Chapter 16: Shock

A mirage-like rift shimmered in front of Adam, its edges rippling faintly like heat over dry sand.

The air around it buzzed with unstable essence, the telltale sign of a newly opened exit.

All around him lay the corpses of goblins, dozens of them sprawled across the blood-soaked grass.

Some were mutilated beyond recognition, their bodies beaten so savagely that calling them goblins would have been a compliment.

Those were the unfortunate ones Adam had used to vent his rage before he’d calmed down enough to kill the rest cleanly.

Now the field was silent, save for the faint hum of the rift.

Adam exhaled slowly and looked toward the wavering portal.

“That took a lot of time.”

He could finally understand why so many martial artists spent days sometimes weeks trapped inside a rift, desperately trying to reduce its saturation by even 0.5% just to open an exit.

The process wasn’t as simple as killing a few monsters; it demanded both endurance and patience.

Many never succeeded, relying instead on luck, stumbling across exits left behind by others who had reduced the saturation before them.

The exit would remain open for three minutes, whether the creator stayed or left.

That window allowed others to slip out, the same way Adam himself had escaped the rift the first time, by sheer chance rather than effort.

But this time was different.

Adam looked at the glowing portal, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“This time, it wasn’t luck,” he said quietly. “This time, it was my power.”

He lowered his gaze to his bloodstained body. His once-white shirt and black jacket were drenched in drying blood, his hair matted and his face streaked with grime and gore.

The blood had already clotted in places, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

“I really need a bath… and new clothes,” he said with a sigh.

Reaching up, Adam grabbed the strap of his backpack, adjusting its weight against his shoulder.

Inside were the carefully collected organs and granulites he’d harvested from his kills, the tangible proof of his effort, and his only means of paying off his debts.

He glanced at the bag, wondering how much it would all fetch once he turned them in.

Then, without another glance at the slaughtered field or the fading goblin stench, Adam turned toward the rift.

The surface of the Mirage-Like exit rippled faintly as he approached, reflecting his bloodied figure back at him like a distorted mirror.

He didn’t hesitate.

In the next moment, Adam stepped through, vanishing into the wavering light, leaving behind the silent graves of Gob Valley.

Outside the rift, the world bustled with motion.

Martial artists walked in and out of Gob Valley’s entrance the mirage-like portal was large enough to accommodate the steady flow of traffic.

The shimmer of the rift distorted their reflections as some entered with tense expressions and others emerged battered, limping, or bloodied, clutching weapons and wounds alike.

But then, all at once, the movement stopped.

Those about to step into the rift froze mid-stride, and those who had just exited turned to stone.

A figure was walking out of the rift, covered head to toe in blood.

He wore no armor, only a black jacket and a blood-soaked white shirt. His black hair clung to his forehead, and a backpack hung casually over one shoulder.

His eyes, shone with restrained bloodlust.

And every step he took left faint smudges on the dusty ground.

The thick, metallic scent of goblin blood clung to him so strongly it made a few nearby martial artists instinctively cover their noses.

Adam didn’t pay them any attention.

His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as he walked straight toward the exit of the fenced area.

The Acolytes on duty, two men in the Mission Hall’s black-and-silver uniforms spotted him instantly.

One started to raise his hand as if to question him, but hesitated.

They could tell at a glance that the blood wasn’t his.

There were no visible wounds, no signs of struggle, no fatigue in his steps.

Just confidence and death.

So they said nothing; after all, their duty was only to verify entries, not exits.

Adam walked past them without a word, the rift’s hum fading behind him.

Normally, martial artists emerged from rifts beaten half to death, torn uniforms, cracked armor, exhaustion in every breath.

It was expected.

Reducing a rift’s saturation by even 0.5% was a difficult feat, and for the less experienced, simply making it out alive was considered lucky.

There were no inns, no spas, no comforts inside, only the meager rations one carried in and whatever shelter nature provided.

Adam had brought rations too, though by now they were ruined and soaked through with goblin blood from the harvested organs in his bag.

But it didn’t matter. From the first kill, he’d known he wouldn’t need to stay long in the rift.

Still, that wasn’t what caught everyone’s attention.

No — it was the the fact he had no injuries.

Even the roughest hunters, the most hardened veterans, had never seen someone emerge so drenched in gore without a single injury.

And the realization hit all of them at once.

The silence stretched, and a single, collective thought rippled through the crowd of martial artists like a whispered curse:

What the hell happened in that rift?

As for Adam he simply adjusted the strap of his backpack and kept walking, his expression calm, steady, and utterly unfazed as if stepping out of hell had been nothing more than a morning stroll.

****

The Mission Hall receptionist froze the moment Adam stepped through the front doors.

Her eyes went wide as she took in his appearance his clothes soaked through with blood, his face streaked verdant, his boots leaving faint green footprints on the polished floor.

For a split second, her hand almost darted toward the emergency alarm beneath the counter.

The only thought that flashed through her mind was a Rift breach had occured.

And she wasn’t alone.

Every martial artist in the hall, those crowding the quest boards, those preparing to accept missions, even the ones lounging around waiting for group members, all turned to look at him.

Their chatter faded, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to press against the air itself.

Adam didn’t seem to care.

He stood calmly by the counter, his steps even and his expression unreadable beneath the dried blood.

“Did you hear me?”

His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

The receptionist jumped slightly, pulled out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her lips parted, confusion flashing briefly across her pale face before realization dawned.

“S-sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t get you the first time… what did you say?”

Adam’s expression softened, just slightly.

He could tell he was the cause of her reaction, and he didn’t hold it against her.

Anyone who saw him right now would have thought he’d walked out of a massacre.

Which, technically, he had.

“I said,” he repeated calmly, “I want to collect my pay, for a perfect run.”

For a moment, the receptionist just blinked at him, the words taking a second to register.

As for Adam he just smiled faintly or at least, he tried to.

But with his blood-soaked face, the expression came out all wrong.

His sharp features, slicked hair, and emerald eyes framed in verdant made him look less like a man who’d completed a mission and more like a demon wearing a human grin.

****

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