The year was 2127.
Humanity had weathered three centuries of revolutions—artificial intelligence had come, multiplied, and matured through four distinct eras. Space travel had become routine after the sixth exploration revolution. Cities sprawled in shining glass and chrome, humming with machines. Robots tilled fields, ran factories, built homes, even composed music.
And people? People were left with little work to do.
For billions, the only meaningful livelihood came not from the physical world but from the virtual one. VRMMORPGs—fully immersive virtual reality games—had become both economy and escape. Athletes, singers, and movie stars had faded into irrelevance. Today's celebrities were the pro gamers whose kill counts and world firsts dominated the feeds. A lucky few had amassed fortunes larger than old-world dynasties.
Now, the world's gaze turned to one title.
Ancient Myth.
The developers had claimed a breakthrough: fidelity at one hundred percent. Where other games still rendered sensation at seventy-five, Ancient Myth promised flawless immersion—taste, touch, even pain. The announcement had triggered a frenzy. Corporations collapsed as their games bled players. People queued for days to secure the neural capsules required. The Earth Federation had to regulate distribution because over eight billion sign-ups threatened to crash networks. Journalists dubbed it "mankind's second home."
In the district of Haijing, behind glass towers and neon-lit boulevards, a modest dojo held thirty students of varying ages. They stood in rows, sweat dripping from brows, chests rising and falling after the evening's session.
Their instructor, Tony, walked the line. Tall, broad-shouldered, black hair tied at his nape, he wore a simple training gi damp with sweat. He wasn't a famous master, not officially. But his presence carried a weight none of the thirty dared dismiss.
A timid voice broke the silence.
"Sensei, are you going to play the new game?"
It was Aya, the youngest girl in the dojo, barely sixteen. Her words sparked an eager chorus of whispers. All eyes turned to Tony, waiting for his reply.
He opened his mouth—
"Of course we're going to play," another voice cut in smoothly. "And we'll take the game by storm. We'll stand at the top."
The students turned as one.
Mark.
He leaned against the wall, golden hair catching the overhead light, blue eyes sharp with arrogance. His smile was the sort that charmed strangers and infuriated rivals. Even in a plain gi, he looked like a noble out of place in a backstreet dojo.
If anyone else had boasted about reaching the top of Ancient Myth, the students would've laughed. The competition was beyond brutal; entire corporations fielded professional teams. But when Mark spoke, no one mocked.
Except Tony.
"Let go of me, you sick bastard," he muttered, prying Mark's arm from his shoulder.
"Embarrassed, my lovely junior?" Mark's grin widened.
"You want to die right now?"
"Well, I do," Mark replied softly, "but you're not qualified to make it happen."
The air thickened. Students shifted uneasily, sweat running down their spines. Everyone knew what was about to follow.
Tony and Mark fought often. Too often. Both were prodigies. Both were terrifying. And when their tempers clashed, the dojo itself trembled.
"Sensei, please—" one apprentice began, but his voice faded as the two men squared off.
Their reputations had been forged not here but in the Abyss Battlefield.
An underground arena where the only rule was don't kill, the Abyss had grown into the crucible of the world's fighting elite. Nutrient fluids, rare combat techniques, high-grade cybernetics—rewards so outrageous they drew fighters from every corner of the Federation. What had begun as a scouting ground for martial talent had evolved into a marketplace of glory and blood.
It was there that the world had named them.
Tony, The Mad Demon. Twenty-one matches, twenty-one victories. A berserker whose calm eyes belied the frenzy he unleashed once the bell rang.
Mark, The Smiling Devil. Twenty-six wins, flawless record, his grin never fading even as opponents collapsed under his fists.
No wonder the apprentices shivered. If these two erupted here, nothing short of divine intervention could stop them.
"Enough."
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.
Every head turned toward the entrance. A man walked in, posture straight but relaxed, white hair falling to his shoulders. His features were unremarkable, his robe plain. He could have been a retiree from next door—until one met his gaze.
The Master.
Every fighter in Haijing knew his name, though few dared speak it aloud. A living legend who had stepped away from the world stage, he now trained these two monsters.
"Master," Mark said quickly, voice respectful. "We were just joking around."
"Joking?" The Master arched a brow. "Don't waste lies on me. The moment your bickering began, you were itching to fight. The excuse hardly matters."
Mark's smile faltered. Tony looked away, jaw tight.
"Inside. Both of you."
The disciples exhaled as tension drained from the room. The storm had passed—for now.
In the courtyard, lantern light flickered across stone tiles. The Master folded his hands behind his back, studying his disciples.
"Let me guess," Tony said. "Another challenge in the Abyss?"
Mark smirked. "Wouldn't surprise me."
The Master sighed. "You two have made such a mess that half the world is lining up to fight you. This time, though, it isn't some street brawler. You've been challenged by a true disciple from the Dragon Dojo."
Tony's brows rose. Mark's eyes gleamed.
The Dragon Dojo. The number one institution in the Federation. Its disciples were groomed like princes, each battle a showcase. A fight against one of them was no simple exhibition—it was war.
"Well, that's interesting," Mark murmured, excitement lacing his tone.
Tony's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Finally. A real challenge."
The Master rolled his eyes. "Fools. You think strength alone will carry you? Do you know what resources the Dragon Dojo can bring to bear? This isn't a playground."
Then, almost casually, he added, "By the way—what classes are you choosing in the new game?"
Mark perked up instantly. "Thief, of course. Appearing, disappearing, taking out anyone I want—that's style." He turned to Tony. "And you'll pick swordsman, right?"
Tony nodded once. The sword was in his bones.
The Master's gaze lingered on them both. "Listen carefully. This game is different. There are secrets in Ancient Myth that none of you understand. Old powerhouses are coming out of retirement for it."
Tony frowned. "Master, it's just a game—"
"Just a game?" The Master's eyes flashed, then softened. "I'm too old to bother playing. But both of you… If you make me lose face in front of those returning titans, you'll suffer for it."
For once, Mark had no quip. Tony felt a chill. His Master rarely spoke without reason.
"Well," Tony said at last, a grin spreading across his face, "now I'm really interested." His fighting spirit surged like fire.
Hours later, back in their apartment, the rivals-turned-roommates finished their training routines. Side by side, they climbed into their gaming capsules.
The sleek pods sealed shut. Cool gel flowed, connecting neural pathways. A hum filled Tony's ears. His heartbeat slowed.
This is it.
For others, Ancient Myth was a chance at fame, wealth, or escape. For Tony, it was something different. He didn't dream of riches. He wasn't dazzled by celebrity. His vow was simpler, sharper.
"I'll stand at the top of this world," he whispered into the void.
A sound answered him—a voice, melodic and inhuman, ringing directly in his mind.
"Welcome to Ancient Myth, warrior."