The entrance to the rift was surrounded by acolytes, but this time they weren't merely standing guard, they were fully prepared to enter.
Each acolyte was connected by special links not only to one another but also to the dozens of martial artists who had volunteered to assist in the clearing effort.
A full week had passed since the rift began mutating. No more survivors had come out since then.
But according to the Mission Hall's statistics, the number of people who exited was astonishingly close to the number who had entered, only a 2.5% difference.
For a mutant rift, that was miraculous.
And now the week was over.
The mutation was nearing completion.
Soon, they would finally be allowed inside.
At the very front stood the manager, wearing a pure-silver grade conduit armor over his usual uniform.
The polished plates gleamed under the morning sun, making him look more like a battlefield commander than a bureaucrat.
He stared at the swirling, mirage-like rift.
