The chipped ceramic mug warmed Kenji's hands.
It was a small comfort against the chill that always clung to him. This chill came not just from the drafty corners of his family's cramped apartment.
He looked out of the dirty window.
The early light turned the familiar cityscape of Katana into shades of grey.
Thirty years.
Thirty years after Aethelgard Online disappeared, its digital worlds blended with reality. Players gained magical powers. Thirty years, and Kenji remained stubbornly, frustratingly normal.
Hana, his older sister, entered the small kitchen, glowing with a soft emerald light around her. She didn't even glance at him, heading straight for the steaming kettle.
"Morning, leech," she mumbled, the term a casual dismissal, like calling the stray cats by the bins.
Kenji's grip tightened on the mug, his knuckles turning white.
Leech. Always a leech. The word I always hate.
The words, though familiar, still pricked at him like tiny needles. He was used to it, the constant reminder of his inadequacy in a world obsessed with power.
Hana was a top Sylvian Weaver in Aethelgard. Her skill in controlling plant life is now highly sought after in eco-terraforming.
His other sister, Ren, a fiery Pyromancer in-game, was now a valued member of the local Enforcer's Guild.
Both of them, pillars of the powered society, and then there was Kenji.
The unpowered anomaly. The burden.
"Morning," he said, his voice flat. He kept it free of the resentment inside him. Showing emotion was just another weakness they would pounce on.
They'd love that, wouldn't they? To see me crack.
His mother shuffled in, her gaze sweeping over him with a weariness that had nothing to do with the early hour.
Even she, who should have offered unconditional love, carried a quiet disappointment.
"Still no sign?"
She asked quietly, as if she thought his hidden power could burst out and shake the whole building.
Kenji shook his head, the movement feeling heavy, weighed down by years of this futile hope.
"No, Mum. Nothing."
He didn't even try to soften the blow anymore. There was no point. He'd long since given up on the idea of awakening.
The Awakening Stones were rare and pricey relics from the game era. People talked about them in hushed tones.
His family had never bothered with them for him, a tacit admission of his hopeless state.
Why waste good money on a loser? That's what they think.
His father was once a mid-tier warrior in Aethelgard. Now, he uses his strength for construction.
He entered the kitchen, his loud voice echoing in the small room.
"Still moping around, Kenji? When are you going to get a real job? Sitting around doing nothing isn't going to magically grant you powers."
Kenji flinched; the words were a familiar blow.
"I'm looking," he said, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
What was the point? Every good job needs some level of power skills, even for basic tasks. Why hire a nobody when you can choose someone who lifts ten times their weight or casts cleaning spells? _
Why can't they see? It's not that I don't want to work. It's that this world doesn't want me.
"Looking isn't enough."
His father scoffed, grabbing a piece of toast.
"You need to show some initiative. Maybe try one of those bottom-tier Awakening courses. Waste of money, probably, but at least it'll look like you're trying."
The casual dismissal stung more than the outright insults.
They didn't believe in him. They never had. He was an embarrassment, a defect in their otherwise perfectly powered family.
The school environment was no better.
He was a constant target of mockery, the "zero-power" in a sea of burgeoning abilities.
Kids starting out can control elements, boost their speed, or create little illusions. Kenji was just… Kenji. Regular.
Forgettable. A constant reminder of the old world, the one before the game became real. It's a world they barely remember and do not respect.
He finished his tea in silence, the weight of their disdain pressing down on him.
This is it. I can't do this anymore.
He knew what he had to do. He couldn't keep living like this, a shadow in his own home, a laughing stock at school. He saved his small allowance from chores. He also took odd jobs, like delivering newspapers before dawn. It wasn't much, but it was his.
"I'm leaving," he announced quietly, standing up. The words felt strange, momentous, on his tongue.
His family stared at him, a mixture of surprise and something akin to… relief? He saw it flicker in his father's eyes, a momentary softening of the harsh lines around his mouth.
"Leaving?" Hana sneered. "Where are you going to go, loser?"
"Doesn't matter," Kenji said, for the first time, his voice held a sliver of genuine resolve.
"Anywhere is better than here." He wasn't asking for permission. He was stating a fact.
He packed his things into an old backpack. Inside were some clothes, a used notebook with untold stories, and his small savings.
He ignored his mother's weak protests, "Kenji, dear, think about it…", and his father's dismissive grunt.
Hana and Ren didn't look up from their glowing phones.
They were too busy watching the latest powered-arena streams.
They clearly didn't care enough about me. Good. That makes it easier.
The streets were cold and harsh, but for the first time in years, Kenji felt a spark of hope.
It was a fragile seed of hope. He nurtured it by choosing to take charge of his life, even though the future looked uncertain. _At least I'm doing something. Anything is better than nothing._
He found a cramped, dingy room in a less desirable part of the city.
It was barely more than a box, but it was his.
He spent his days searching for work, any work that didn't need inherent powers. He washed dishes in a greasy diner and cleaned floors in a shabby office.
He did any task that would earn him a few coins. He ate cheap noodles and slept on a thin mattress on the floor.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was freedom.
This is hard. So much harder than they ever had it. But at least no one is calling me 'leech' here. No one is looking at me with pity.
Months passed in a blur of drudgery and quiet determination.
He saved diligently, pinching every coin. His goal was simple: his own place.
A space where he wouldn't be judged, wouldn't be a constant disappointment.
Just a small place. My own corner of the world where I don't have to explain myself.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he had enough. He found a small, run-down house on the city's edge.
It was a forgotten property that had been for sale for ages. It's bad condition and the ongoing gossip about it being "unlucky" kept buyers away."
'It was cheap, and that was all that mattered. _Unlucky? Perfect. No one will bother me there,' he muttered.
The house was a wreck.
Dust covered every surface. Cobwebs hung like eerie decorations, and the air smelled of dampness and decay.
Kenji spent weeks cleaning, scrubbing, and repairing what he could. He filled holes in the walls, cleaned up piles of dirt, and carefully made the place livable.
He worked until his muscles hurt and until exhaustion dragged him into deep sleep. Every cleaned floorboard, every patched wall, felt like a small victory.
This is mine. All mine.
On a hot afternoon, he was clearing a dusty corner of the living room. His hand touched a loose floorboard. Curiosity piqued, he pried it open.
Beneath it was a dark, narrow opening – a hidden stairwell leading down. A basement. He hadn't seen any mention of a basement in the property listing.
"Huh," he mumbled to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. "A hidden basement. Lucky me. Or… unlucky?" He chuckled without any trace of humour. "Probably just more dust and spider webs."
Armed with a flickering flashlight, he descended the creaking stairs.
The air in the basement was heavy with the smell of damp earth and something else. It had a metallic, faintly electric scent that tickled his nostrils.
His beam lit up the messy space, revealing old boxes, rusty tools, and broken furniture. It was dark, a true void.
Then he saw it. Tucked away in a shadowy corner, beneath a pile of moth-eaten blankets, was a large, ovoid object. It was sleek, dark metal, surprisingly well preserved despite the surrounding decay.
As he cleared away the blankets, its form became clearer. It was a gaming capsule.
"No way," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He ran a hand over its smooth surface, the metal cool beneath his touch. It was an old model, the type that was common before Aethelgard Online switched to full immersion.
It completely disappears after the "game over" event. It looked… brand new. Impossible.
'How could something this old, this forgotten, be so pristine?' he muttered.
He spotted a power cord hidden beside it. With nervous excitement he hadn't felt in years, he plugged it into a nearby socket. A soft green light flickered to life on the capsule's side panel.
It worked. He drew a thin smile on his face.
He hesitated for a long moment, staring at the capsule. He was born thirty years after the game ended.
He knew the stories, of course, the legends of the players who had gained incredible powers. But that was history.
This was just an old, outdated piece of technology.
What could it possibly do now? The game's over. It has been over for decades. Yet, a strange pull, an inexplicable curiosity, drew him closer.
He opened the capsule door. Inside, it looked surprisingly comfortable. A worn headrest and several control panels filled the space. He'd never been inside one of these before.
He'd only seen them in old documentaries, futuristic relics.
Well, what's the worst that could happen? It breaks? It gives me a mild electric shock?
He scoffed at the thought, a desperate, defiant energy bubbling within him.
It's not like my life can get any more… normal.
Taking a deep breath, Kenji felt a rush of reckless abandon. He climbed in and settled into the seat. The door hissed shut, enclosing him in a surprisingly silent darkness.
A screen lit up before him, showing a simple prompt: INITIATE SYSTEM?
His breath hitched.
He reached out a hesitant finger and pressed the glowing button. He had no idea what he was doing.
He had no idea what to expect. In this old basement, inside a forgotten relic, his powerless life was about to change.
Here goes nothing, or maybe… everything. he mumbled