Ren hunched over the pile of paperwork like he did every night, fluorescent light buzzing faintly above him. The office was silent except for the persistent hum of the copier and the occasional click of his own pen. Stacks of forms, invoices, and reports rose around him like gray towers, threatening to crush him under their monotony.
He rubbed his eyes. Another day lost. Another month with nothing to show for it. He had been a clerk in this city for years—overlooked, underpaid, and invisible. Nobody noticed when he stayed late, and nobody noticed when he didn't. Nobody even noticed if he left.
"Just get this done," he muttered to himself. The words tasted hollow.
And then the floor shuddered.
At first, it was subtle. A vibration beneath his sneakers, a quiet hum that could have been the building settling. He paused, pen halfway to the paper. Then it intensified—papers trembling, cups rattling on desks, lights flickering violently. A low groan filled the air, like the city itself had groaned in pain.
Ren froze.
Earthquake.
He wasn't sure if it was the right word. He had never experienced anything like this. The walls buckled, dust falling from the ceiling. The copier screeched, then clattered to the floor. Desks toppled. Ren's heart hammered in his chest.
People screamed. The office emptied in a panic, chairs sliding across the floor, papers flying like leaves in a storm. Ren didn't move. He could only watch as the world around him bent, fractured, and gave way.
And then the ceiling cracked. A massive slab loosened directly above him.
He dove.
Darkness.
Cold air burned his lungs. Dust choked his throat. Pain radiated in every direction at once. And then—silence.
For a moment, he thought he was dead.
And maybe he was.
But then he felt it: a pressure, like the weight of something enormous pressing down on him—not from the ceiling, not from the rubble, but from *inside*. It was as if the world itself had tilted and tilted again, and his very bones were aware of it.
He coughed, trying to breathe. And then he heard it.
A voice.
Clear. Sharp. Familiar.
"Ren…"
He froze. The sound was not human, not mechanical, not the whisper of dust. It was…alive.
"Ren…"
He blinked.
There was a glow before him. Pale, faint, like moonlight spilling from a crack in the world. And moving within that light…a shadow. Sleek, four-legged, impossible. Its eyes—golden, molten—locked onto his.
Ren tried to scramble backward, but his legs felt like lead. He realized he wasn't on the floor anymore, not exactly. The rubble was gone, replaced by jagged black rock that hummed faintly under his hands. The air smelled of ozone and frost. Something alive…something immense was here.
It shifted closer. Its breathing was slow, deliberate. Its body radiated heat. Heat that did not burn but made the air vibrate. Ren's mouth opened, but he couldn't speak.
The creature tilted its head. It cocked one glowing ear, then, in a voice deep, melodic, and terrifyingly intelligent, spoke again:
"Ren…"
The world screamed.
Not around him, but inside him. His mind felt split in two, stretched across a chasm he could not see. Images flashed: forests scorched, rivers boiling, mountains shattering. And then one central truth hammered at him:
You are not meant to be here.
And yet, here he was.
The next moment, instinct took over. Ren raised his hands. He didn't know why. He didn't know what he was doing.
The creature stepped forward. Light flared along its spine. The ground beneath them hummed in resonance. And then—without warning—Ren's mind screamed at him in a voice that was *not his own*:
"Summon. Control. Take it!"
He barely understood the command, but he obeyed.
And then it moved.
Fang—the creature's name, he realized instinctively—rose into the air on impossibly long legs, shaking the ground with each step. Flames curled along its body like living fire, but they did not burn him. The creature's golden eyes locked on his.
And then it leapt.
Ren felt himself pulled into the leap, as though Fang and he shared a spine, a heartbeat. The world blurred. Dust and rubble fell around them, but he could see beyond it: green trees, jagged cliffs, rivers he could not recognize. The laws of physics bent like wet clay.
And then they landed.
Ren coughed, collapsed to his knees, and looked up. Fang was waiting for him, watching. Every muscle in its body radiated power, and yet…it waited.
"You…" Ren whispered, voice hoarse, trembling. "You…you can speak?"
Fang tilted its head, and the glow in its eyes shifted. It wasn't anger. It wasn't friendliness. It was something else—acknowledgment. Recognition. And then, finally, it said:
"Ren…"
Ren staggered backward. His mind screamed. His body screamed. His heart screamed.
This wasn't Earth.
This wasn't real.
And yet…he was alive.
He tried to stand, tried to speak again… to understand.
But the creature was already moving—circling him, testing him, sizing him up.
Ren realized: he didn't know the rules here.
He didn't know the creatures, the powers, the laws of this place. He only knew one thing:
If he didn't figure it out fast…he wouldn't survive the next second.
Then the voice came again, low, resonant, like thunder in a hollow cave:
"Ren…do you know what you are?"
Ren shook his head.
Fang's eyes narrowed. Flames flickered along its spine in rhythm with a low hum beneath his feet.
"You are a Gateborn," it said. "You do not belong. Yet you are…chosen by nothing but the fracture. You summon without bond. You command without consent. You are…danger."
Ren's stomach dropped.
"What…what does that mean?" he croaked.
Fang stepped closer. The air shimmered. "You will learn. Or you will burn. But know this: the world has already taken notice. And some of it will not wait."
Ren collapsed onto the jagged rock, chest heaving, eyes wide.
Somehow, some impossibly, the earthquake, the death, the strange light, and the creature—all of it—had brought him here. To this strange, fractured world.
And somewhere, far away, across lands he could not yet see, powerful forces had already sensed his arrival.
The hunt had begun.