A young man, just eighteen, had never known the feeling of walking—not all day, not even for a moment. His world was either his wheelchair or his bed.
His small apartment bore the signs of that life: neglected, cluttered, coated in the dust of time and loneliness.
A childhood tragedy had taken his legs. A shame, really. He had dreamed once—of doing, becoming, chasing something greater than the four walls that now held him.
Now, he sat day after day at his desktop PC, immersed in a story-driven game. A hero traversing a forgotten world, fighting echoes of lives once lived—ghosts of people, now just hollowed memories. He collected loot, leveled up, grinded endlessly. Day in, day out. A loop. A ritual.
It was pitiful, and he knew it.
He'd never wanted this. He'd always envisioned more—ambition, purpose, contribution. Not social security checks and government donations. Not this stagnant life. A fool, that's what he felt like. A recluse drowning in his own filth, in a two-room apartment that stank of unwashed sheets and abandoned hope.
His parents were long gone. Not dead, just… gone. They had let go of him, and strangely, he was grateful they hadn't stayed to hurt him instead.
Still, the thoughts haunted him—self-loathing creeping in like mold on the walls. He told himself he'd accepted his fate long ago, but deep down, he hadn't.
So he sat, playing his game. Fighting bosses. Competing with others. And, to his own surprise, he was good at it. Not exceptional, but respected—known in the community. He talked to people. He had friends. Online, at least. And in that little sphere, he felt alive.
He barely scraped through high school—graduated by what he suspected was sheer pity. College was a complete failure. He doubted his achievements were real, believed that people had handed him grades out of guilt. And he hated that. Hated the pity more than the pain. It reduced him, made him a symbol of sorrow rather than a person.
He often thought: If only I could move—just walk—my life would be entirely different. He would have become something. Anything.
But those thoughts were poison. There was no cure for his nerves. No miracle drug. There never would be.
So he sat, alone. He drank. Ate takeout. Rolled to the door in his chair when the food arrived. That, at least, was a small mercy: mobility through machinery.
And still, the game waited. His digital world—one place where he could fight back.
And so, he did.
---
Oren adjusted his headset with quiet resolve. The voice chat was already alive with excitement. His friends—Frederick, Oric, Ryn, and Enno—were online, all talking over each other.
"Are we actually doing this?" Ryn asked.
"Yeah, man, don't worry," Enno said. "It'll be a breeze."
"After all that prep, it'd be kinda embarrassing if we couldn't even beat him now," Oric added with a laugh.
"Ah, you're back, Oren!" Frederick chimed in.
That was his username—but unlike the others, it was also his real name. Oren. No one knew that, of course. No one guessed it either. It was too odd, too uncommon. It sounded like something from a book.
"Yeah," he said. "Got my food—let's go."
With everyone ready, they began their routine—buffing, checking gear, syncing tactics. Ahead of them stood the gate: a gothic recreation of Germany's Neuschwanstein Castle, reshaped into something darker, more ominous. Elegant white stone now bathed in shadowed obsidian, gleaming under a blood-red sun that hung motionless in the final zone's sky.
It was breathtaking.
"Fredrick, open the damn door," Ryn said, as they stood a bit too long before the entrance.
"Yeah," added Oric. "Stop standing around like a statue."
Oren could almost hear Frederick rolling his eyes. The guy was always dramatic.
"Alright, alright. Let me grab the key."
Frederick rummaged through his inventory before producing it: the Dark Key. Ornate engravings ran along its golden shaft, twin diamonds catching the dying sun's light and fracturing it into fleeting rainbows. Yet it exuded something vile—something corrupt. Mist clung to it like rot but never spread, held in place by whatever spell it bore.
"Every time I see it, it just gets more beautiful," Enno muttered in awe.
"Damn, can't we just sell it?" Ryn asked. "I mean, for real money? The market would lose its mind if we held an auction."
Oren shook his head to himself.
It was a rare item—limited-use, nearly irreplaceable. But that didn't matter. Not now. All that mattered was the fight.
"No," he said. "Let's just do it. What's a few hundred bucks compared to this moment? We're the last few people with the key. After this event, no one else gets to fight him. It'd be a waste to throw that away."
The group fell silent. Then, slowly, they nodded. Mixed emotions lingered on their voices—doubt, nostalgia, maybe even fear—but mostly, acceptance.
"Fine. Let's do it."
"Yeah, I agree. My second paycheck comes tomorrow anyway. Don't need the cash," Oric said.
"Man, shut up already," Ryn replied. "We get it—you have a job."
Laughter rippled through the chat.
They approached the gate. Frederick slid the key into the lock. A blinding white light flashed, then faded with a deep click. The gate shuddered, creaked open with a thunderous groan. A flood of darkness spilled out, cold and thick. Yet far ahead, at the chamber's far end, a faint pale glow flickered.
A throne.
At its peak, the Dark Knight sat motionless. Crimson eyes burned behind a horned black helm. His cape draped low, masking most of his jagged armor—but they knew. He was armed. Deadly.
He was waiting.
Oren's fingers tightened on his mouse. His sword gleamed on his back.
The Knight didn't move. He looked down on them like a sovereign gazing at trespassers. As Oren and Frederick stepped forward, the Knight's head tracked them—slow, deliberate.
Not a twitch. Not fear.
Only cold calculation.
Like a predator.
Then—slowly—he stood. The cape fell.
Jagged black armor gleamed like shattered obsidian.
He drew his blade: a massive onyx weapon pulsing with a river of red light from tip to hilt. Meant for giants—but he held it effortlessly.
"Don't forget," Enno said, voice low but urgent. "He's Rank Ten. We can bring him down—but only if we survive long enough. Stick to the plan. Drain him. Don't panic."
Oren's grip tightened around his sword. The tension in his jaw matched the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.
"Frederick. Let's move."
"Got it," Frederick answered, shifting his stance.
Oren and Frederick broke formation, charging forward as the others held position behind them. Their swords caught the faint, eerie light of the hallway, boots hammering against cold stone as they ascended the steps toward the throne.
The Dark Knight remained still, tracking them with those blood-red eyes. He didn't flinch, didn't prepare.
Then,
Silence.
Just as they reached the base of the throne, the Knight vanished.
"Wha-" Oren began.
He couldn't finish the thought. His character jolted—screen shuddering.
From the shadowed ceiling above, the Knight dropped like a hawk, black armor streaking through the air, blade-first. The onyx weapon pierced clean through Oren's side, his avatar buckling under the force.
Critical hit.
Red text bloomed across the HUD. His health bar plummeted—
—but not to zero.
A flash of white light: Unyielding Spirit triggered.
One HP.
Barely.
"OREN!" Frederick shouted.
He spun into a desperate counterattack, blade arcing wide with sheer momentum. But before the strike could land, the Knight turned to look at him—just a glance—and vanished again, swallowed whole by the mist.
Silence. Then: the low pulse of a heartbeat in Oren's headset.
"Shit."
Oren staggered back, potion in hand, downing it as quickly as the animation allowed. His health crawled upward, barely enough to stand.
Frederick moved in front of him, slamming a massive summoned shield into the ground. Divine Ward—a legendary-tier relic. The ground lit up with a ring of shining runes.
"How long to heal?" Frederick asked.
Oren glanced at the timer.
"Ten seconds and I'm full."
Frederick nodded, eyes ahead. "I'll hold him."
The rest of the party was currently supposed to fight the Generals.
The Knight's minions weren't filler enemies—they were rank 4 soldiers. Disciplined. Coordinated. Developers had coded them with terrifying intelligence.
Under normal circumstances, Oren would've admired it.
But this wasn't normal.
Not only was the boss significantly stronger, but even the minions could be a lot stronger too. It turned what should've been a simple plan into chaos.
And there was no time to dwell.
The Knight returned, dark flames engulfing his free hand. He lunged. A searing punch slammed into Frederick's shield—flame against steel, sparks flying, metal groaning.
Beautiful. But one-sided.
"Hang on," Oren muttered, forcing another potion down.
He didn't wait for the bar to go up. He had to help Frederick, now.
So he lunged again, blade low. A lucky strike pierced under the Knight's armor. Minimal damage—but enough to stagger him.
The Knight recoiled, vanishing into the mist.
Meamwhile Oren's bar finally filled. Health returned.
"Let's retreat," he said, breathing heavily. "This isn't working. We need to regroup with the others."
"I was gonna suggest that," Frederick replied.
Side by side, they started to retreat through the fog.
Their friends' voices buzzed in the headset as they rejoined the main voice channel— And chaos exploded.
"RUN—RUN, GET OUT!" Oric screamed.
"He killed all of us!" Enno shouted.
"BRO—WE DIED IN SECONDS!" Ryn barked.
"MOVE, BRO, MOVE!"
Their voices vanished mere moments later.
Oren's blood froze.
"Go!" he shouted.
They ran. Sprinting blind through mist and shadow.
The darkness closed in behind them, thick as smoke, cold as death. Their armor grew heavy with dread. Every step was a gamble.
The Knight was back there. Watching.
Waiting.
And the key—the only way in—was gone. It had dissolved in Frederick's hands the moment the gate opened. No do-overs. No recovery.
Dying here would mean more than just defeat. It meant losing everything they brought. Especially the gear.
The gear they couldn't replace.
They couldn't die.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not after everything they had poured into this.
Maybe for the others it was just a game—something fun, something to kill time. But for Oren, this was everything. In this chapter of his life, nothing else mattered.
He had wasted so much time in this world. And if all of that was about to be for nothing... if they lost everything here...
He didn't know what he'd do.
"Frederick!" he shouted, voice tight with desperation.
There was one thing he hadn't tried.
A relic-tier item—the highest-ranking artifact in the entire game. A buff. One that, for two minutes, granted a character the full stats of their maxed-out class. Whether you were a Thief, Mage, Sharpshooter, or Swordsman, the relic elevated every relevant stat to its limit. Most players never reached that point through grinding alone.
The item technically belonged to the whole group, but they'd agreed Oren would hold onto it. Just for safekeeping. It was too valuable to stash in a digital chest where it might be forgotten—or stolen.
Of course, he had never intended to use it. That was the unspoken rule. It was an investment. Something to sell. Maybe even a trophy. Using it would spark a whole conversation. Maybe even an argument.
But they were beyond that now.
Oren's voice steadied. "I'm sorry for what's about to happen. Just give me a moment."
Frederick gave him a confused glance, then raised his shield and braced. "I can buy you that moment," he said, gritting his teeth. "But I'm not promising anything after that."
As Frederick blocked another crushing blow from the Dark Knight—each one heavier, faster, more vicious than the last—Oren rifled through his inventory.
There it was.
A golden orb, cradling a swirling core of light, suspended within a web of rotating rings etched with runes. It pulsed softly in his palm—almost alive. Magical. Organic.
This was their last chance.
Frederick glanced over, eyes widening.
"Wait. Is that—?"
"Yeah."
"Shit. Alright. Do it. But you're explaining everything later."
Oren activated the orb.
Pop-up notifications flooded the screen—buff confirmations, stat alterations, warning tags—all disappearing just as quickly as they came. The interface adapted instantly. Strength, dexterity, endurance—everything relevant to his Swordsman class surged to the cap. Even stamina regeneration and resistances skyrocketed.
His magical stats remained untouched. The system left the irrelevant stats the same.
And it worked.
His HUD transformed, a golden sheen layered over his health and stats. His blade glowed faintly at his side, responding to his surge in power.
Oren took a breath. A grin of excitement forming on his face.
"I'm ready!"