The pull of the Rift vanished as quickly as it came.
Lucien landed on cold stone, his boots echoing faintly in the dark. The air was heavy with moisture, the faint sound of dripping water resonating from somewhere deep within the tunnels.
He looked around. Rough cave walls stretched into winding corridors. Arrows and glowing markers had been painted by the Association to help novice Hunters navigate.
"At least the path is marked," he murmured. "A mercy for the untrained."
Then came the sound.
A faint shuffle. A low, wet growl.
Lucien turned toward it, eyes narrowing. From the shadows, small figures emerged—green-skinned, yellow-eyed, with twisted grins and crude weapons.
"Goblins," he whispered, his voice almost reverent. "So even in this age, the demons still wear new faces."
The first charged, dagger raised. Lucien stepped aside, parrying the strike with a flick of his wrist before driving his blade through the creature's throat. It collapsed with a gurgle.
Two more rushed from behind.
Lucien turned, boots sliding across the damp stone.
If I block this one, I'll be late for the next. Better to move.
He ducked low, the first dagger slicing through his hair. His sword came up in a clean, rising arc, severing the second goblin's arm before spinning and finishing both in a single backhanded cut.
They fell at his feet.
He exhaled. His blade gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight.
But more came—five, then ten, their shrieks filling the air.
Lucien advanced. His movements flowed like water, precise and unbroken. Every strike had purpose. Every parry was calculated.
A goblin leapt at him from above, screaming.
Lucien looked up and thrust his sword straight through its chest. The impact threw sparks against the stone ceiling. He twisted, yanked the blade free, and spun to meet the next wave.
Another lunged with a club. Lucien sidestepped and kicked the creature into the wall. The next tried to stab from the side, but Lucien's blade moved faster. Steel met bone. The goblin fell without a sound.
The floor was slick with green blood. His cloak fluttered with each turn, his breathing steady, eyes focused.
Then, between clashes, something caught his attention.
A faint crack along his sword's edge.
He frowned and whispered,
"Appraisal."
A translucent window appeared before him:
[Weapon Appraised]
Item: Iron Sword (Hand-forged)
Durability: 62%
Sharpness: Moderate
Mana Conductivity: Minimal
Note: "A blade born of conviction. Not perfect, but eager to prove itself."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Even the System has poetry."
He tightened his grip and returned to battle. His arms moved instinctively now, guided by years of training and faith. Each goblin fell before him like chaff before the wind.
When the last one died, silence returned.
Lucien looked down the corridor ahead—an endless black throat of stone leading deeper underground. The faint markers on the walls grew fewer, replaced by the same twisted runes he had seen once before… in Jerusalem.
A chill ran down his spine.
He advanced slowly until the passage widened into a massive gate carved into the rock. Its surface pulsed faintly with dark energy, the mark of a "Boss Chamber."
Lucien placed a hand on the door. It was warm to the touch.
He could feel something waiting beyond—something ancient. Something that should not exist in a low-level Rift.
Beyond it lay the "Boss."
Lucien rested his sword against his shoulder and exhaled. The smell of blood and smoke clung to his armor.
He took a few step back.
He drew a slow breath, his voice calm and steady.
"Let us test this blade."
And with that, Lucien pushed open the door.