The hospital's antiseptic smell permeated everything as nanobots worked through my system, repairing dimensional scarring that still left my left arm semi-transparent in certain lighting. Three days had passed since the Shattered Confluence, and the medical readout remained frustratingly consistent:

  RECOVERY STATUS:

  HP: 82/100

  DIMENSIONAL SCARRING: 18% (DECREASING)

  NEURAL PATHWAY INTEGRITY: 89%

  My mind kept replaying the Guardian fight—the glass storm, the gravity inversion, that final moment where the black hole nearly consumed me. I'd survived, but only barely. The blinking notification on my status screen demanded attention:

  [ABILITY SELECTION AVAILABLE]

  I activated the interface, watching as three holographic options materialized before me. Level 10 represented a significant power threshold—my first ability since Reactive Fracture Tether at Level 2. Each choice would define my approach to E-tier rifts going forward.

  Brittle Aegis

  Type: Defensive (Active); Cost: 20% Mana

  Effect: Gain a shield equal to 300% current HP for 8s.

  While active, hazard manipulation is disabled.

  Moving drains the shield and inflicts +5/s Exhaustion.

  The first option promised safety—raw defensive power through a significant shield. But the cost was unacceptable: disabling environmental manipulation rendered my entire Domain Engine trait pointless. What good was defense if it stripped away my only offensive capability? And +5 Exhaustion for *moving*? Yeah, no thanks.

  Hazard Echo Chamber

  Type: Environmental Control (Active); Cost: 20% Mana

  Effect: Your next Create Hazard, spawns mirror zones within 20m.

  Mirror zones mimic the base hazard type but with corrupted effects.

  Mirror zones deal 200% increased damage indiscriminately.

  Zones drift toward your position at 1m/s.

  Cannot be Negated or Inverted.

  The skill description sent a shiver of dread down my spine. What a terrible skill, I hated it. A corrupted amplified environmental hazard? Zones that *hunted* me across the battlefield? And worst of all, the inability to negate or invert them. If I'd had this last Rift, those glass storms would have turned into crystalline deathtraps targeting me specifically. Pure liability with minimal offensive advantage.

  Hazard Conduit

  Type: Aura Buff (Active); Cost: 50% Stamina

  Effect: Attach the nearest hazard to yourself as a 10m aura.

  Hazards carried by the conduit have 80% reduced non-damaging effect on you, but you take 10% of the hazard's original damage every second which can’t be further reduced.

  Duration: Until manually removed by Consume Hazard

  Removing the aura reduces Exhaustion by 25.

  Cannot be Negated or Inverted

  The third option, on the other hand, was amazing. I was already struggling with periods when my environmental manipulation skills were still on cooldown when I needed them. The faster I got, the worse this problem would become. Hazard Conduit would allow me to pick optimal effects to carry around, but the continuous damage taken was scary. Not all hazards inflicted damage, but the ones that did hurt badly. Also, it could only be removed by Consume Hazard so if I messed up and used that without thinking, I wouldn’t be able to remove the effect for 60 seconds, and I might just die. That would be tragic. Still, I thought it was manageable. And the Exhaustion reduction? Critical for sustainability in longer rifts. I closed my eyes, visualizing potential applications. Attaching a gravity well would create a crushing zone around me, perfect for close-combat control. A glass storm aura would shred anything in my path while I took minimal damage. Temporal distortions could create disorienting fields that affected enemies more than me. And to top it off it used Stamina instead of Mana, the cost was steep, but I wasn’t using stamina for much else. The tactical flexibility was undeniable. Unlike the other options, Hazard Conduit amplified my existing strategy rather than constraining it.

  "Hazard Conduit," I confirmed, watching as dimensional energy pulsed through me, integrating the new ability. The sensation was strange—like my connection to environmental hazards had deepened.

  I flexed my semi-transparent arm, watching as faint traces of dimensional energy flickered across it. The medical readout beeped in response:

  WARNING: DIMENSIONAL RESONANCE DETECTED

  RECOVERY TIMELINE ADJUSTED: +12 HOURS

  Worth it, definitely. This ability will supercharge my approach to rifts. This can't possibly go wrong... right?

  The medical scanner beeped once more, indicating another treatment cycle complete. My arm flickered back into full solidity momentarily before partially fading again. The recovery would take time, but I already had my eyes on the next challenge.

  I closed my eyes, imagining myself wreathed in fire, gravity, or frozen time—a conduit for the rift's own destructive nature.

  Maybe that was the real path forward. Not fighting the rifts, but becoming one with them.

  I leave the Recovery Center on unsteady legs, the neural stabilizers still pulsing through my system. Eight hours of dimensional realignment therapy after my E-tier rift left me feeling hollow—like someone had scooped out my insides and replaced them with static. The nurse had warned me that E-tier advancement would require physiological adjustments. She hadn't mentioned it would feel like my atoms were trying to exist in multiple dimensions at once.

  Lighthouse City unfolds before me in layers of contradiction. The Recovery Center sits in the Medical District, a gleaming sector of gene-spliced organic architecture and sterile hover-ambulances. As I cross into Downtown, the technological gradient shifts—neo-concrete high-rises with holographic advertisements fighting for space with preserved pre-Devastation brownstones. Above, transport drones weave between elevated tram lines, their navigation lights creating rivers of color against the perpetual gray sky. Below, street vendors hawk F-tier consumables from carts wedged between quantum computing kiosks. A Stability patrol cruises past, their augmented C-tier armor pulsing with suppression fields designed to prevent dimensional leakage. The contrast is stark—cutting-edge technology sustaining a civilization in retreat, all of it powered by the very dimensional energy threatening to consume us.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  The city barrier ripples faintly as I near the Eastern Harbor, its translucent blue surface occasionally flickering where it meets the ground. Beyond it lies absolute devastation—the ruins of Old Lighthouse visible through the protective field like a cautionary tale. Twisted metal spires and shattered concrete where dimensional storms have warped physical laws beyond recognition. I find myself at the Lighthouse itself—the ancient structure predating the Devastation that somehow survived when everything around it fell. Its beacon still functions, not to guide ships but to stabilize the barrier nearby. The original purpose perverted by necessity, like everything else in this world.

  I climb the spiral staircase to the observation deck, ignoring the holographic warnings about excess weight stressing the ancient structure. The view from the top is worth the risk—Lighthouse City spread out like a circuit board, its sectors outlined by power conduits and defensive perimeters. From here, I can see the corrupted ocean crashing against the barrier, waters tainted by dimensional bleeding that created hybrid monsters even Stability hasn't fully cataloged. I spend twenty minutes mentally mapping potential raid strategies, considering how my new E-tier status might allow me to manipulate environmental hazards more effectively. If I could chain Hazard manipulations without triggering Fracture Charges...

  "Volt? Is that really you?" The voice startles me from my calculations. I turn to find Verika standing at the top of the stairs, her red hair shorter than I remember, buzzed on one side now. She wears F-tier scout armor—lightweight and sensor-enhanced, significantly better than the basic protections she'd had during our Crimson Bloom fiasco. "Thought I recognized you from below. Almost didn't believe it—look at you!"

  "Verika," I acknowledge, unsure what else to say. Her eyes drop to my badge, widening as she registers the glowing "E" where an "F" had been during our last encounter.

  "You're E-tier already? That's—" She falters, mental calculations visible behind her eyes. "It's been what, two months? Three? Most raiders take years to advance from F to E, if they make it at all."

  "Twenty-seven days," I correct her. The information slips out before I can consider whether it sounds like boasting. "Solo advancement."

  "Solo—" She steps closer, scrutinizing me with interest. "With your Domain Engine? That's..." She trails off, clearly reconsidering whether to say 'impossible' or 'reckless.' Instead, she lands on: "Impressive. Terrifying, but impressive."

  Her wrist implant pulses with urgent light, the melodic chime indicating a priority message. She glances at it with a grimace.

  "Damn. My team's assembled at RMC for an expedition. Supposed to be there five minutes ago." She hesitates, clearly torn between professional obligation and curiosity. "Listen, we should catch up properly. I want to hear how you managed E-tier without dying to your own fractures. Maybe compare notes sometime?"

  I nod noncommittally, memories of Crimson Bloom filtering through my consciousness—the Bloodspore Cloud that nearly suffocated her, the gravity inversion that crushed another raider's spine, the time fracture that left us all paralyzed as acid sprayed toward Linn's face. The nightmares still wake me sometimes.

  "Sure," I agree, purely out of social obligation. Her wrist chimes again, more insistently.

  "Great! I'll ping you on Network. I've got a corp sponsorship now—BlackStar Expeditions. They might be interested in someone with your... talents." Her smile was casual, but there was something calculating in her gaze as she backed toward the stairs, keeping me in her sights. "Seriously, E-tier solo? We definitely need to talk."

  I watch her disappear down the spiral staircase, her footsteps fading quickly. The interaction leaves me feeling strangely hollow. Connections with other raiders create expectations, complications, variables I can't control. But turning down potential corporate backing would be foolish at E-tier, where equipment costs skyrocket and solo survivability drops to single-digit percentages.

  I turn back to the barrier's edge, watching dimensional energy ripple against the shield. Another choice to calculate, another risk to weigh. The barrier undulates hypnotically, reminding me of the Shattered Confluence's fractured sky—beautiful, mesmerizing, and absolutely deadly.

  I checked my balance for the third time, still not quite believing the number staring back at me.

  150,855 credits.

  My last raid had doubled my existing funds. Now I had the rough equivalent value of over 150 E-tier cores. Not that you could actually buy cores—Stability monopolized those completely—but that's how they calculated payout values. The number looked impressive, especially for someone who'd been F-tier less than a month ago, but in the grand scheme of E-tier economics, it wasn't exceptional. A properly equipped raider could burn through that in two or three gear upgrades.

  I scrolled through the detailed breakdown, analyzing efficiency metrics. My speed-based approach had its limitations—lower core yield per rift compared to methodical hunters. Maybe I should focus more on hunting elites and boss-class monsters? The core drops would be substantially higher, potentially tripling my yield.

  I dismissed the thought almost immediately. My entire fighting style relied on momentum and environmental manipulation rather than direct combat. Spending hours scouring rifts for boss spawns would be tedious at best and fatal at worst. My Domain Engine trait excelled with continuous movement, not stationary fights against damage sponges. Some raiders built their entire approach around boss hunting, but they typically stacked Force attributes and defensive gear. My Speed 10 baseline meant I could outmaneuver almost anything, but prolonged engagements remained my weakness.

  The Shopping District hummed with its usual energy when I arrived—a maze of specialized shops nestled between towering holographic advertisements. Raiders of various tiers haggled with merchants while Network terminals displayed real-time price fluctuations. E-tier shops gleamed with emerald energy signatures, their entrances calibrated to reject anyone below the required tier.

  My first stop was Vital-Force Consumables, where I loaded up on essentials. E-tier rifts needed E-tier consumables and they were priced accordingly.

  I purchased three E-tier Rejuvenators at 1,800 credits each—insurance against hitting max Exhaustion during extended runs. The E-tier Nano-Feed and Nanogel cost another 1,200 for a ten-pack each. I left the store and ventured across the street where I had noticed something.

  That's when I spotted it, mounted on the wall of a weapon shop—a sleek metallic rod with crackling energy running along its length. The blue-white arcs of electricity danced across its surface in hypnotic patterns.

  "Supershock Baton," the clerk announced, noticing my interest. "Elite-class E-tier. Just got it in last week." He carefully removed it from its energy-field display. "One hundred thousand credits. Interested in testing it?"

  The price made me wince internally, but I nodded. In the small testing area behind the counter, the baton felt perfectly balanced in my hand. The weapon hummed with potential energy.

  "It harvests ambient dimensional energy from the rift," the smith explained. "Releases targeted lightning strikes at mid-range—about fifteen meters effective distance. Needs roughly a minute to recharge between discharges, but functions as a standard baton during cooldown."

  I activated it, watching as electricity arced from the tip to the practice dummy, leaving scorched patterns across its surface. Impressive.

  "Has two modifiers," he continued. "+20 percent to all regeneration effects and +50 percent to all lightning damage. The regeneration helps offset the energy drain from repeated use."

  "My Force attribute is fairly low," I admitted, running calculations. The physical damage from using it as a melee weapon would be subpar with my stats, but the active lightning strike ability could potentially solve my medium-range engagement problems. Most importantly, the regeneration modifier would help sustain my mana pool for hazard manipulations—my primary survival strategy.

  "You're more Speed-focused?" The clerk nodded knowingly. "This still complements that approach. Lightning strikes enemies instantly—no projectile travel time to dodge. Perfect for hit-and-run tactics."

  After a brief negotiation that went nowhere, I transferred 100,000 credits. The baton's energy signature synced with my status, officially registering it as my property.

  My remaining 43,055 credits wouldn't stretch far, but I needed armor upgrades. A smaller shop three blocks down specialized in practical rather than flashy protection.

  "Nothing special," I told the armor dealer, "Just need basic E-tier protection with decent damage reduction."

  She showed me a reinforced mesh suit with dimensional stabilization weave—standard E-tier quality with a single modifier: minus twenty percent damage taken. At 20,000 credits, it exhausted most of my remaining funds, but the upgrade from F-tier protection was non-negotiable at this point.

  Walking back to my apartment with 23,055 credits remaining, I felt the weight of the Supershock Baton against my hip. The investment had been substantial, but necessary. Tomorrow I'd hit the rifts again, recouping costs while adjusting to my new equipment. I needed to find the right balance between speed clearing and elite hunting for rift cores—maximizing credit yield without compromising my survival strategy.

  I pulled up the Network terminal in my apartment, a grin spreading across my face as I scrolled through the increasingly outlandish theories about how I'd set my F-tier world record.