"Luck... you have to survive."
His mother's voice echoed in his ear. Fragile, pained.
Luck jerked awake, but he wasn't on the couch anymore. He was standing by a wrecked car, smoke filling the air.
His mother was trapped inside, blood soaking her hair.
To her left his father's body was pinned between the seats, unrecognizable, crushed beyond help.
"Mom!" His voice cracked as he rushed toward her.
He yanked at the seatbelt, twisted metal biting into his hands, but she wouldn't budge.
"I'm gonna get you out. Just hold on!" He pulled harder, fingers bleeding from the force.
Nothing budged. The sharp sting of gasoline burned his nostrils, warning him time was running out.
"Get out of here, Luck… save yourself …" Her cough was weak, blood speckling her lips. Her hand reached for his, but it was getting colder.
"Please, stay with me," he begged, clutching her hand tight. Tears blurred his vision.
Her grip tightened for a moment. "Promise... survive," she whispered.
"I will! I promise!" His voice cracked. Then—her final breath slipped away.
"MOM!"
Luck shot upright, body trembling uncontrollably. His arms flailed, and just like that, he tumbled off the couch.
THUD!
He wiped sweat from his brow as a cold shiver crawled down his spine, clinging damp fabric to skin.
The animal documentary played quietly in the background, its peaceful narration a cruel contrast to the nightmare he just endured.
"Survive."
His mother's final words echoed in his mind.
'Mom…'
Tears spilled over his cheek. He pressed his hands to his face, desperate to stop them.
'It's my fault… If I hadn't pushed you and Dad to come with me that day…'
That memory had been haunting him for years.
It was the moment that changed everything, the one that left him broken.
'No. I can't give up now. I have to keep going—I promised her.'
He wiped his damp face, trying to steady his breathing.
Without the games to keep him distracted, he didn't know where he would be. They were the only things holding him together.
People judged him for being this way, never bothering to understand where he was coming from.
But he didn't blame them. It was his choice to live like this.
In gaming, he found a sense of enjoyment and escape that the real world couldn't offer.
'It's their death anniversary today,' he muttered to himself, a bitter twist of fate that made his heart ache.
Ironically, it was also his birthday. He was turning 20 today, a date that should have been filled with joy.
Instead, it marked the third year since the accident that claimed their lives.
There were so many "what ifs" swirling in his mind.
What if he never begged them to take him to that place? Would it change everything?
What if he didn't tell his father to hurry so they could catch that show he was excited about?
What if he died before his birthday? Would they still be alive?
Each question felt like a knife twisting deeper, adding to the weight of his guilt and grief.
'I'm a fucking mess.' He forced himself toward the bed.
Midway through, his eyes drifted to the desk, crowded with trophies.
Each shiny surface caught the light, hinting at a past that were filled with victories.
Among the trophies, there were medals for various martial arts: one for Taekwondo, another for Judo, and several more for Karate and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
They were impressive accolades, each one representing success.
But who did they belong to?
He paused, remembering the cheers and applause, the thrill of competition, and the rush of adrenaline.
There had been a time when these awards meant everything to him—when he thrived on the excitement of competition and the recognition that followed.
But now, they felt more like reminders of someone else's achievements—distant memories that no longer belonged to him.
When he looked up at the wall, he saw countless framed newspaper clippings lovingly made by his mother.
(Nine years old super genius, Luck had shown unprecedented talent by winning the international mathematics competition at such a young age.)
The headline read, accompanied by a photo of a grinning child holding a trophy that was too big for him.
(IQ of over 220. The smartest kid alive.)
There, another headline.
(Luck, Elo 3000, the 12-year-old genius that beat Magnus)
He remembered this moment vividly—sitting across from the world-renowned grandmaster who, for some reason, showed up late, as if taking pity on him.
Luck took full advantage of that opportunity and completely dominated the match.
Spectators whispered in disbelief, unsure how a kid could so thoroughly outmaneuver one of the greatest player who ever lived.
But he wasn't satisfied with just that.
Fueled by a competitive fire, he began beating the grandmaster nonstop.
His intelligence and knack for reading moves earned him an impressive achievement: an Elo rating of 3000.
Even to this day, no one has yet to break his record, making him a legend in the chess world.
'Oh yeah, I used to be one of the smartest people alive,'
If that accident never happened, his life might have taken a completely different path.
Instead of sinking into grief and isolation, he would've kept shining as a prodigy in every field he touched.
'Damn, depression sucks. To think I was reduced to this,' he muttered, forcing a laugh to hide the weight on his chest.
'Man, it's like I went from hero to zero. I'm starting to feel like one of those anime MCs—except with backward progression.'
With that half-hearted joke, he walked to the bathroom.
He usually avoided taking baths, but today was different.
The least he could do was wear something that wouldn't make his parents worry about how far he'd fallen.
After a long hot shower, he stepped out, the steam still floating on his head.
Next, he grabbed an 'oversized' T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.
Well, it used to be oversized—three years ago. Now? It was just a normal size.
The clothing had a faint moldy smell, but after spending so much time in his messy room, his nose pretty much immunized itself as a defense mechanism.
He called this "Selective Smelling". A unique ability that only the most hardcore procrastinators could develop.
By the door, he reached for his old Nike's. The classic black, white, and red design.
They'd seen better days, just like him, though they didn't look too worn out—mainly because he barely used them.
CREAK!
Slowly, he opened the front door open, each creak sounding louder than it should.
'My god, my eyes hurt,' he squinted and recoiled as it took him way too long to get used to the sunlight.
'Did I turn into a vampire or something? Why am I already exhausted? Damn, I can't even catch my breath!'
Looks like Yamagi's prediction was about to come true.
Finally, his eyes adjusted, and he looked out at the city stretching before him.
His apartment was the type where all the rooms were accessible by open-air corridor, and the only thing keeping him from a long drop was the railings.
Not exactly the best setup for someone as depressed as he was, but oh well—the rent was dirt cheap.
It really showed just how broke he was for not being able to afford it.