Rifts were cracks in space that embodied entire dimensions. It was impossible to predict or get used to the environment inside a rift.
Since they tore apart multiple dimensions and merged them into Tra-el's space, these rifts revealed entirely unique worlds with climates and conditions never before seen by humans.
Some even had strange, unnatural laws tied to their worlds. But the most dangerous aspect of the rifts was the ranks of monsters that existed within them.
They represented a level of uncertainty and danger that should have made every drifter hesitate to venture into such realms. However, the rewards matched the vicious risks they faced in these places.
Through enduring such hardship, a drifter gained more soul essence, allowing them to progress through the ranks of their soul.
Of course, the higher they climbed, the harder it became to ascend—that's why the highest recorded soul rank for a drifter in this era was the Paragon, even though other ranks clearly existed.
Everyone now viewed those higher planes as the realm of immortals... untouchable by ordinary mortals.
Those ranks had surpassed even the strongest mortal limitations. It would take unimaginable willpower to reach such heights.
At that level, perhaps they would become monsters themselves. After all, the power of a Paragon was already overwhelming.
They could shake the plains with just a stomp of their foot or send earthquakes rippling through mountains with a release of their spirit.
Paragons were forces of nature that couldn't be contained. Very few stood at the pinnacle of power.
Despite the dangers lurking inside, drifters were still drawn to rifts by the treasures they could discover.
Martial arts, spell arts, body cultivation techniques, spiritual release arts—grimoires of skills that could dramatically boost a drifter's abilities, giving even those with low talents a chance to grow.
A world of fairness… or at least, it once was. Now, that fairness was bought and manipulated by the elite, leaving ordinary people with only scraps and expecting them to be grateful.
Resources found in rifts were highly sought after. These materials fueled the advancement of Tra-el's civilization: monster carcasses, minerals, and crystals.
When these resources were brought back, they could be sold for vast sums of money.
Items were another rewarding part of exploring a rift. When monsters were slain, or ruins were explored, Ul rewarded the drifters with items tied to the fate of the fallen monsters.
These items were created from the strings of fate that controlled the monster and its connection to the rift.
Each item's existence and enchantments were linked to its source, and they came in different grades, each more powerful than the last.
Yet, despite these enticing rewards, drifters died like insects in the rifts.
Many retired early, gave up on the dream of becoming stronger, and spent the rest of their lives as lower-tier drifters, explorers, private tutors, or instructors.
This was why someone like Rughsbourgh saw the need for a stronger generation of drifters, forged through hardship and in the fires of difficulty.
In a world where survival wasn't guaranteed, there were still things even Rughsbourgh could never foresee or predict.
Time became meaningless to Northern. He was consumed by suffering, fear, unanswered questions, and endless hunger.
Northern couldn't tell how much time had passed. The sky hung endlessly above him, night followed night, and there was neither a moon nor a sun in this realm. Everything looked the same to him.
Over and over, the poor boy kept mining red crystals.
At first, he wondered why all he did was mine crystals. When the pile of crystals grew large enough, his overseer would collect them and leave Northern's mining prison.
That was the only time Northern could rest his sore muscles. It was also when strange food was thrown over the iron wall that barred the door.
The food he received was unpleasant. The first and second times he ate it, Northern vomited.
It seemed like some kind of round, baked bread, but Northern guessed it wasn't made from flour like his mother used. He didn't know what it was, but it churned his stomach every time he ate it. Eventually, he got used to it, which frightened him.
He would have preferred his roasted monster meat, but since waking up in this strange place, Northern hadn't seen his bag or shirt.
He had been working shirtless, but thankfully the weather wasn't too harsh.
There were nights when the cold was unbearable, and the monster would stand behind him, a deep scowl on its face, its hand gripping its ax tightly.
Northern slowly grew used to the monster's presence and the routine of mining. He slept less, ate terrible food, and abandoned his natural curiosity.
As night followed night, he gradually lost hope. He began to look forward to the times when the monster would leave—so he could finally sleep, eat, or rest.
When the monster was around, Northern's hands never stopped moving. His blisters would burst and then form again in the same spots.
It happened repeatedly, even when his legs shook and his hands trembled. The monster would scowl at him, as if testing how close he was to death.
Everything became meaningless. There was nothing Northern could do but mine crystals… until one day, something happened.