"Hey, Damian!"
A person in a miner's outfit—white shirt streaked with dirt, grey jacket over it, thick trousers caked in grime, and heavy boots—approached. The crooked yellow helmet and the labored way he moved revealed how difficult it was to walk in all that gear. Carrying a heavy axe on top of it made the sight almost painful to watch.
But the man wasn't bothered. Years of experience made it seem like child's play.
"Niko, what's up?" Damian, who was on break with a piece of bread and a cup of coffee set on the wheel cover of an excavator, glanced toward the voice. He wore the same outfit, but where Niko's build could rival a pro wrestler's, Damian's was leaner—a calisthenics type of frame.
His yellow helmet sat beside his coffee, revealing dark brown hair. Damian's eyes, deep and dark like black holes, fixed on his coworker in confusion.
"Chief wants you in his office," Niko said with a shrug. "No idea why, so don't ask me. You do something to piss him off?"
"I don't think so," Damian replied, growing more confused. There was no way the Mine Supervisor would call him in for no reason.
"Or maybe something you didn't do?" Niko suggested. "That guy's an asshole. Better figure out what you did wrong before you walk in there."
Damian frowned. No matter how hard he thought, nothing came to mind.
"You didn't touch the Rift, right?" Niko asked.
"No. Why would I? I'm not some fool looking to die." Damian glanced at the Negative Rift in the distance, surrounded by dozens of monitoring devices.
The Negative Rift split the earth—a bottomless void that swallowed the morning light. Dark hands clawed out from its edges, grasping at the air before dissolving into smoke. The ground around it was scorched and cracked, as if the world itself were trying to pull away.
This was supposed to be a construction site for the Meeto Familia, a rising guild that had stormed the city with their Ghost Summoners. But just as they were about to set the support pillars for the building, the Rift had appeared. That was why Damian and the others couldn't start real work; all they could do was clean up the area.
"Then go," Niko said, slapping Damian's shoulder.
"Y-yeah." Damian nearly choked on his coffee.
He headed toward the chief's office, his gaze lingering on the Negative Rift and the advanced equipment surrounding it. He couldn't understand the words on the monitors, but even a few seconds of staring made his head ache.
Soon he reached the door. Before he could touch the knob, a heavy, rough voice boomed from inside.
"That you, Damian? Come in!"
…
The moment Damian stepped inside, the stench of cigarettes hit him like a wall.
Even though he was used to it, he couldn't help frowning.
"What's with the face?" the rough voice demanded.
Damian turned toward the sound and saw a fat, middle-aged man with white hair and a bald patch in the center. Circular glasses perched on a flat nose, and a thick cigarette dangled from his lips, ashes dropping carelessly onto the desk. No ashtray in sight.
"Nothing, sir," Damian said, forcing his expression neutral.
"You know why I called you?" Chief Brown asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, sir," Damian answered honestly.
"You didn't get my message?" Chief Brown took a deep drag, clearly annoyed, and flicked ash in Damian's direction.
Message? What message?
Damian frowned, pulled out his phone, and sure enough—there was one from the fat bastard, sent thirty minutes ago.
Chief Brown had forwarded another message, followed by his own: Don't mess this up.
Don't mess up what? A sudden unease gripped Damian's chest. Then he read the forwarded message, and his heart sank.
We need a porter. Preferably young and strong. Payment and compensation to be discussed after the mission. – Meeto Familia
"You're accepting this, right?" Chief Brown smirked.
Damian stayed silent. Outwardly his face remained neutral, but inside, terror took hold.
His breathing grew heavy as the reality sank in.
Chief Brown wanted him to porter for the Meeto Familia—carrying gear for their Summoners inside this very Rift. That meant risking his life. From what Damian knew, porters had a 70–80% death rate. Not even close to fifty-fifty.
But those who survived and got paid… it was life-changing money. Enough to live comfortably for years without working again.
The stakes were terrifying, but the reward…
"W-why me?" Damian asked. "Don't they have their own porters?"
Meeto Familia was a rising guild, nearly on par with the veterans. They shouldn't lack volunteers.
"No idea," Chief Brown shrugged. "You should be grateful. If Niko were any younger, I'd have picked him. Besides—don't you have a sister who needs advanced medical equipment? This is your chance." His eyes gleamed with something ugly. "I already signed the contract. If anything happens to you… I'll take care of her."
Rage surged through Damian at the lust in those piggy eyes. He clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. If not for the cameras in the room, he would have smashed that smug face until all Brown saw was red.
Then another realization hit, fueling his anger even higher.
"You already signed the contract?" Damian asked, voice low and tight. "If I die, who gets the money?"
"Who else? Me, of course." Chief Brown leaned back, hands behind his head, eyes half-closed as if already counting the cash that would land in his account after Damian's death.
"Fuck you," Damian whispered, the words barely escaping.
"What'd you say?" Chief Brown snapped his eyes open.
"Nothing." Damian shook his head, helpless. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
The fat man was unreasonable, and so was the guild. Why let an outsider sign the contract? Why outsource a porter when they had plenty of disposable ones?
Damian didn't understand any of it, and he had no choice in the matter. But one thing was certain: if he made it out of that Rift alive, he was never coming back to this place.