BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

  The childish squeaks of compressed rubber echoed throughout the massive, immaculately furnished office of the President of the Coreborns Association.

  Kim Min-soo stood near the door, his eye twitching as he watched President Seo Jinyoung absolutely obliterate the plastic moles on a Whac-A-Mole machine, the bright red squeaky mallet bouncing with every aggressive thwack.

  "Sir…"

  Kim Min-soo finally broke the silence, scratching the back of his head. "Are you sure this is helping you?"

  BAM!

  "Therapeutic."

  Seo Jinyoung muttered with a blank face, smacking another mole without breaking eye contact.

  Min-soo side-eyed the machine like it was cursed.

  "It's just… not every day I see the President, former frontliner of three continental raids, playing Whac-A-Mole with a squeaky hammer after being rejected by a twenty-something-year-old kid."

  Seo Jinyoung paused mid-swing. The squeaker let out one last, wheezy squeeeek.

  He sighed, setting the mallet down like it was some ancient relic of war. "At first, I didn't mind not being able to recruit him. Forcing someone like Han Jaemin is a fool's game anyway. But…"

  He turned and walked to his desk, buttoning up his blazer with the solemnity of a man preparing for battle.

  "…after I went through his updated reports, saw how effective he's been, how much potential he's sitting on…"

  A brief silence passed.

  "I regret it. A little."

  Kim Min-soo raised an eyebrow.

  "So, you're saying the Whac-A-Mole was to help you deal with that regret?"

  Seo Jinyoung picked up a document from his desk and neatly aligned it with a few others.

  "Oh, no."

  He said lightly.

  "I'm playing it because I realised I have free will while reading budget approvals. It's either this or staring into the abyss of Rift Taxation."

  Kim Min-soo blinked.

  "That might actually be worse."

  Seo chuckled under his breath.

  "Well then. Get the official reports ready, Kim Min-soo. Soon enough, we're going to have Han Jaemin's identity revealed to the world."

  Min-soo straightened.

  "What about his opinion on it?"

  "He won't mind it."

  Seo Jinyoung replied smoothly.

  "But what he might mind… is a favour I'll be asking of him after that."

  Min-soo fell silent.

  For a moment, the light tone of the room gave way to a tense undercurrent. He adjusted his black glasses.

  "You're really certain? That it's all going to unfold soon?"

  Seo Jinyoung leaned against the edge of his desk, eyes narrowing just slightly.

  "It's inevitable."

  He said.

  "The tremors from the island haven't settled. Rift appearances have risen across the board. And…"

  He paused, lifting another report and glancing over it.

  "…Japan's Coreborn Association responded, didn't they?"

  "They did."

  Kim Min-soo confirmed.

  "They'll dispatch the strike team when necessary. Their main candidate is on standby."

  Seo Jinyoung nodded once.

  "Good."

  He said.

  "Because when the curtain lifts on what's coming… We'll need more than just Han Jaemin on the field. But he will be at the centre."

  Kim Min-soo glanced down at the squeaky mallet resting on the floor. "Should I… leave that in your office, sir?"

  Seo Jinyoung gave a grin.

  "…Yeah. Let it stay. I might need it again after the next board meeting."

  ****

  Click.

  The strap of the helmet fastened under Jaemin's chin with a snug snap. It was one of those bulky, standard-issue miner hard hats—scratched, stained, and somehow still reeking of old coffee and sweat. On the other side of his hip belt, he clipped in the heat-resistant helmet for when the Obsidian Synthesis job began.

  No words. Just a sigh and a slow head roll to the side.

  He joined the gathering group by the rift's outskirts, where the ground cracked faintly from the energy pouring through. The foreman stood there like a war general—one hand on his hip, the other shielding his eyes as he squinted through the crowd like he was searching for the last egg in a supermarket aisle.

  "Aha! There you are!"

  The foreman yelled out, locking eyes with Jaemin.

  "Come, come!"

  Jaemin weaved through the crowd like a sardine slipping past shoulders, nodding a couple times, mildly regretting making eye contact with the chatty ones already.

  The foreman slapped a firm hand on Jaemin's back as he pulled him beside him.

  "Everyone! This right here's Han Jaemin, the young blood doing both the jobs today—mining and conversion."

  "Hello."

  Jaemin said, giving a polite bow, feeling at least five glances run through him like he was meat at a butcher's stall.

  "Aigoo, two jobs?"

  One older man called out, shaking his head.

  "You planning to resurrect your ancestors while you're at it?"

  "Will you even survive both?"

  Another man asked, leaning on a pickaxe with the weight of three unpaid debts on his back.

  Jaemin gave a dry chuckle.

  "A man's gotta do what he's gotta do to handle the bills… and keep his wife happy."

  Stolen story; please report.

  "EH??"

  "I KNEW IT!"

  "I told you he had that 'married too young' vibe—!"

  "Wife and kids at twenty? What'd you do, fall in love during kindergarten?!"

  Jaemin held up his hands, backpedalling.

  "Wait—wait, I don't have a wife!"

  A collective ooooooohh washed through the miners like a wave of disappointed aunties at a wedding.

  The foreman cackled, slapping his thigh.

  "What nonsense—! You look like the type that got hitched at eighteen because you couldn't wait to hold hands."

  Even Jaemin laughed a little at that, if only because the image was way too vivid.

  Someone gave his back a pat.

  "You've got a heart, kid!"

  Another nodded, shoving a water bottle into his hands. "At least your future wife's lucky."

  Surrounded by dust-covered faces, rough hands, and warm laughs, Jaemin didn't mind the jabs.

  It was… weirdly nice. For someone who walked among power-hungry Coreborns, mysterious associations, and literal gods of war, this group of hardworking miners actually made him feel something close to home.

  ****

  Thirty-four minutes later, they were still standing just outside the rift.

  "How long do we stand here, seriously?"

  One man in his 30s whined, tugging at his helmet like it was cooking his brain.

  "Relax."

  The foreman muttered.

  "Tier 2 ain't no joke. We move in after the strike team clears the runts and binds the boss with Aether sigils."

  That shut most of them up. Tier 2 rifts were no joke.

  Jaemin looked up. The air above shimmered faintly like a mirage, and the rift itself pulsed like a breathing wound in the world.

  Chains, sigils, and strategy. All carefully executed by a strike team from Covenant: NOVA—the elite who went in before them to carve out just enough space for the miners to not get decapitated.

  But Jaemin? He had no plans to wait forever.

  'Once mining's over… I'll deal with the boss myself... If it comes to that, though.'

  He thought, eyes narrowing faintly.

  'Might as well farm something useful while I'm here.'

  The air near the rift shimmered—waves of heat and energy distorting the view like oil on water. The edges of the field were lined with sigils—Aether Sigils, they called them. Pressurised barriers of raw core energy, sculpted and arranged to form a containment ring. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't meant to be. These sigils weren't strong enough to hold back a tier 2 rift boss forever.

  But they were strong enough to delay.

  Delay long enough for evacuation.

  Delay just enough to avoid a massacre if things went sideways.

  Jaemin stood still, his hand resting lightly on the reinforced pickaxe slung over his shoulder. He watched the glowing sigils hum faintly, radiating out thin lines of blue and silver, etched like runes in the very air. They weren't visible to the average eye unless you were close, but Jaemin could see them clearly. Too clearly, perhaps.

  "So these are the Aether Sigils."

  There was an elegance to them. Intricate patterns woven with harsh, militaristic efficiency—geometry refined through necessity, beauty born out of pure functionality. Each one pulsed with the signature of its caster, a faint echo of whoever had placed it.

  Jaemin tilted his head. His thoughts shifted.

  "So the plan wasn't to kill the boss… but to lock it in and get out. Just like that?"

  It made sense tactically. Tier 2 bosses weren't meant to be trifled with. But it still left him… restless.

  He didn't like the idea of leaving anything unfinished.

  As the hum of the sigils faded into the ambient growl of the rift, a loud voice rang out:

  "They're coming out!"

  Dozens of eyes turned toward the rift's mouth. A beat later, the first figure stepped out—tall, gleaming, posture sharp.

  Then another. And another.

  The strike team.

  Their gear wasn't flashy, but it was unmistakably elite—smooth, seamless armour with auric threading, shimmering with suppressed energy. The dirt and heat hadn't even left a smudge on their plating.

  Even the Bastion Cores, usually the bulkiest and slowest of the coreborn types, moved with eerie smoothness. The Auxiliary types, who were often relegated to support roles, had a presence that demanded attention. Every one of them walked like they'd seen a hundred battles and won a hundred and one.

  Jaemin's eyes tracked the man in the middle.

  Tall. Calm. Smirking like the world owed him something.

  He didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge the crowd.

  The air around him buzzed faintly, charged with particles of pure voltage. His core imprint was so potent that the very ground near him crackled underfoot. Sparks flicked through his hair like an afterthought of lightning.

  The Volt Elemental Imprint.

  So that's him. The strongest Coreborn in Korea bearing the Volt imprint. The one who could, by all accounts, level a mountain with a single charged strike.

  "A blast from that man could fry a dragon to ash."

  It wasn't a metaphor. Jaemin meant it.

  He had studied enough, seen enough footage, read enough data logs—there wasn't a single record of that man losing once his core reached ignition. You could feel it from here—the terrifying clarity of someone who had mastered their power.

  But none of the miners or low-tier workers moved.

  They were too stunned. Too reverent.

  "Please wait, gentlemen."

  Came a voice from the side. Smooth. Measured. Dismissive.

  Kwon Hyun-Woo.

  The man didn't even glance toward the workers as he spoke. His arms were folded, posture relaxed like he owned the air everyone breathed.

  "The rift job isn't complete. Our ace is still inside—she's handling the deeper chamber."

  His tone didn't invite questions. Didn't acknowledge their presence. It wasn't hate. It was the arrogance of someone who had forgotten what it meant to not be strong.

  A founder of a Covenant—Covenant: NOVA. One of the most powerful organisations in the country

  Jaemin didn't flinch at the arrogance.

  He simply stood quietly, watching the rift pulse. Watching the sigils strain. Waiting for their "ace" to emerge.

  And beneath the quiet stillness, a fire simmered inside him.

  "Next time… I won't be watching from the side."

  ****

  Jaemin stood among the other miners, helmet tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. He blended in effortlessly—dirt-smudged gloves, dull uniform, pickaxe resting on his shoulder like every other labourer. No one gave him a second glance. His aura was sealed so tightly, even seasoned Coreborns wouldn't detect a flicker of his presence.

  Especially not Kwon Hyun-Woo.

  The founder of Covenant: NOVA stood near the containment sigils, arms folded, radiating cool authority. He didn't look once in Jaemin's direction—no spark of recognition, no hint that he sensed anything off. Just the way Jaemin wanted it.

  "All of these Coreborns… they have to be some of the best."

  Polished armour. Weapon cores humming faintly. Dozens of Nova's elite stood together, the weight of their collective power suffocating to anyone ordinary.

  Covenant: NOVA was dominant. Flashy, overwhelming, and brutal in its precision.

  "Still…"

  Jaemin's lip curled ever so slightly.

  "I could take them all on."

  It wasn't arrogance. It was the truth. With two Special Cores sealed beneath his skin, and another unknown one pulsing quietly at his soul's edge, he carried weight none of them could measure. Firepower wasn't what scared Jaemin—it was exposure.

  And he wasn't ready for that.

  Not yet.

  As he stood, silently observing, a sudden pressure twitched in the air. It was faint, but distinct. A shift.

  "Huh...?"

  Jaemin's gaze snapped toward the rift. The vibrant blue of the gate flickered. Something stirred inside. The surrounding energy warped subtly, enough for Jaemin's instincts to jolt awake.

  "A Special Core?"

  He thought, narrowing his eyes.

  The gate pulsed. Something—or someone—was coming.

  The rift pulsed—a breath held in place by time itself.

  Then, she emerged.

  One step, and the world slowed.

  Her hair came through. Long, black-violet braid cascading like a silken shadow, reaching past her waist and resting gently at the curve of her hips before falling further and swaying. The strands glimmered with something unnatural—like the edge of a dream you couldn't hold. Tied delicately near the base with a red hibiscus flower—its petals untouched, defying the wear of reality.

  Her skin shimmered in the morning light—not sickly pale, but quiet, like mist beneath moonlight. She looked carved from calm. Cold, but not cruel. Alive, but measured. You could swear her heartbeat echoed slower than yours.

  And her eyes—ocean-deep green. Like tidepools right before dusk. Still, reflective, and impossibly deep. They didn't shine like glass. They watched. There was weight in them. Thought. Silence.

  Her face didn't frown, didn't smile. She just didn't need to. Just standing there, she felt like the kind of person whose silence meant more than anyone's words. Serene—not vacant. Present—not loud.

  She wore a long violet dress. Not a gown, not armour, but something in-between. Woven not with thread, but power. It glided with her—like it obeyed her movements before she made them. The hem, faintly glowing red, like the final heartbeat of a dying sun. The sleeves wrapped her arms snugly, with thumbholes tugging her hands into elegance. She didn't clomp or stomp—she flowed.

  Her feet were bound in light cloth, silent, the kind dancers wore to feel the floor beneath them. No heels. No sound. No chance of being tracked.

  A blade sat at her hip. Sheathed. The rope around the scabbard looked fragile—ready to snap the moment she drew.

  Jaemin stared.

  Not as a man.

  But as a Coreborn.

  And he felt it: her aura. It didn't explode outward. It pressed. Like a soft, consistent pressure beneath your ribs, just enough to know it was there. Bright, heavy, ancient.

  He clenched his jaw. His sealed Core stirred like it recognised something.

  "That aura… It's blinding."

  He thought.

  "But it doesn't scream power. It whispers it."

  Hana's voice rang in his head.

  "When you see her… you'll know."

  He knew.

  Ha Yura.

  Bearer of the Core of Revelation.

  Her name wasn't spoken. It didn't need to be. Her presence told everyone in that field exactly who she was. The other Coreborn stepped aside, not out of respect—but instinct. The same way one moves when lightning splits the sky.

  She didn't acknowledge them.

  And somehow, Jaemin knew—she could walk that path entirely alone. Stronger than her covenant's president. Stronger than most Special Coreborns combined. She was a storm wrapped in silk, quiet but inevitable.

  Not much media footage. No public appearances. Her absence was legendary—and now, so was her arrival.

  She was too beautiful to be ignored.

  Too powerful to approach.

  And Jaemin?

  He smiled faintly.

  "…Her aura is more than power. It's the truth."

  He thought.

  And for the first time in a long time, he felt it—not danger, not attraction, not fear—but a simple, grounded realisation.

  He didn't know her.

  And that made her fascinating.

  Jaemin exhaled slowly, cloaking every last drop of his aura. Someone like Ha Yura—if she even sensed a flicker—would've turned. And Jaemin wasn't in the mood to be seen. Not yet.

  "Okay, everyone, that's all of them. Let's go in."

  The foreman called out.

  The group began moving, boots crunching over the gritty earth. Jaemin lingered a moment longer, stealing a glance over his shoulder.

  Ha Yura stood still. Untouched. Unbothered. Unreal.

  He remembered hearing rumours—that she never showed up in the public eye because she "wasn't good looking."

  Jaemin almost snorted.

  Whoever said that must've been high off rift gas. Or just blind.

  Turning back toward the rift, its light pulsing like a slow heartbeat, he stepped forward with the others.

  "Let's see what you're hiding…"

  He muttered.

  And disappeared into the rift.