The low-rank guild outpost squatted on the edge of Seoul's industrial fringe, a squat concrete box surrounded by chain-link fences and flickering mana-lanterns. Rust stained the walls, the air smelled of stale mana residue and motor oil, and the night was thick with the low buzz of failing barrier generators.
Lucas Reed moved through the dim corridors with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. At nineteen, he was already built like a man who had spent years lifting whatever needed lifting—broad shoulders, thick arms corded from manual labor, chest and back defined under the cheap gray work shirt that clung to his sweat-damp skin. His dark hair fell in messy waves across his forehead, the same piercing blue eyes as his father staring out from a face hardened too early.
He should have been mourning. His mother had died two days ago—liver finally giving out in a public hospital bed that smelled like bleach and regret. But Lucas didn't have the luxury of grief, and honestly, he didn't feel much of anything when he thought about her. If someone asked whether he loved her, he wouldn't know what to say.
All his memories were of her passing out on the couch, the bottle slipping from her fingers, vomit pooling on the floor, and he would clean before school. He had cooked for himself since he was seven, dragged her to bed when she couldn't walk, wiped her face when she threw up on herself. He never minded the work. He minded the way she looked at him—like he was the reason everything had gone wrong. No matter how clean the apartment, how hot the food, how quiet he stayed, hate simmered in her eyes. Eventually, he stopped trying to earn anything from her. Validation was a currency she never paid in.
He had asked about his father once. She screamed, threw the bottle, and cut her own arm open in the process. She almost bled out before the ambulance arrived. After that, he never asked again.
Lucas wrung the mop into the bucket, gray water swirling. His gaze drifted toward the outpost's inner yard, where a low-rank awakening chamber sat behind reinforced glass. The faint blue glow of the mana core inside called to him. He had tried once—at eighteen, scraping together every won from three jobs. The chamber had spat him out with nothing. No affinity, no spark. Failure. He was saving again, slower this time, telling himself one more try would change everything. But deep down, he knew it was just another day bleeding into the next.
A burst of laughter echoed from the yard. Lucas tensed. A group of low-to-mid-rank awakeners—five men, two women—were heading toward the exit gate, gear slung over their shoulders, still high from whatever easy dungeon run they'd just finished. He recognized the leader immediately: Kang Min-ho, C-rank brawler with a reputation for being a petty tyrant.
Lucas cursed under his breath, dropped the mop quietly, and edged toward the side exit. Bad luck. Always bad fucking luck.
"Hey! Big brother—that leech Lucas is escaping!"
The shout came from a lanky guy in iron-plated armor, messy black hair falling into his eyes. The whole group turned.
Lucas broke into a run.
He sprinted down the alley behind the outpost, boots pounding cracked asphalt, lungs burning immediately. Sweat poured into his eyes. His body ached—old bruises from last week's delivery crash flaring with every stride—but his will refused to fold. He dodged between dumpsters, vaulted a low fence, legs pumping harder than they had any right to. He could hear them behind him—boots, laughter turning mean, the casual confidence of people who knew they couldn't lose.
How do you outrun awakeners?
You don't.
They circled him in a dead-end loading dock, chain-link fence at his back, overflowing trash bins on either side. Lucas skidded to a stop, chest heaving, blood already tasting copper in his mouth from biting his tongue during the sprint.
Kang Min-ho stepped forward, smirking, iron gauntlets glinting under the sodium lights.
"Damn leech. Finally caught you." He cracked his knuckles. "How dare you touch my girlfriend?"
Lucas spat blood onto the ground. "Come on, bro, I don't know she had a boyfriend; she herself wanted it."
Min-ho's grin vanished. His boot lashed out—hard. Lucas took it in the stomach, air exploding from his lungs. He slid back across the concrete, scraping elbows raw.
Inside his head: She wanted it. I wanted a chance—a single fucking slot in a private awakening session. She promised. Why does my life have to be this shit?
The group closed in. Fists, boots, one of the women laughed as she cracked her knuckles. "Maybe we can enjoy a fine toy before we finish him."
Lucas curled, arms protecting his head, world ringing and shaking. He tasted more blood. His vision blurred. But beneath the pain, a cold, burning thing refused to die.
I want to live. I want to reach the peak. I want to conquer any woman I want. I want—
Headlights sliced through the darkness. Three black SUVs roared around the corner, tires screeching, engines growling like predators.
The attackers froze.
One of the men opened his mouth to shout something arrogant—then saw the emblem on the lead vehicle's hood.
Apex Vanguard Guild.
The stylized silver spear pierces a void rift.
Legs trembled. Faces drained of color. Min-ho's gauntlets clanked as his arms dropped to his sides.
The SUVs halted in perfect formation. Doors opened in unison.
Silence swallowed the alley.
Lucas lifted his head just enough to see the first figure step out—tall, dark suit, Apex Vanguard pin gleaming on the lapel.