Late at night, the office was empty except for one man hunched over one last paperwork. He rubbed his temples, eyes red, already dreaming of booting up his favorite MOBA game, League of Fantasy, when the sudden sound of heavy footsteps approached.
"Hey! Finish this important document by morning! Or else your salary will be deducted." His manager's voice came with the usual spit spray.
The man was disgustingly fat, like a balloon stuffed into a suit one size too small, and even his breath sounded greasy. He dumped a stack of papers on the desk and sneered as if the very air around his employee was diseased.
The man stared at the mountain of documents before twitching an eye with a flat expression. His pen slipped from his hand. Slowly, he stood.
The manager waved a stubby arm, completely unfazed. "What are you doing, brat? Sit your ass down and get to work!"
The man muttered, voice low and flat. "You know what? …Fuck this job. Do it yourself, you fatass piece of bullshit."
The manager froze. His triple chins trembled. "How DARE you! You should be grateful I even gave you this job!"
The man snorted. "Tch. That's it? I've already saved enough for retirement. Before I leave, I'll want to give you a little present…"
The manager blinked. "Wha—"
Then pain. Pure, indescribable pain. His soul left his body for a moment as a shoe connected squarely with his groin.
It was so accurate, so devastating, it might as well have been a critical hit from god himself. Somewhere deep inside, he swore he heard the sound of an egg cracking.
He collapsed, "GYAAAAAAHHHHH! MY BALLS! MY PRECIOUS BALLS—!!" wheezing, eyes rolled back, In that moment, he realized every pleasure in life had been permanently deleted from his future.
The man, finally free, stretched his arms and muttered, "Phew... That was the most productive thing I've done all year."
He walked toward the door, closed it gently behind him… then opened it again, as if he forgot something.
The manager looked up in terror as his tormentor returned, expression calm as ever. Without a word, the man planted his foot directly into his boss's groin again.
"Just to make sure," he said casually, adjusting his tie as though it were routine.
The manager gagged, choking on his own spit. "NO—no-no-No-NO! Please!! NO MOR—!!"
Another kick. Sharp, merciless, final. The man tilted his head and sighed. "Hm… but you seem to be fine. Oh well, a triple kick wouldn't hurt."
The manager let out a strangled squeal that didn't sound human anymore. He twitched, then went limp.
The man nodded, satisfied. He turned, walked out but came back a third time.
One more kick. Then he finally left.
Actually, after the 10th kick, he was really done. The manager lay sprawled on the floor like a broken puppet, fainting from the pure overload of agony.
The man stepped out of the building into the cold night air, the street lamps casting pale light across the empty sidewalk. His steps slowed as the adrenaline left him, leaving only quiet relief.
He thought about his life, about how it had led him to this exact night.
His name was Saruto, thirty-nine years old. No surname. He had never known his parents, never cared to. People who abandoned him at birth didn't deserve his thoughts.
His life was a crawl from the gutter—manual labor jobs, cheap meals, sleeping wherever rent was the lowest—until he clawed his way into a corporate position.
Thirty-nine years of misery, pain, and sweat. But now? He had scraped together five million in savings for retirement.
Enough to quit, and finally be free. He didn't need work anymore. He didn't need respect. All he needed was his little apartment, his gaming PC, and his favorite MOBA: League of Fantasy.
He looked up as he reached a familiar building, a three-story apartment block with fading paint. It wasn't much, but it was home. His own space on the third floor.
The lights were on at the entrance. Standing there was an old lady in a faded cardigan, leaning on a cane. Her white hair was tied in a bun, her smile faint but warm.
"Oh, you're back already, my dear?" she said softly, voice shaky with age but filled with kindness.
Saruto paused and smiled back, his shoulders finally relaxing. "Yes, ma'am. Just got off work. And have you been well today?"
The old woman standing by the door was the landlord of the building. Despite her frail frame, she carried herself with quiet dignity.
She had looked after Saruto for years, treating him almost like a grandson. Without her generosity, he would never have found such a comfortable place to live for so little rent.
After a brief exchange of greetings, Saruto gave a polite bow and started up the stairwell.
The building was simple, worn with age, but sturdy. Each floor held three rooms, making nine in total. His place was on the third floor, room number seven, right beside the stairway.
He climbed the final steps with practiced ease, slid his key into the lock, and pushed the door open.
Inside, his room was nothing extraordinary, but it was enough.
A modest couch sat in the center, facing a television perched on a low stand. To the side was a compact kitchen, the counters neatly organized, with the bathroom tucked just besided.
Behind the couch stood the doorway to his small bedroom, which doubled as his gaming space.
A desk with his computer waited there, glowing faintly with standby lights, ready for him to lose himself in League of Fantasy game.
But Saruto dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, arms spread wide, the weight of the day sliding off his shoulders.
The silence of the room wrapped around him like a blanket.
Until he finally drifted asleep...
"Young Master, time to wake up~" A calm, gentle voice whispered into his ear, pulling him out of the deep abyss of exhaustion.
"Agh... 5 more minutes..." Saruto muttered, half asleep, instinctively pulling the blanket over his head.
The couch, for some reason, felt impossibly soft and comfortable—like he was sinking into a cloud.
Yet, no matter how wide the couch appeared to be, he seemed to disappear into it, cocooned in its plush embrace.
The girl's voice sighed softly, the sound almost melodic. "Ara-ara~ Well, I have no choice then."
Suddenly, a splash of water magic hit him square in the face.
"Wha—WHAT THE HECK?!" Saruto shot up, sputtering and wiping his face, completely taken by surprise. His brain was still catching up with his body's sudden, panicked movement.
"Huh??" His confused gaze slowly rose, locking onto the young woman standing beside him.
She was dressed in a frilly apron, her dark hair styled neatly as she batted her eyelashes at him, her cheeks dusted with a light blush. The sight of her was... strange.
"Ah~ Young Master, please don't look at me that way," she scolded lightly, her voice laced with playful reproach.
Saruto stared at her, speechless, eyes wide as saucers.
'Why is there a woman in a frilly apron in my room??' he thought frantically, his internal monologue spiraling out of control.
'Wait—why am I in a room with gold trim? Why do I have so much hair? Huh?? Why is it brown??!' His body felt foreign.
He reached up to touch his face, his fingers meeting something far softer and thicker than he was used to. The shock sent another wave of confusion crashing through him.
"Young Master?" The maid tilted her head, concerned.
Saruto blinked. He was internally screaming, his brain was struggling to connect the dots of his new reality.
His voice came out as a croak. "Wh-where am I?" His lines stuttering.
The young maid seemed to take his dazed confusion as a minor annoyance, shaking her head.
"You're in your room, of course, Young Master. Now, please your breakfast awaits while it still warm."
Saruto's mind was spinning in a hundred different directions.
He glanced around, suddenly realizing the room wasn't his apartment at all. No dim lights, no dusty furniture, no simple decor—just polished floors, rich tapestries, and enough gold trim to make a king blush.
'This isn't... MY ROOM!?!' he thought, his heart pounding.
To Be Continued...
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Synchronization: 000.2%