hour to work. His dagger was still sharp, though the hilt was beginning to fray from repeated use.
Not ideal, he thought, but I've survived worse with less.
He sat in silence for a while, eyes on the archway. It wasn't just the idea of a fight that unsettled him. It was the permanence. Once he crossed that threshold, the system would fix the world around him. That meant no outside help, no chance to retreat. If he failed, he wouldn't just die. He'd vanish, his presence erased like he'd never been here at all.
That was what the Rift demanded.
I'm not the strongest. Not yet. But I've seen what happens to people who wait for the perfect moment. They die before it comes.
He stood and approached the arch.
As he passed beneath it, the system flickered across his vision like a thin film snapping into place.
***
[CLASS TRIAL INITIATED]
[Welcome, Mason Hale]
[Evaluating Performance Metrics…]
[Adjusting Trial Parameters…]
[Primary Class Path Detected: Veilstrider]
[Secondary Path Fragment: Unknown – Hybrid Traits Detected]
[Trial Type: Dynamic Survival – Tier Scaling: C+]
[Objective: Survive the Rift's Judgment and Claim Your Class]
***
The world shifted.
The valley dropped away, the sky peeled back like canvas tearing free from a frame. The air thickened, charged with invisible weight. Mason felt it press against his skin, seep into his lungs. When he opened his eyes again, he stood in a version of the same ruins, but they were…wrong.
Dead silence.
The colors had muted, replaced by washed-out gray and dull crimson. The statues were intact here, but they bled from the eyes, black tears pooling at their bases. The Rift above pulsed like a heartbeat now—louder, faster.
***
[Time Limit: 1 Hour]
[Survive. Adapt. Ascend.]
***
The ground trembled.
Mason turned, crouching instinctively. From the broken temple beyond the ruins, a figure emerged. At first, it looked human—tall, cloaked, bearing a staff. But as it drew closer, its features shifted: its face was a blur of different visages, constantly changing. Man, woman, old, young—all shifting in cycles. Its hands were bone-white, skeletal, but moved with elegance.
Then it spoke.
"You wear no mantle," it said, voice hollow, echoing unnaturally. "No chains. No brand. How did you reach the Rift without offering blood?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to," Mason replied.
The entity tilted its head, amused. "A liar. Or worse: honest."
It raised its hand.
From the ground, shadows surged—figures rising from the stone, shaped like people but with no eyes, no mouths. Just voids.
***
[Hostile Entities Detected: Rift Echoes – Tier C]
***
They charged.
Mason didn't wait. He activated Step Through, vanishing a heartbeat before the first Echo reached him, reappearing behind it with a downward slash. His blade met resistance—not solid, but enough to carve through the semi-etherial body. The creature shrieked without sound and collapsed into vapor.
Two more replaced it.
They were faster than before. Adaptive.
He shifted into motion, ducking under a swipe, rolling into a kick that shattered another Echo's balance. The third attacked from behind, but Reflex Threading flared in his mind, the moment stretching just enough for him to spin and deflect it with his off-hand bracer.
They're learning, Mason realized. Every move I make, they get smarter. This is the trial.
It wasn't about defeating a set number of enemies. It was about outlasting them while they evolved to counter him. He couldn't rely on repetition. Couldn't fall into patterns.
He began using the terrain—vaulting over low walls, ducking into crumbled archways. Anything to disrupt the rhythm. Each kill bought him seconds, but each second gave the system time to spawn new enemies, each slightly stronger, slightly faster.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
His stamina flagged. Breathing grew harder. Wounds accumulated—shallow cuts, a bruised rib, a torn sleeve that revealed blood trailing down his arm. But he didn't stop.
This is why I'm here, he thought, leaping from a fallen pillar to drive his blade into the eye-socket of an advancing Echo. This is what separates me from the others.
As he landed, a system message blinked.
***
[Trial Progress: 64% Complete]
[Hybrid Trait Integration Detected – Analysis In Progress]
***
Suddenly, the world slowed.
Not because of skill—because of revelation.
The entity in the cloak stepped forward again, its many faces still shifting. But now it looked…worried.
"You are not just one soul," it whispered. "You are tethered."
Mason's head throbbed. The system flickered in the corner of his vision.
***
[Tether Confirmed – External Signature Detected]
[Locked Trait: ??? – Synchronization at 17%]
***
"What the hell is happening to me?" Mason asked through clenched teeth.
But the Echoes didn't answer.
They just kept coming.
The sky above the Rift glowed a dull violet, pulsing like the fractured beat of something too old to die and too furious to sleep. The air itself trembled as though the realm were resisting his presence. Mason could feel it—this wasn't just a Class Trial. This was a crucible of identity. A test not only of strength but of foundation: who he was, what he brought to this world, and whether he had the right to shape it.
The echoes didn't pause. They never did.
A new wave erupted from the temple ruins behind him—no longer shadows of humans but more monstrous silhouettes. Limbs too long, bodies warped like clay twisted into motion. Their movement was wrong. Off-beat. Jittering between frames like an old film reel torn at the edges.
***
[New Hostile Detected: Rift Aberration – Tier B-]
[Warning: Aberration will adapt to your three most-used skills]
***
Mason didn't curse, though the urge was there. Instead, he gritted his teeth, pivoted sharply to the right, and dove behind the fallen altar stones. The system's rules were clear now: it wasn't just tracking his ability to survive but how predictably he survived. The more he relied on certain abilities, the more vulnerable he became.
He crouched low, regulating his breathing.
Adapt or die. I've heard that before. Now I get why this world lives by it.
He disabled Reflex Threading manually—just for now. He needed it to be unexpected when he used it again. Let them think he was out of options.
The Aberration moved into view. It didn't attack immediately. It observed. Its face—a mockery of his own, stretched across a faceless skull—twitched like broken glass in water. There was no strategy in its gaze, but there was hunger. A need to consume and become. That was the Rift's final cruelty: the enemies weren't just here to kill him. They wanted to overwrite him.
The Aberration lunged.
Mason rolled to the left, barely dodging the strike that split the stone pillar he'd used for cover. Dust and debris exploded outward, blinding him briefly. The creature followed through, its elongated limbs bending backward at the joint, claws arcing for another blow.
He couldn't afford to retreat. That would give it momentum.
He activated Step Through—not to escape, but to reposition mid-motion, just to the creature's flank. As he reappeared, he launched himself low, aiming for the aberration's heel-like limb. His dagger dug in, not cutting cleanly but lodging with enough force to unbalance the creature.
It screamed, and the sound was not just a shriek. It was a memory. His voice—played back at him—screaming the name of someone he'd lost in the old world. Someone he hadn't dared remember.
Mason faltered for half a heartbeat, breath catching.
The Aberration twisted with inhuman flexibility and flung him backward with a backhand swipe that cracked his ribs. He hit the ground hard, sliding across ancient dust and moss. His shoulder burned, dislocated or worse.
Pain flared through him, but he bit down on it. Hard. He didn't scream. Didn't give it that power.
This thing learns emotionally, he realized, rolling to one knee. It mimics not just tactics, but reactions. Trauma. That's its edge.
He spat blood, then called up the system mid-motion.
***
[Quick Equip: Left Bracer – Anchor Inscription Activated]
[Passive Buff: Knockback Resistance + Minor Stabilization for 30 Seconds]
***
The bracer on his left arm shimmered faintly, ancient glyphs aligning as the system responded. The next blow wouldn't throw him like that again.
The Aberration came at him again, faster now. More fluid. Its movement mimicked his own this time, down to the way it stepped—mirroring the slight shift in weight he used to balance during fights.
Damn thing's copying me. Alright. Let's give it something worth copying.
Mason feinted right, activating Shadow Veil for just half a second—long enough to make his motion hazy. He spun left, slamming his weight low into the creature's leg. This time, instead of cutting, he braced and pulled—throwing all his weight into a judo-style redirect. The creature stumbled.
He didn't aim for a kill. That was too predictable.
Instead, he shoved it hard into a statue. One of the bleeding ones.
The moment its body touched the black ichor pooling around the statue's base, the creature shrieked in a voice not its own—Mason's voice, but layered over something inhuman. Steam rose from its skin. It twisted, convulsed. Burned.
***
[Environmental Damage Detected: Corruption Overload]
[Weakness Identified – Rift Aberration vulnerable to anti-veil residue]
***
Anti-veil…? That's what this is?
He scanned the area quickly. Several statues had the same black substance pooled around them. That was his edge. Not power. Not precision. Awareness.
He baited it again—using only physical movement this time, no skills. That would force the system to lower its adaptive parameters. The creature charged, mouth opening wide, revealing rows of serrated, shifting teeth.
Mason sprinted backward, timed his pivot precisely, and led it straight into another statue's base.
This time, the reaction was violent. The creature howled, stumbled, and then cracked down the middle—its form splitting like porcelain. A light, bright and raw, burst from within.
It was dying.
***
[Trial Progress: 100% – Final Evaluation Pending]
[Analyzing Combat Strategy, Adaptability, and Tactical Growth]
[Class Eligibility Met – Assigning Primary Class]
***
He exhaled, falling to one knee. His lungs screamed for air. Blood trailed down his ribs. His arm hung limp at his side.
But he was alive.
The creature collapsed completely, crumbling into ash and something less tangible. The statues stopped bleeding. The Rift pulsed once, then dimmed.
***
[Congratulations, Mason Hale]
[You Have Passed the Trial of the Riftbound]
[Class Unlocked: Veilstrider (Primary)]
[Class Description: A wielder of shadow-threaded paths, bridging light and dark. Mobility and deception-based. Access to unique Rift techniques and spatial manipulation.]
[Traits Gained: Path Fragmentation (Active), Umbral Retaliation (Passive)]
[Skill Acquired: Rift Step – Temporarily phase through terrain and moderate damage]
***
The world began to rebuild itself.
Stone reassembled. The violet sky faded. The statues crumbled into harmless dust. Mason stood, breath ragged, watching the system solidify his identity within this world.
He was no longer a stray. No longer just surviving.
He had a class now.
A purpose.
And the Rift had marked him.
Far in the distance, through the fractured edge of the realm, a new window opened in the system's interface. It blinked like an unopened letter.
***
[New Region Unlocked: The Frostvein Range]
[Recommendation: Proceed to North Reach Settlement – Recruit Allies for Tier Trials]
***
Allies, he thought, chest rising and falling. I guess I can't solo this forever.
He turned, collecting his pack from the edge of the trial grounds. The injuries still burned, but the pain was clean. Earned. Meaningful.
As he limped toward the Rift's exit, the Marauder's words returned.
You reek of the Rift. But you have not claimed it.
He had now.