The Glass Corridor stood at the edge of the city like a fracture driven into the earth. Temporary barriers had been erected around the entrance, though they were clearly meant to control the crowd more than contain danger. Beyond them, the dungeon gate shimmered within a tall oval frame of pale light, its surface moving like disturbed water. Sharp reflections flashed across the stone every few seconds, forcing people nearby to look away.
A line stretched from the barriers and bent down the street.
Riven joined the rear without hesitation, his bag resting against one shoulder as he took in the scene around him. Word of the dungeon had spread quickly. The crowd was large, but it wasn't mixed as evenly as it first appeared.
Closer to the front stood organized teams in coordinated gear, their weapons maintained properly and their armor marked with guild insignias or private colors. They spoke in low, confident tones, the kind used by people who expected to be first wherever they went.
Toward the back, the quality dropped. Worn boots, Repaired straps, Bags designed to carry salvage rather than weapons. Men and women who measured risk by rent owed rather than glory gained.
Scavengers.
No signs divided the line, yet it had sorted itself all the same.
Riven kept his attention on the gate until a voice beside him broke the silence.
"First time at this one?"
He glanced over. An older man stood there adjusting a faded shoulder strap. His nose had been broken more than once, and two missing teeth changed the shape of his speech. He looked like someone who had survived through caution rather than luck.
"First time here," Riven said.
The man grunted. "Then remember this. This dungeon isn't like the others, blink long enough and you wouldn't know where you ended up."
Riven gave a small nod. Advice like that was rarely offered for free.
"You run dungeons often?" he asked.
"When rent needs paying."
The man spat to the side and shifted his bag again. "Same reason everyone back here does."
Laughter rose from farther ahead.
One of the assault teams had turned around to look toward the rear of the line. Five of them stood together in polished gear, carrying themselves with the easy arrogance of people used to winning in public.
Their leader, broad-shouldered and loud enough to be heard across half the queue, tilted his chin toward the scavengers.
"Look at this," he said. "Cleanup crews showed up early."
A few of his teammates laughed.
Another hunter added, "Hope they brought bigger bags. Might be plenty of leftovers today."
More laughter followed.
No one in the rear answered. That silence said more than any argument could have. People adjusted straps, or looked anywhere else. They had heard versions of this too many times to waste energy on it.
The loud hunter seemed mildly disappointed by the lack of reaction.
"Try not to die before we're done," he called. "Makes the corridors smell worse."
A few mutters rose from the back, but still no one stepped forward.
The older man beside Riven sighed. "Every new gate breeds heroes."
Riven said nothing, though the words stirred an older memory.
Years ago, he had stood in lines like this with borrowed gloves and cheap boots, too new to know where to stand and too poor to matter. One team had shoved him aside because he was in their path. Another had laughed when he asked which corridor was safer after a partial collapse.
Later that same day, he had nearly bled out with a trap shard buried in his calf while hunters stepped past him on their way out.
He had learned quickly after that. Scavenging is tough business.
Movement began near the front of the barriers.
Two officials in gray vests approached with handheld scanners, calling names and checking group counts. They had no interest in the black market outside these streets. Their job ended at the gate. Public dungeons meant public records, and that was enough for the state.
The first assault team was waved through without delay.
One by one they crossed the threshold and vanished into the pale surface of the gate. The next team followed, then another after them. The line shortened in measured waves while everyone else waited.
By the time Riven neared the front quarter, the loud hunter from earlier was stepping forward with his group. He glanced back once more, unwilling to leave without one last performance.
"Don't rush in after us," he said. "Wouldn't want you taking credit for our work."
Riven met his gaze without expression.
The man smirked and walked through the gate.
The older scavenger beside Riven gave a dry snort. "That one's dying young."
"Maybe," Riven said.
More time passed before one of the gray-vested officials finally raised his voice.
"Independent entries and recovery crews. Ten at a time."
The crowd shifted immediately. Shoulders straightened. Bags were tightened. Quiet conversations ended.
This was their turn.
Not first access. What remained after the stronger groups had taken their share.
Riven adjusted his gloves and stepped forward with the others when the next ten were called.
He had spent years entering dungeons like this, walking through the aftermath of battles he never got paid to fight. Broken bodies, triggered traps, missed loot, and desperate people willing to kill over scraps. It had never bothered him. Scraps added up, if you survived long enough.
But today felt different.
The market had shown him how quickly value disappeared once powerful people wanted it. He couldn't afford to live off leftovers forever.
The gate loomed in front of him now, its pale light washing over the faces of those entering. Up close, shapes moved beneath the surface like reflections trying to become real.
Cold air spilled through the threshold.
Somewhere inside, assault teams were already carving paths, taking rewards, deciding what the rest of the day would look like for everyone behind them.
Riven stepped through.
The world snapped into crystal light, narrow corridors, and a distant scream that echoed through the glass.