In the heat of Dallas, one of Dark Bloom's branch buildings in the USA—a monolith of glass and steel—rose toward the heavens. Within its walls, power was the only currency, and only the strongest dared to carve the fates of those beneath them. At the pinnacle of this merciless hierarchy stood Sarah Bloom, a woman whose ruthless ambition and unmatched skill had secured her position as the clan's leader after their parents were claimed by the Rift. Yet, for all her control over the world around her, there remained one unpredictable force she could never mold—her younger brother, Ryuma.
Ryuma Bloom had always been different. He did not bow to the social hierarchy of the Evolved, nor did he measure strength by ranks or titles. Whether one was a mere Novice or a Hero-ranked warrior meant nothing to him. Strength was strength, and weakness was weakness. It was this defiance that often landed him in trouble.
Sarah, cold and indifferent, offered no protection, no guidance. Alone in the shadow of his family's legacy, Ryuma had only one companion—his own unyielding will.
For seventeen years, he honed himself, shaping his body and mind into weapons sharper than any blade. With no master to guide him, he carved his own path, forging a sword style that belonged to no school, no lineage—only to him. A style born from hardship, from solitude, from the relentless need to prove that he was not simply Sarah Bloom's forgotten brother.
The day of his Rifting, Ryuma trained as he always did—blade in hand, sweat rolling down his skin, his breath steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his muscles. Each stroke of his sword was deliberate, honed by years of solitude and self-discipline. The dim light of his room caught the unnatural glow beneath his skin, a sign of the inevitable.
Then, the door creaked open.
Sarah stepped inside, her presence as cold and sharp as the steel she wielded. She never came to check on him. Not once. It wasn't her way. That alone was enough to make him pause—if only for a fraction of a second—before swinging his sword down again.
She sighed, unimpressed. "Still disrespectful as ever."
Ryuma didn't respond. What was the point? They were not siblings, not truly. Just two people who happened to share the same bloodline. She had never acknowledged him, and so he returned the favor.
Sarah leaned against the doorframe, her voice flat, detached. "You'll Rift soon. Probably tomorrow."
His grip tightened on his sword.
"Try not to die," she added, her tone devoid of concern. "Our blood is strong. You might inherit Mother's darkness or Father's conjuration. Who knows?"
Their parents had been legends. Their mother, a master of shadows, able to consume light itself. Their father, a conjurer of nightmares, summoning creatures that struck with ruthless efficiency before vanishing like ghosts.
And yet, despite their power, they were gone.
Ryuma let the silence stretch, then swung his blade once more.
If tomorrow was the day, then he would meet it as he had met everything else in his life. Alone.
Sarah didn't care if he lived or died—except for one reason. He was a Bloom. If he survived, he would either rise through the ranks of the Dark Bloom clan or carve his own branch from its name. That was the only future she saw for him.
But Ryuma had no interest in that future. He despised the very idea of clans.
He exhaled sharply, finally stopping mid-swing. His piercing gaze met hers, the irritation in his golden eyes sharp enough to cut.
"You're all weak," he said, voice low but seething. "Roaches, huddling together to mask your flaws."
Sarah raised a brow, unimpressed.
"You're not my sister," he continued, stepping forward. "You're a cut above the rest—stronger than a Sage-rank, higher than most—yet you do nothing. You let the bigger clans toy with you because you don't want war. You make me sick." His lip curled in disdain. "Maybe you should just die. At least then you wouldn't be a disgrace to Mother and Father."
Silence.
The room darkened.
It was subtle at first, like the light had been swallowed by something unseen. Then, shadows slithered along the walls, thickening, twisting unnaturally. Sarah's golden eyes gleamed in the dark, and for a moment, Ryuma felt the weight of her presence press against him like an abyss ready to consume him whole.
She didn't lash out. She didn't speak immediately.
But he saw it.
A flicker of something beneath that carefully controlled mask.
She turned away, shadows retreating as if they had never been there.
Standing at the doorway, she finally spoke—her voice cold, almost amused.
"Then suit yourself," she murmured. "Die in the Rift world alone."
And with that, she left.
Ryuma stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against his glowing ivory skin—a stark contrast to the dark sky overhead. This would be his last night on Earth, at least for a few days. He might as well enjoy it.
The city pulsed with life, oblivious to the Rift, oblivious to the abyss he would soon step into. As he made his way toward the supermarket, he passed a family of four—a mother, a father, a son, a daughter. They walked together, laughing softly, bound by something invisible.
Cockroaches, he thought. Clinging together, scurrying through life, pretending they're safe.
But as the thought settled, a murmur caught his ear. Soft. Bitter.
"You lucky people… you get to go home."
Ryuma's gaze snapped toward the source.
A boy about his age, with pale caramel skin and tightly coiled hair, stood amid the crowd. His posture was rigid, his face unreadable, but Ryuma could see it—the weight pressing down on him. The resignation.
He followed the boy's line of sight and saw the hospital looming ahead.
He's going to Rift.
Before he realized it, he was staring.
Then—blaring horns.
A taxi swerved, barely missing him.
"Hey, watch it, dumbass!" the driver yelled, but Ryuma barely registered it.
His glowing skin flickered under the neon lights as he turned away and kept walking.
He made it to the supermarket, grabbed a few essentials, then left without a second glance.
Tomorrow, everything would change.