A blur of color tore through Ronin's vision like spilled paint across a blank canvas—chaotic, abstract, and nausea-inducing. Streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue danced and twisted in front of him, washing over his senses like a tide. He blinked once, twice, trying to regain control, to ground himself in something real. The familiar pulse of his mana settled within him like a steady heartbeat.
Then the colors snapped away.
And they were back.
The clearing greeted them in stark contrast—suddenly quiet, almost too quiet. It was the same one they'd stood in when they first entered the Dimension Gate. Circular and carved unnaturally into the forest floor, the grass was too perfect, too flat, as if shaped by a sculptor's chisel. Behind them, the gate itself pulsed ominously, slowly dimming like a dying ember. Trees surrounded the perimeter, swaying gently with the breeze, casting long shadows in the early evening light.
Ronin barely had time to process the return before he noticed they weren't alone.
Standing just a dozen paces ahead of them was a group—no, a scene. A damn ensemble of extravagance. Men and women in tailored coats and glimmering fabrics, expensive watches and enchanted jewelry that practically screamed old money. Most of them didn't even look like they belonged anywhere near a gate. These weren't adventurers. These were owners—the kind who sent others into danger and read about it from a lounge chair.
Closest to them was a woman in her late 30s or early 40s—hard to tell. Her skin was pale and smooth with a touch of makeup that probably cost more than Ronin's monthly rent. Her blazer was sharp, midnight black with golden embroidery shaped like winding vines. Her heels looked custom-made. The kind of heels that have never touched mud.
Next to her stood an old man who had probably been born with a monocle and a grudge. He was ancient, with liver-spotted skin, a hunched back, and long silver hair neatly combed and oiled. His suit was from another era but somehow still screamed wealth. He held a cane—not for walking, Ronin figured, but for commanding attention.
Then there was a girl. Maybe seventeen. Still in her school uniform—a navy pleated skirt and blazer, white blouse underneath, and an obnoxiously expensive-looking ribbon at her collar. Her long black hair was straight and shiny, her expression bored. She typed away on a crystal phone that shimmered in the light, completely uninterested in the people who had just returned from the brink of death.
A sharp-eyed man in his twenties stood behind them, hair slicked back, sharp jawline, and sharper eyes. He looked like the type of asshole who spoke in boardroom buzzwords and had mana-enhanced teeth whitening.
Each of them had at least two guards around them. These weren't just bodyguards—they were Awakened. Ronin could feel it in their presence, in the way their mana pulsed, subtle but threatening. They wore discreet armor beneath formal coats, hands twitching near their weapons. Their eyes zeroed in on Ronin and Leroy like lasers. Suspicious. Ready. Willing.
Ronin squinted at them. "What the hell…?"
The older woman spotted them first. Her relief was immediate and surprisingly genuine.
She rushed forward, heels clicking sharply on the paved clearing path. Ronin blinked as she went straight past him and Leroy, making a beeline for—
Kara.
Of course. That made sense.
Kara, with her brown hair tangled and dirtied from the gate, her normally composed face now bruised and grimy. Her posture was still upright, but fatigue painted every motion she made. As the woman neared, she opened her arms for a hug but froze, eyes scanning the state Kara was in.
"Kara, my god," she said, stepping back just slightly, "are you alright? Your mother's been in a panic—"
Kara gave a small nod. "I'm okay, Aunt Marlena. I'm alive."
Aunt, huh. Ronin filed the name away. Montclair. The pieces clicked. Kara was from that Montclair. One of the rich Awakener families. It explained everything—the worried relatives, the bodyguards, the private transport. And it explained why they gave him and Leroy those glares like they were something stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
Ronin didn't give a shit. He kept walking. Leroy did too, dragging his feet but maintaining that quiet, polite expression he always wore.
"Wait—Ronin," Kara called after him.
He stopped but didn't turn around. "Later."
The bodyguards tensed. Ronin heard their mana shift. Subtle, threatening.
But Kara lifted a hand, stopping them with a gesture. "He helped me survive," she said quietly, more to her aunt than anyone else.
Then, louder, to Ronin: "How can I contact you?"
Ronin glanced back over his shoulder, half-lidding his eyes at her. "You're Montclair. You'll find me."
He turned back around and kept walking. He didn't hear her reply, but from the quiet murmur behind him, he knew she'd answered her aunt's inevitable question. Something like "Who was that?" with "He's going to be important."
Ronin snorted as he left the clearing.
The taxi smelled like burnt plastic and stale air. The driver, an older man with a receding hairline and a tired look in his eyes, didn't ask questions. Ronin gave his address and leaned back in the seat, letting his body finally relax.
Out the window, Virelia unfolded.
They were back in the heart of civilization. The country of Virelia, located on the eastern continent—one of four massive landmasses that made up the known world. North. East. South. West. Virelia was advanced. Dense cities, cutting-edge Awakener infrastructure, and a wealth of mana-based technology. It wasn't just a country; it was a player.
Towering skyscrapers pierced the heavens like spears, some with rotating neon banners displaying ads for Awakener gear, others wrapped in glass that shimmered with magic-resistant coatings. In the shopping districts, the streets were flooded with people—families, tourists, Awakeners just back from their gates, trying to decompress by blowing cash.
Further along, the city changed. Massive private estates nestled in gated neighborhoods, each house big enough to pass for a hotel. Lawns trimmed by mana-automated drones, fountains enchanted to spew colored water, private security patrolling on foot.
Ronin's place wasn't there.
He lived in a concrete apartment complex that looked like it had survived more than one gate breach. A simple five-floor structure tucked between a ramen shop and a mana dry-cleaner. His apartment was on the third floor. It wasn't much. But it was his.
He unlocked the door and stepped into chaos.
Clothes, books, boxes of old gadgets, and unwashed dishes. It was like a war zone where the only enemy was time and laziness. He kicked aside a mana-core battery pack and collapsed face-first onto the bed beneath a tangle of bedsheets and laundry.
He didn't even change.
Sleep took him like a wave.
And as his body finally gave in, buried under the exhaustion of the gate, of the battle, of the overwhelming shift in his power…
One thought drifted in the fog of his mind:
I'm not the same.