The chapter starts off at night.
The sky, which usually shimmered with a silver-blue moon and twinkling stars, was instead smothered by thick, restless clouds. The heavens rumbled faintly, as if a storm was preparing to descend upon the city. The streets below reflected the mood of the night—cars rushed past with their headlights cutting through the darkness, their engines growling impatiently, while the tall buildings stood cloaked in shadows like silent giants watching over the restless metropolis.
But—
In one of those towering buildings, a small flicker of light dared to challenge the suffocating darkness. Behind the glass of a modest apartment window, a single room was illuminated—not warmly, but with the cold, bluish glow of a laptop screen.
Inside, sitting hunched before that glow, was a man. He couldn't have been older than twenty-four. His emerald-green eyes glimmered faintly behind thin rectangular glasses, their light reflecting the fatigue and bitterness etched into his features. Long strands of his forest-green hair, tied tightly into a ponytail, spilled down his back, a few stubborn locks framing his face. A lollipop lazily rested between his lips, a poor attempt to sweeten a night drenched in frustration.
The room around him was far from tidy. Stacks of books and papers lay scattered across the floor, empty cans of energy drinks piled up at the corner of the desk, and unfinished instant ramen cups sat abandoned on the nightstand. The faint hum of the laptop fan filled the silence, as his fingers danced furiously across the keyboard. His pace was frantic, almost desperate—each keystroke sounded like a battle against the invisible weight crushing his spirit.
On the table, a small metal nameplate glistened faintly under the laptop's glow. The engraved letters read:
"Miyamoto Zig"
The name of a man who once dreamed of being recognized—not by wealth, not by power, but by the words he poured his soul into.
"Man, these guys really are the worst," Zig muttered, his voice hoarse and quiet, like a defeated whisper. He stopped typing, slumped forward, and pressed his forehead gently against the cool wooden surface of the desk. The lollipop clicked against his teeth as if mocking his attempt to distract himself.
On the screen, the cruel words of strangers filled the comment section of his story. Each line burned into his eyes, louder than the storm brewing outside.
"Man, this story is so ass, how can people even write something like this?"
"I regret reading this shit-ass story."
"I could've spent my time doing something else instead of wasting it here."
"This story was so ass that I started reading my physics textbook."
"Trigonometry was more interesting than this."
"Even a child could write something better than this author."
"The story was good, but why the f*ck is the MC so goddamn overpowered?!"
"Is the author still publishing this? I would've killed myself if I had to read more of these chapters."
"The author must be some perv who enjoys hate comments, lol."
"Algebra is better than this trash."
"Organic Chemistry has more thrill than this plot."
"Even Bio-Chemistry is less predictable than this garbage."
And those weren't the only ones. More and more notifications pinged with venom:
"This author doesn't understand basic storytelling."
"Stop writing, you're embarrassing yourself."
"Your world-building is a joke."
"I bet this guy never touched grass in his life."
"Pathetic."
Zig's eyes lingered on that last one.
Pathetic.
His fingers trembled slightly above the keyboard. He wanted to respond, to shout back at them, to tell them how many nights he had sacrificed for this, how many times he had stared at a blank page until his head hurt, how much of his heart he had poured into those words. But what good would it do? They wouldn't understand. They never did.
Instead, he let out a bitter laugh—short, empty, and broken. The sound echoed in the small room, swallowed quickly by the storm's distant rumble.
He leaned back in his chair, green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. For a moment, the glow of the laptop illuminated his face enough to reveal the exhaustion carved deep into it. Dark circles haunted his eyes. His lips curled into a faint, lifeless smile.
"This world doesn't forgive failures…" he whispered to no one.
The storm outside began to grow louder, the wind howling against the windowpane. The city rushed on, oblivious to the young man drowning in silence inside a single, glowing room.
Then—
"Forget about it." Zig stretched his hands above his head, letting out a long sigh that sounded more like exhaustion than relief. "Let's play some games." His voice lacked energy, but there was a tiny spark of curiosity hiding behind it.
The problem was, Zig had never really been a gamer. He was such a loner that he didn't have any friends who could recommend him titles, nor did he care enough to follow trends. Every ounce of his free time, every scrap of his mental energy, had always gone into writing. Even when he had a chance to relax, he'd be scribbling notes for characters, sketching out plots, or typing until his fingers ached. Games, parties, hangouts—those were foreign luxuries.
"But what should I even play? I don't know the first thing about games…" Zig muttered, rubbing his chin with his fingers as though deep philosophical thought was needed to solve this. "Scrap it. Let's just check online."
With a single click, he exited the fanfiction site he had been staring at just moments ago—the same site where hateful words had cut into him like knives. Before closing the tab, though, his eyes lingered on the comments one last time. There was sadness there, something heavy in his gaze, but he quickly shook it off. "No point in sulking. Forget about it," he whispered, though his tightened jaw betrayed that he didn't really believe it.
He pulled up his browser. The brightness of the screen cut through the dark of his room, reflecting in his green eyes as his fingers tapped at the keyboard.
Search: Most played games.
Dozens of results popped up immediately—battle royales, RPGs, shooters, survival games. Zig scrolled through them with little interest, his expression unchanging as names and advertisements passed by. He wasn't drawn to flashy graphics or multiplayer hype. He kept scrolling, and scrolling… until his eyes finally stopped.
The title read: Achievement Collector.
"Achievement Collector…?" Zig tilted his head, squinting at the name. "Weird. But… there's something about it." His heart beat a little faster. He didn't know why, but something about those two words pulled him in. Maybe it was instinct, maybe just curiosity—but whatever it was, it felt different.