The night was quiet.

  The house, less so.

  "Moooommm!! I don't like peas!!"

  A small voice cried out.

  Kim Seo-Yeon, already halfway through a spoonful, gave a tired smile. "But you have to eat peas if you wanna grow strong like those Coreborns."

  "Let him be, Kim Seo-Yeon."

  A deeper voice from the couch, barely turning his head.

  "He's past the age of believing all that."

  "I don't think so, Lim Seo-Joon."

  She fired back without missing a beat.

  "He's your child, so he's gullible no matter the age."

  "I'm a man now, Mom."

  The kid insisted, puffing his chest.

  "I don't need peas anymore."

  "Oh? Is that so?"

  Kim Seo-Yeon smirked.

  "Since when did my ten-year-old become a man?"

  Above her, the small television chattered on, volume low — just background noise — until something caught Lim Seo-Joon's ear.

  [We request all people in the surrounding districts to keep their doors locked. A mercenary group known as "The Goons" has been terrorising—]

  CLICK.

  The TV turned black.

  Lim Seo-Joon set the remote down with a sigh.

  "Not a day goes by that I don't hear this damn news."

  "It's still good to remain cautious, no?"

  Seo-Yeon replied, wiping her son's mouth with a napkin.

  "Let's shut the lights. It's late already."

  She nodded. He got up.

  CLICK.

  The lights dimmed into darkness.

  Another day crossed off the calendar for them.

  And sleep came, well-deserved.

  BANG!

  The walls shook. All three of them jolted awake.

  "What was that??"

  Kim Seo-Yeon gasped, pulling her son into her arms.

  Lim Seo-Joon rushed to the front door.

  "Stay back."

  He said, opening it.

  —"Who are all of yo—"

  His voice cut off like a switch.

  A long silence followed.

  Then—CREAK. The door slowly swung open.

  A man in a rugged black outfit stepped in, something dangling from his hand. The shape slowly became clear—Lim Seo-Joon's head, gripped by the hair, held up like a mask.

  "AHHH!"

  Seo-Yeon screamed, clutching her son, her entire body trembling.

  "Shhh."

  A calm voice replied as another man stepped inside, hands in his coat pockets.

  "I don't like loud noise."

  Her son began to cry, whimpering behind her.

  "Separate the child."

  The man ordered.

  Seo-Yeon was frozen in place. Her knees nearly gave out. But somehow, she found the strength to guide her son forward, hoping—praying—that obeying might save him.

  The man grabbed the boy by the wrist and shoved him toward the others outside.

  "OH? A new recruit."

  One of the men chuckled.

  "You like Coreborns, kid?"

  The door started to close.

  "NOOO—" Seo-Yeon cried out, lunging toward the door.

  SHNK.

  Her voice choked out mid-scream.

  The blade sliced through her throat in one clean, quiet motion.

  "I told you."

  The man muttered, stepping over her body.

  "I hate loud noises."

  One of the others leaned into the hallway.

  "Sir, word is this block's full of medical students. They pass through here late."

  "Perfect."

  The man said.

  "Next step. Loot everything. Non-Coreborns shouldn't live this well anyway."

  They disappeared into the night, leaving behind silence… and a blood-stained floor that would never be cleaned.

  ****

  The dim blue light of Jaemin's ancient laptop flickered like it was begging to be put out of its misery. The fan wheezed with every scroll—as if gasping for air while Jaemin casually browsed the most expensive gear auctions known to mankind.

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  He adjusted his eyeballs and squinted.

  "Nope. Can't afford that. Or that. Or... are those even legal?"

  He clicked on a price tag.

  ?97,600,000,000.

  The screen glared back at him like it knew he was broke.

  "My head hurts... my eyes hurt... even my bank account's getting sympathy cramps."

  Jaemin muttered, scratching his chin like some deep philosopher who just realised capitalism is undefeated.

  "…I'm scared. Not of monsters. But of seeing these price tags haunt my dreams."

  With a dramatic sigh, he opened his Inventory, half hoping something cool had magically appeared.

  [Inventory]

  [Gilded Riftstone × 70,090]

  [Nullifier Extract × 100]

  [Vial of Frozen Echo × 98]

  [Skill Scroll – Phantom Bloom × 8]

  [Abyssal Bone Dust × 757g]

  "Holy shit, I'm hoarding like a dragon."

  He muttered, blinking at the numbers.

  He scrolled through the item descriptions like a broke man reading luxury menus—he had no clue if this stuff was rare, useful, or literal trash. Still, after offloading some garbage-tier loot, his Focus shards skyrocketed into the trillions.

  "...I could literally crash a small economy if I wanted to."

  "What if I just dumped everything onto the auction house?"

  He said, voice low, like he was planning a war crime. Then—

  SCRATCH SCRATCH.

  He froze. Not in fear, but because his foot itched. Specifically, the sole of his foot.

  He paused.

  "Why the hell is that the one spot itching right now…"

  He groaned, scratching it with the same aggression you'd use to un-summon a demon.

  After the great itch incident of 9:42 PM, Jaemin slammed the laptop shut like he'd just seen cursed content, and flopped backwards onto his bed. Limbs out. Legs splayed. Pure boneless despair.

  "Ugh, I'm literally built to fight Abyssals, not inflation…"

  He muttered.

  His muscles ached from his daily workouts—abs tense, shoulders sore, biceps reminding him he had mastered pull-ups without swearing halfway through.

  And yet, none of that compares to the real existential crisis.

  "Kinda weird how I don't have, like… Strength or Intelligence stats. Just vibes and violence."

  He turned his head to the side, eyes meeting the plushie beside him. A once-white, now kinda grey stuffed bear named Wangjoongie. The poor thing had seen more shit than most war veterans. One of its ears was sewn back with black thread, and its eye was slightly… off.

  "I swear, Wangjoongie. This system of mine is weird as hell. No stats. No level-ups like normal. Just pure chaos."

  He hugged it close anyway.

  "Don't worry. We'll get rich somehow. Maybe I'll auction off some Abyssal bone dust and buy a matte-black Benz with shadow spikes."

  Wangjoongie didn't respond. As always.

  But somehow, the silence was comforting.

  And in that brief quiet, Jaemin closed his eyes… already picturing the next rift raid——hopefully one that didn't involve budget anxiety or itchy feet.

  Jaemin leaned back, eyes half-lidded, his breath steady as the faint hum of the AC pulsed through the quiet room. The cool breeze brushed against his cheeks—a comfort he rarely allowed himself. It had been a long time since his body felt still.

  "It's been a while since I've done clean-up missions…"

  He muttered under his breath, his gaze blank, focused somewhere far beyond the walls around him.

  "I wonder how things are—especially for the bigger covenants now."

  Clean-up missions weren't glorious. They weren't about epic fights or spotlight-worthy kills. They were back-breaking, grime-covered, gear-straining labour—and they paid less than they should. But they were vital. Rift crystals didn't just pop out of nowhere.

  Jaemin knew the rhythm of it all too well. The two ways to get Rift Crystals burned into his mind.

  Mining them straight out of a still-active rift's walls—risky, raw, and violent.

  Then there was the second way—Obsidian Synthesis. Turning leftover rift dust into something valuable.

  He visualised it in his mind:

  The soft, shimmering grey of rift dust, collected by the handful after a rift collapsed.

  Then, it was combined with crystal powder and subjected to intense heat until the surface turned into a dark, dense black shell—the obsidian crust.

  Crack it just right, and inside it, the precious Rift Crystal shimmered like a buried heartbeat.

  Jaemin had done it countless times—before he was ever a Coreborn. When he was nothing but a trainee with a frail body and an aching back,

  spending nights around heating converters, burning his hands trying to perfect the obsidian coat.

  No aura. No power. Just raw effort.

  He opened his eyes again, the faint ceiling light dancing in his pupils.

  "It wasn't pretty, but I survived."

  Now he could likely punch through rift ore with bare hands and slice obsidian shells with a whisper of his aura, but those days still sat in his muscles. Deep in his bones.

  He turned his head slightly, letting the air from the AC flow directly across his face. The chill clung to his skin—a luxury that didn't exist inside a rift. Rifts burned. Rifts suffocated. Inside a rift, air itself became tense.

  So even this slight, artificial cool… felt like peace.

  And for now, Jaemin allowed himself that. Just a few more moments.Before the next raid.

  His body could recover with time—muscles mended, bruises faded, core fatigue flushed with potions and recovers.

  But the mind… the mind didn't heal so easily. Sleep was still the only medicine for it. And Jaemin hadn't tasted proper sleep in days.

  ****

  The morning air was sharp, biting with a chill that clung to the skin like frost-wrapped silk. He stood at the edge of the rift, boots crunching over the rocky, cracked earth. It was barely 5 a.m., and the sun had yet to peek over the jagged hills beyond the site, only bleeding faint strokes of orange across the black-blue sky.

  The rift loomed ahead—glowing, quiet yet pulsating with a light that didn't belong to this world. It cast an eerie glow over the heavy equipment scattered around the perimeter: pickaxes, gloves, mining suits, converter kits, and oxygen regulators. The steel shimmered with dew, waiting.

  Jaemin moved forward.

  Here, the routine was simple: pick your post—mining team or conversion team. Most stuck to one. It was smarter, more efficient, less suicidal.

  Jaemin?

  He opted for both.

  Keep the body moving. Keep the mind distracted. That was his method.

  He eyed the equipment racks. The machines were newer than the ones from his past—sleeker designs, digital stabilisers, core-powered drills. Sophisticated stuff. But Jaemin wasn't intimidated.

  He'd used junk held together by duct tape and sheer willpower.

  These? These were easy.

  "It'll take some time to go through it all."

  A gruff voice sounded behind him. Jaemin turned.

  A bulky man in his fifties approached, carrying six pickaxes—three in each hand like they were made of foam. His sleeves were rolled up, scars danced over his forearms, and a crooked grin curved beneath a patchy stubble beard.

  The foreman.

  "You must be the foreman."

  Jaemin said plainly.

  The man dropped the pickaxes with a solid CLANK and grinned.

  "Damn right I am. You must be that crazy kid who signed up for both mining and conversion."

  The foreman said, stepping up and giving Jaemin's chest a friendly fist bump—

  —or tried to. His fist hit something solid. Not muscle. Metal.

  The foreman blinked.

  "Oh-ho! What the hell, you storing steel under your skin or what?"

  He let out a bellowing laugh that echoed across the empty ridge.

  Jaemin gave a small smile, then gently peeled the man's fist away from his pec.

  "I just train a lot."

  "Train, my ass."

  The foreman muttered with a chuckle.

  "You're built like a power loader."

  Jaemin glanced back at the rift. It was glowing brighter now—reactive. He narrowed his eyes.

  "When does the strike team arrive? They're supposed to clear the interior before we move in, right?"

  The foreman cocked a brow.

  "Arrive?"

  He pointed toward the rift with a scoff.

  "They're already inside."

  Jaemin's gaze sharpened.

  "Already?"

  The foreman nodded.

  "Covenant: NOVA's first team went in just after 3 a.m. Tier 2 rift, they wanted a head start. By the time they're out, the only thing left should be the boss—if that. And we, picking up the mess."

  Jaemin looked back at the rift again. So calm on the outside. So violently unpredictable within.

  He rolled his shoulders once. The work was about to start.

  No rest for the ones who signed up to clean up behind the powerful.

  But Jaemin had no complaints. He was used to it. And more than ready.

  "There's a pile of pickaxes over there."

  The foreman said, jerking his chin toward a cluttered corner just off the gravel path.

  "Choose your favourite. They're all specially same."

  He added with a snort at his own joke.

  Jaemin gave a dry blink.

  "…Right."

  The foreman wiped his hands on his already-dirty vest.

  "We don't do ID checks 'round here. You show up lookin' like a strong bastard, that's all I need. You could be one of them precision core types for all I care."

  "I am one."

  Jaemin replied flatly.

  The foreman froze.

  "…No offense."

  Jaemin chuckled softly under his breath.

  "Don't worry. I'll do a good job."

  He bowed slightly before heading off toward the tools.

  The foreman scratched his head.

  "What the hell are these kids eatin' these days…"

  Jaemin stepped up to the heap of pickaxes—half-buried in dust, but not a single one was dull.

  Every handle bore the unmistakable crest of Aether, laser-etched and glowing faintly along the grain. At the base of the head, a minute core fragment had been embedded and sealed into place, humming ever so gently with stabilised energy. These weren't just tools—they were low-grade gear, reinforced to break through crystal shells and survive hits from rogue Rift Howlers.

  Even a basic swing with these could take out the lesser mobs lurking in the crevices.

  Of course, only Aether Crest would be petty enough to brand their logo on pickaxes. Leave it to a megacorp to turn mining into marketing.

  Jaemin gripped one, testing its weight in his hand. Balanced. Heavy in all the right places.

  Good. It would do.

  He glanced up at the rift again—still quiet on the surface, but alive. Always alive beneath. It flickered with pulses of violet and blue, the ambient energy shifting like breath.

  "Once the mining job is over…"

  He muttered, eyes narrowing.

  "…I'll deal with the boss myself...if I get a chance that is."

  He cracked his neck once.

  "Might as well farm something useful out of this before the others try."

  And with that, he hoisted the pickaxe over his shoulder with a silent smirk.