The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, even though it was already three o'clock. The heat shimmered off the cracked concrete of the Meeto Familia's construction site, turning the air thick and wavy. What had started as a quiet delay in a building project had transformed into a full-blown spectacle. The perimeter fences strained under the press of bodies—reporters with cameras slung around their necks, members of rival guilds in their distinctive colors, government officials in crisp suits, and representatives from the Summoner's Association with their silver pins glinting in the light. They had all come for the same reason: the Negative Rift.
"Excuse me—coming through!" Damian shoved past the wall of spectators blocking the entrance. Civilians crowded the gates like moths to a flame, phones raised high to capture any glimpse of the action. If not for the stern-faced security guards in Meeto Familia vests holding the line, the crowd would have spilled inside and turned the site into a chaotic mob.
To these people, the Negative Rift was more than just a danger. It was a marvel—terrifying, yes, but also magnetic. The way it tore open reality itself, swallowing light and spitting out shadows, drew eyes the same way the Ghost Summoners did. Elegant, powerful, untouchable. Damian understood the fascination all too well. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious himself. Who wouldn't be? Fifty years had passed since the first Rift tore the world open, plunging humanity into panic. Back then, cities burned, people vanished, and no one knew if tomorrow would come.
But that was ancient history now. Fear had given way to confidence, and confidence had been forged by the Ghost Summoners. They were the reason people could stand here gawking instead of running for their lives.
A security guard scanned Damian's temporary pass, nodded curtly, and waved him through the gate. The moment he stepped onto the site proper, the noise of the crowd dulled to a distant hum. Damian's eyes swept the area and quickly found Niko and the rest of the crew huddled in the shade of a massive dirt mound, the giant excavator looming behind them like a sleeping beast.
The construction site was enormous—easily the size of a city block, a testament to the Meeto Familia's ambition. They had planned a towering headquarters here, one that would rival the strongholds of the veteran guilds. But the Rift had appeared right in the middle of foundation work, splitting the ground and halting everything. Now the Rift dominated the space, even though it wasn't centered. It demanded attention the way a black hole demands gravity.
Damian approached his coworkers, his heavy porter pack pulling at his shoulders. Niko spotted him first and did a slow, deliberate once-over, eyes narrowing.
"You look like this isn't your first suicide mission," Niko said, his voice low and stripped of its usual cheeky edge. The perpetual grin was gone, replaced by tight lips and furrowed brows.
Damian forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He had dressed for the part: all black from head to toe—fitted shirt, lightweight jacket, tactical trousers, and sturdy athletic shoes. The massive pack on his back was the real statement piece, bulging with supplies. "They call this the basic porter kit," he said, trying to sound casual. "Had to burn through most of my savings to get it all together."
Niko exhaled sharply through his nose. "Savings? Damian, that's not worth it. What if you don't walk out of there alive?"
The words hung heavy between them. Damian felt the weight of the question settle in his gut like a stone. He glanced around at the other workers—men he'd shared coffee breaks and complaints with for years. Their faces mirrored Niko's concern.
"Then it's my fate," Damian said finally, his voice steady despite the storm inside. He lowered it further. "But listen… if I don't make it, can you guys watch out for my sister? That fat bastard Brown—he's got his eyes on her. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant murmur of the crowd. Then Marco, one of the older workers with grease permanently embedded under his nails, stepped forward. "Don't worry, kid. If that pig lays one finger on her, we'll make sure he doesn't see another sunrise. You have our word."
Another worker nodded grimly. "We've got her back. Always."
Warmth spread through Damian's chest, pushing back against the cold dread. These men weren't family by blood, but they were the closest thing he had to brothers out here. "Thank you," he said, voice thick. "All of you. I'll never forget this. Never."
"Damn it, Damian," Niko muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Stop talking like you're already dead. It's bad luck."
Before Damian could respond, a sharp voice cut through the group.
"Are you Damian?"
A man in a crisp black suit and tie stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand and expression utterly neutral. Everything about him screamed corporate efficiency.
"That's me," Damian replied.
"Good. Follow me." Without another word, the man turned and started walking toward the far side of the site.
Damian muttered under his breath, "Being cold doesn't make you cool, you know."
The suited man's eye twitched, but he didn't break stride.
Damian cast one last look at his friends. Niko raised a fist in a silent gesture of encouragement. Damian nodded, then hurried to catch up.
They crossed the vast site, weaving between stacks of rebar, idle cranes, and clusters of monitoring equipment humming around the Rift. The closer they got to the command area, the more the atmosphere shifted. The casual chaos of construction gave way to military precision—guards at every corner, technicians in white coats checking readouts, and the low thrum of generators powering it all.
They stopped in front of a massive white tent, easily large enough to house a small meeting hall. Gold embroidery along the flaps marked it as Meeto Familia property.
"Wait here," the suited man ordered, disappearing inside without another glance.
Damian shrugged off the dismissal and took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. He wasn't alone. Six other porters stood nearby, each dressed in variations of the standard kit. Some paced nervously; one sat cross-legged, sharpening a long combat knife with rhythmic scrapes; another read a worn paperback as if the world wasn't about to change. They all carried the same oversized packs, stuffed with everything from medical supplies to emergency rations.
So these are the guys carrying the Summoners' gear into hell, Damian thought. Veterans, probably. The way they held themselves—relaxed but alert—told him this wasn't their first Rift dive.
Minutes dragged on. The heat pressed down, and sweat trickled beneath Damian's jacket. Then voices rose inside the tent—sharp, heated arguments that carried through the canvas walls. Damian tensed, glancing at the other porters. None of them reacted. Just another day at the office for them.
Eventually the shouting died down. The tent flap opened, and the Summoners emerged.
Instantly, every porter snapped to attention—backs straight, faces blank, breathing controlled. Damian followed suit, heart pounding a little faster.
There were nine Summoners in total, divided among three guilds. They wore full battle attire: reinforced suits blending medieval armor aesthetics with modern tactical gear—plate segments over flexible joints, glowing runes etched into the metal, and utility belts bristling with tools and relics.
First came the Surtur Guild—four hulking men with scarred faces and shaved heads. Their crimson-and-black suits looked forged for brutality, and the flaming axe logo on their chests seemed to pulse faintly. Damian wondered if the scars were initiation rites or just the cost of doing business.
Next was the Cherry Blossom Guild—three women moving with lethal grace. Their suits were sleeker, pale pink and white with flowing silk accents that somehow didn't hinder movement. Delicate cherry blossom petals were embroidered across their shoulders, but their expressions were anything but soft. Cold, calculating eyes swept the area, freezing any lingering stares from onlookers.
Finally, the Meeto Familia trio: two men and one woman. Their suits were modern tactical black with gold trim, practical and understated compared to the others. Damian didn't recognize any of their faces. For guilds this prominent, that was unusual. Either they were fresh recruits who'd risen fast, or low-profile workhorses kept out of the spotlight. Given the Meeto Familia's rapid rise, Damian suspected the former.
The porters fell into step behind their assigned teams. Only now did Damian realize there was another porter specifically for Meeto Familia—a skinny guy with round glasses, freckles, and baggy green-and-brown gear that looked designed for blending into forests that didn't exist inside Rifts.
Damian caught up to him as they trailed the Summoners toward the Rift.
"Hey," he said quietly. "I'm new at this. Mind showing me the ropes?"
The guy didn't look up from his book. "Nope. Not my job."
Damian blinked. "Okay… at least tell me your name?"
"Lucian," he replied, flipping a page. Then, almost as an afterthought: "You're going to die."
Damian opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Shut up, both of you!"
The sharp command came from the front. The Meeto Familia woman had stopped and was glaring back at them, dark eyes blazing with irritation. Her short black hair framed a face that might have been beautiful if it weren't twisted into a scowl.
Lucian immediately bowed his head. "Sorry, miss! Won't happen again."
Damian followed suit a beat late. "My apologies."
What the hell? he thought. Is she always this intense, or did we just catch her on a bad day?
The group resumed moving. The crowd around the Rift had swollen even larger—phones flashing, reporters shouting questions that went ignored. Security held a wide perimeter, but the energy was electric. Cameras from news drones buzzed overhead like vultures.
As they approached the edge, Damian felt the Rift's pull—not just curiosity now, but something deeper. A cold whisper against his skin, like the void itself was watching.
He tightened the straps on his pack and steeled himself. Whatever waited inside, he had no choice but to face it.