Inside the Plagatoscal Blueview Hotel, Jasmine sat in her office, the leather chair creaking softly beneath her. Her mind raced—a thousand thoughts competing for attention—until one face pushed through the chaos and settled over her like a warm blanket.
Delvin.
Her breathing slowed. Her shoulders relaxed.
She closed her eyes, letting the images wash over her.
'Hey Delvin, will you come over tonight? It's already six o'clock. You didn't even ask for my number.'
Her fingers curled against the pendant.
'I thought about asking you, but I was too shy. Too timid. But next time you come around, I'll gather my courage. I'll ask.'
Her chest ached with longing.
'I miss your energy. That deep sensation you left in my head—I can't escape it. My thoughts are stained with your image. I think about you more than anything else, day or night. A thought of you gives me peace, even when everything else is chaos.'
Her lips curved into a soft smile.
'If I were an artist, I'd paint a thousand portraits of your face. I'd hang them in my bedroom, my office, everywhere. There's nothing I desire more than you, my love.'
Goosebumps rippled across her arms. Her skin felt electric, alive.
She opened her eyes and whispered to the empty room, "Wow. Just thinking about him gives me goosebumps."
---
Back in Delvin's room, silence pressed in around him. He sat on the edge of his bed, his mind turning over possibilities. How could he improve himself beyond practicing at Death Driven Valley?
"Skylark?" His voice cut through the quiet.
The system activated with a soft chime.
A hologram display materialized in his mind—not in front of his eyes, but "inside" his consciousness. His breath caught.
"Wow. This is definitely new." The words came out hushed, reverent.
He'd grown used to smartphone interfaces. This was something else entirely. He scrolled through the glowing options, his mental touch making them shimmer and shift. Then one caught his attention: Game Quest.
"Skylark, what is this game quest about?"
'With this quest game, you're given missions to complete and earn real money.'
Skylark's voice was smooth, almost musical. 'It also improves your real-life combat skills.'
Delvin's pulse quickened. He pressed on the Quest option.
"Welcome, Delvin Dred, to the Ninth Realm of martial arts fighters in the seventh dimension." The new voice was crisp, artificial—distinctly AI. "Here you have the opportunity to soar high and reach your dreams. My name is Lexon, and I'll be your tour guide."
A pause. "Any questions?"
"How do I go about it?"
"It's very simple. First, choose an avatar and your game name."
Delvin's jaw tightened. Skepticism crept up his spine, making his shoulders tense.
"Don't worry. This is a legitimate game. No tricks." Lexon's tone shifted, as if reading his hesitation.
*Today's technology is too much,* Delvin thought, shaking his head.
"You can call me Alvin Trickster."
"Generating automated avatar."
Different avatars scrambled across the hologram display in a dizzying blur—warriors, mages, beasts—until the selection landed on one: Magnum the Thunder God. The name dissolved, replaced by new text: Alvin Trickster, the Thunder God.
"The rules are simple. You need one hundred data units to enter a match." Lexon paused. "You currently have zero data units. However, the game offers you one hundred data units free for a single match. You stand to win the equivalent."
Delvin's heart hammered. "Level one, stage one."
The world shifted.
Alvin Trickster materialized high above a massive arena. Thunder cracked across a dark sky, illuminating roiling clouds. He plummeted downward, wind screaming past his ears, and landed in a crouch on the arena floor. White-blue smoke billowed from his body, dissipating into the air. The stands were packed—thousands of faces, a sea of humanity pressing in from all sides.
A life bar appeared in his peripheral vision: 100%.
A master of ceremonies strode into the center of the arena, his voice amplified to impossible volume.
"Ladies and gentlemen, young and old, help me welcome the challenger!" He thrust his arm toward Alvin. "Alvin... the Trickster!"
Silence.
Then—
"Boo!"
"Boo!"
"Boo!" The sound swelled, a wave of derision crashing over him.
Somewhere in the stands, a voice cut through the noise. "Morris, I'm betting twenty thousand dollars that Alvin the Trickster won't last two rounds!"
"Come on, Nathaniel! A newbie?"
"Let's make it ten thousand."
A pause. "Actually, I've changed my mind. I'll bet fifty thousand on the newbie. Alvin the Trickster."
"Are you serious, Morris?"
A mischievous laugh. "What's the point of betting if we don't try on new fighters?"
"You're crazy. Honestly."
"Alright, alright. Fifty thousand he won't last two rounds."
The referee raised his hands, his voice booming. "Quiet! Quiet!"
The crowd settled into a tense hush.
"And now, I, Dangdong, welcome—our one and only—Death Breeder! Maragoya Makunda!"
The arena *exploded*.
"Hell yes!" The crowd surged to their feet, jumping, hugging, dancing. Some kissed strangers in wild celebration.
"Makunda! Makunda! Makunda!" The chant built like a war drum, shaking the very ground beneath Alvin's feet.
Maragoya Makunda entered the arena, and the energy became feral. Alvin's chest tightened. His hands curled into fists.
"Hello, everyone!" Makunda's voice carried effortlessly over the roar. He bowed low, then straightened with a predatory grin. "Do you want to be entertained?"