Azhareth lingered outside long after the crowd faded, leaning on the rail and letting the night wind cool the last warmth of the city. Lights flickered on in the towers, neon streaks painting the wet pavement.

  He’d meant to return home eventually, but a soft mechanical chime drew his attention.

  A vending machine glowed quietly at the edge of the plaza.

  Raine’s memories flickered.

  He used to buy cheap iced coffee here, usually after failing a raid or stumbling home drunk.

  The motion felt familiar.

  Azhareth patted Raine’s pockets and found a few coins.

  He approached the machine cautiously, as if it were some strange golem. The interface lit up, displaying rows of colorful drinks. Coffee. Tea. Juices. Sugary potions in bottles.

  Iced coffee was the first button.

  Raine’s memories nudged him.

  He inserted coins and pressed them.

  The can dropped with a metallic thud.

  He popped it open and sniffed the aroma. Rich. Bitter. Complex.

  He took a sip—and choked.

  “Burnt… in liquid form? Mortals drink this willingly?”

  He stared at the can with betrayal.

  Then, something bright caught his eye. A red bottle. Cola.

  Cheaper.

  Sweeter-looking.

  He pressed the button instantly.

  The bottle rolled out, cold against his palm.

  He opened it, took one sip—

  —and froze.

  The sparkling rush hit his tongue like fireworks.

  Eyes widened.

  Shoulders straightened.

  Something ancient inside him malfunctioned.

  “This… this is divine.”

  He drank again, slower this time, savoring the fizz and sweetness coating his throat.

  “How do they liquefy happiness?”

  He stood there, silently stunned, like a demon king discovering his true mortal weakness.

  Then the sky cracked.

  Azhareth looked up, cola still in hand, as a tear split the air across the street. Dark purple light spiraled outward, warping the shadows. A swirling rift formed—unstable, vibrating like a wounded heart.

  Around him, people screamed. Phones lifted. Cars screeched to a halt.

  Azhareth calmly took another sip.

  “…oh. A gate,” he murmured, unimpressed. “How nostalgic.”

  The ground trembled.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Neon signs flickered.

  Drones overhead began broadcasting evacuation warnings.

  But the real response came fast.

  Armored transports descended from aerial lanes, landing with hydraulic hisses. Drones swarmed into formation, projecting translucent walls of blue light around the swelling rift.

  Symbols glowed on their armor:

  A.R.E.S.

  Arcane Rift Emergency Service

  Officers shouted orders as they deployed stabilizers—metal rods crackling with anti-mana fields.

  “Unscheduled Rift anomaly detected—civilian perimeter at two hundred meters!”

  “Move back! Keep the area clear!”

  People obeyed. Panic mixed with routine, like a storm drill that had become part of life.

  Azhareth didn’t move.

  He simply sipped cola, watching the containment unfold.

  “They’ve turned chaos into procedure,” he said softly. “Remarkable.”

  A team of three hunters sprinted past him, weapons ready. Young, energetic, far too eager.

  “Team C-27 entering the rift!”

  They didn’t wait for the A.R.E.S. greenlight. They jumped in.

  Azhareth’s brow rose slightly. “Impulsive.”

  Minutes passed.

  The rift pulsed once—twice—

  Then a detonation of sound erupted from within.

  One hunter’s body flew back out, hitting the pavement hard.

  The other two screamed inside before their voices were drowned out.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Azhareth continued drinking.

  A scientist from A.R.E.S., wearing a reinforced lab coat with glowing seams, ran to the captain. “Sir! The hunters failed! The dungeon is absorbing their deaths.”

  The captain swore. “Class shift?”

  “Rising fast! If more die, the boss will evolve and possibly break containment!”

  The scientist raised his voice for the crowd—and the cameras were already filming.

  “When hunters die inside a dungeon, the dungeon boss grows stronger. If it grows past a certain threshold, it can breach its world and enter ours!”

  Panic surged.

  Azhareth nodded to himself. “Blood strengthening chaos… an old rule. How nostalgic.”

  The rift expanded, its edges pulsing violently. Cracks spread across the barrier field.

  A.R.E.S. scrambled to reinforce the perimeter.

  “Get the second stabilizer array!”

  “Raise shield density to maximum!”

  “Where’s Division Two?!”

  A child slipped past the barricade, chasing a dropped toy.

  The mother screamed, yanking them back just in time as a jagged lash of mana scraped the air where they’d been.

  Azhareth didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Saving children had never been part of his instinct across six hundred lives.

  He simply watched.

  Another pulse.

  The rift grew again, rippling like a beast breathing.

  The crowd shifted away from him—and from the danger.

  Yet a few eyes lingered, noticing the strange calm of the man in the worn jacket sipping cola as an interdimensional wound tried to expand.

  A hover-camera paused on him.

  Framed perfectly.

  A lone silhouette standing with unshaken posture before chaos.

  The first online photo of the

  Ashveil Phantom

  was taken at that moment.

  Azhareth examined the rift as if studying a painting. “This world still plays with forces it doesn’t understand.”

  He drank the last drop of cola and looked at the empty bottle with reverence.

  “At least their drinks improved.”

  The rift pulsed again—almost alive, almost watching him.

  He didn’t acknowledge it.

  He simply turned, leaned against the railing, and let the lights of Arcrest wash over him.

  He stayed there, calm, quiet, and utterly unbothered, as the world behind him prepared for disaster.

  He stayed outside until the night swallowed him whole.