Morning light filtered through the cracked window of my apartment, casting fractured patterns across the worn floor. I stared at the ceiling, counting water stains that formed constellations in the deteriorating plaster. Three days had passed since my "resurrection"—if you could call this existence living.

  I pushed myself up from the sagging mattress, feeling the springs protest beneath my weight. The apartment felt both familiar and alien—a fossilized remnant of a life I'd left behind. The peeling wallpaper, the flickering light fixture, the perpetual scent of mildew—all exactly as they had been when I first escaped this place.

  My fingers traced the basic civilian wrist implant embedded in my skin—the standard model every citizen received at age ten. The Stability-grade upgrades the Administrator had installed were gone, along with everything else I'd earned. I accessed the meager functionality, confirming what I already knew:

  STATUS: CITIZEN (UNCLASSIFIED)

  TIER: F

  TRAIT: REALITY MATRIX

  I dressed quickly, choosing the least damaged of my old clothes—a gray synth-cotton shirt and reinforced pants that had once been black but had faded to an indeterminate shade. Zero credits, no armor, no weapons, no supplies beyond what any civilian might carry. I was, for all practical purposes, back to zero.

  The corridor outside my apartment buzzed with the ambient sounds of Lower Residential—recycling units humming, distant voices arguing over resource allocations, the occasional alarm signaling a minor dimensional fluctuation. I passed my neighbor's door just as it slid open, revealing a young woman with hair cropped close to her scalp and eyes that carried the weary resignation common to blanks.

  "Oh, hello," she said, smile automatic but not unfriendly. "You must be the new tenant in 443. I'm Nira."

  I stared at her, uncomprehending. Nira had lived next door for years before I became a raider. We'd exchanged ration supplements at least a dozen times.

  "I'm not new," I said carefully. "I've lived here before."

  Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes flickering to my basic wrist implant. "Really? That's strange. Unit 443 was empty for ages before yesterday. Maybe you're thinking of a different block?"

  "Maybe," I conceded, unwilling to argue the point. "I'm Volt."

  "Volt," she repeated, testing the name. "Interesting. I work as a tour guide in Mid-City—showing visitors around the historical districts. Not much pay, but better than factory work."

  I knew this. I'd known this for years. I remembered listening to her practice her tour scripts through the thin walls.

  "Anyway, nice to meet you, neighbor," she continued, already edging toward the corridor's end. "I'm late for my shift. The hoverbus waits for no one, especially not blanks."

  I watched her hurry away, wondering if I'd somehow slipped into the wrong reality entirely. It wasn't just that she didn't recognize me—she genuinely believed I'd never lived here before yesterday.

  The pattern continued as I made my way through Lower Residential. The synth-protein vendor who'd once given me extra rations stared blankly when I greeted him by name. The security officer who'd cited me for curfew violations years ago glanced right through me. It was as if I'd been erased from their collective memory.

  I took the pedestrian walkway toward Eastern Harbor, thoughts churning with possibilities. Could the quantum mechanism that preserved me have altered reality itself? Did Zarthus's actions create a causal paradox that rewrote personal histories connected to mine?

  The harbor wind carried the familiar scent of salt and dimensional residue. Beyond the barrier, corrupted waves crashed against an invisible wall, their motion occasionally stuttering as water molecules hit dimensional resistance. Parts of each wave froze in mid-motion before dissolving into gravity-defying droplets that hung suspended momentarily before falling.

  Old Man Troodie sat on his weathered bench, fingers working methodically at a fishing net despite the futility of the task. Fishing had been prohibited for decades—anything caught beyond the barrier was too contaminated for consumption—but the old man maintained his ritual with stubborn determination.

  "Still fixing that same net, Troodie?" I asked, stopping beside his bench.

  The old man looked up, rheumy eyes narrowing against the harbor light. No flash of recognition crossed his features. "Do I know you, kid?"

  The question knocked the wind from me more effectively than any dimensional hazard. "We've talked before," I said, struggling to keep my voice even. "Many times."

  Troodie squinted, studying me more carefully. "Can't say I recall. Memory's not what it used to be." He turned his attention back to the net. "But if you say so."

  "I gave you credits," I pressed. "Ten thousand of them. For fishing equipment."

  He barked a laugh, the sound rough from years of exposure to dimensional particles. "Ten thousand? Kid, I haven't seen that many credits in my entire life. Think I'd remember someone handing me a fortune."

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  I stood there, stunned into silence. It wasn't just that he'd forgotten me—the transaction itself had never happened in this version of reality. The quantum reconstruction that preserved my consciousness had somehow failed to preserve the history I'd created.

  "I'm sorry," I said finally. "I must have confused you with someone else."

  "No harm done," Troodie shrugged, returning to his net. "Though if you're feeling generous, I wouldn't say no to a few credits for synthetic coffee."

  I continued along the harbor's edge, mind racing to make sense of my situation. If the people around me had no memory of our interactions, did that apply to everyone? Did even the Emperor himself forget what he'd done to me?

  The thought sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the harbor wind. If Zarthus didn't remember me, didn't remember that I'd survived the Doomgrave Spike, I might have an advantage—the element of surprise.

  But first, I needed to reclaim my status. Without an E-tier classification, I couldn't even enter the Rift Management Center, let alone access higher-tier areas of Lighthouse City. The suspension of all F-tier badges following the Terminus Protocol meant there was only one path forward: wild rifts.

  I approached the Eastern Barrier, where the city's protective field met the corrupted wilderness beyond. Unlike the heavily guarded main gates used for official expeditions, the pedestrian exit points were minimally secured. The Stability Corps didn't bother preventing people from leaving—the hostile environment beyond did a perfectly adequate job of dissuading most citizens from venturing outside.

  The barrier checkpoint was manned by a single bored guard who barely glanced at my civilian ID.

  "Heading out?" he asked, the question purely perfunctory.

  "Yes."

  "Sign the waiver."

  He pushed a digital form toward me—standard language acknowledging that I was leaving protected space at my own risk, that Stability Corps bore no responsibility for whatever happened to me beyond the barrier, and that recovery of my remains was not guaranteed.

  I pressed my thumb to the signature field, the document flashing green as it registered my consent.

  "Stability recommends against unprotected excursions," the guard recited mechanically. "The nearest emergency beacon is seventeen kilometers east. Dimensional fluctuations are predicted to increase over the next forty-eight hours. Proceed at your own risk."

  The barrier field parted before me, creating a human-sized aperture that rippled with energy. I stepped through, feeling the familiar tingle of dimensional resistance washing over my skin. The field sealed behind me with a soft whoosh, cutting off the ambient sounds of the city.

  Outside the barrier, sound behaved differently. The crash of corrupted waves seemed simultaneously too close and too distant, as if the audio was being processed through faulty equipment. The sky above held an unnatural gradient—deep blue directly overhead fading to sickly purple near the horizon.

  I set out eastward, following an overgrown path that had once been a major highway. Vegetation reclaimed most of the surface, but not normal plant life—dimensional corruption had transformed the flora into strange hybrids that defied conventional biology. Crystalline structures grew from tree trunks, leaves occasionally phased out of normal spacetime, flowers bloomed with colors that hurt the human eye.

  My basic implant hummed, automatically recording dimensional anomalies for later analysis—standard functionality for all civilian models, designed to gather environmental data and transmit it to Stability even when citizens weren't actively raiding.

  The walking itself wasn't difficult. Despite everything, my physical condition remained excellent—one small mercy. Hours passed as I followed the remains of the highway further into corrupted territory, encountering nothing more dangerous than passive environmental hazards easily avoided with basic caution.

  By midday, I'd covered nearly twenty kilometers, the city barrier no longer visible behind me. The landscape grew increasingly bizarre—gravity fluctuations caused stones to hover at irregular heights, time distortions created patches where insects moved at imperceptible speeds or bizarrely accelerated rates.

  My implant pinged, detecting a dimensional energy signature ahead. I approached cautiously, hoping to find an E-tier rift within my capabilities.

  What I found instead sent me scrambling for cover.

  The rift hung suspended in a clearing, its surface a roiling maelstrom of energy that dwarfed anything I'd encountered as an E-tier raider. Tendrils of dimensional corruption extended outward, withering vegetation and warping reality in a fifty-meter radius.

  My implant confirmed what my eyes already told me:

  DIMENSIONAL RIFT DETECTED

  CLASSIFICATION: C-TIER

  WARNING: EXTREME HAZARD LEVEL

  AVOID CONTACT

  I retreated immediately, heart hammering against my ribs. C-tier rifts spawned entities that could obliterate E-tier raiders without effort. Without proper equipment or abilities, I wouldn't survive thirty seconds inside.

  I circled wide around the danger zone, continuing eastward with renewed caution. The prospect of encountering high-tier rifts without appropriate countermeasures hadn't factored into my calculations. The Terminus Protocol increased rift strength across all wilderness areas, not just within managed zones.

  Another three hours of careful progress brought me to a small valley sheltered by crystallized trees. My implant pinged again, registering another energy signature—weaker this time.

  I approached slowly, alert for any sign of dangerous entities. This rift appeared more manageable—a shimmering tear in reality approximately two meters tall, its surface rippling with subdued energy patterns.

  My implant vibrated against my wrist:

  DIMENSIONAL RIFT DETECTED

  CLASSIFICATION: E-TIER

  WARNING: MODERATE HAZARD LEVEL

  CAUTION ADVISED

  Relief washed through me. An E-tier rift—challenging for my current status, but not impossible. Without equipment and as an F-tier, I'd need to rely on my knowledge of environmental manipulation and whatever hazards I found inside. A standard raider would have no hope skipping tiers like this, but with my experience and REALITY MATRIX, I wasn’t worried. I’d defeated a D-tier while still in E, and E-tier rifts felt benign in comparison. Even lacking levels, attributes, and Speed–which I still mourned–I wouldn't be stopped. Blasting to E-tier meant testing my new trait and forging strategies. Escaping the political nonsense, I craved the return to pure, high-stakes combat where every decision mattered, and I was in control.

  The rift pulsed, as if sensing my presence. Its surface reflected distorted images of the surrounding landscape, occasionally revealing glimpses of the alien environment beyond. I studied it carefully, looking for patterns in its energy fluctuations that might indicate what waited inside. Surviving this would be the first step in a long journey back to power.

  As darkness fell over the corrupted wilderness, I made my final preparations. Tomorrow, I would enter the rift and begin my climb back to relevance in a world that had forgotten I existed.