The only light in the cramped Tokyo apartment came from three massive monitors, each painting the room in a frantic, shifting dance of neon and shadow. In the center of the glow sat Kenji "Spxrrow" Sato, a statue of focused intensity. His fingers were a blur across the mechanical keyboard, each click and clack a percussive beat in the symphony of combat unfolding on the main screen.
"He's at 5%! Don't get greedy! Healers, mana check! Tank two, get ready to taunt on my mark!" Kenji's voice was calm, a sharp contrast to the chaos on the voice chat. He wasn't shouting; he was conducting.
On screen, his character, a heavily-armoured Vanguard class named Spxrrow, moved with a grace that defied its bulky appearance. He danced through a hail of crimson meteors, his shield deflecting a claw swipe meant for the party's healer while his own greatsword lashed out in a punishing counter-attack.
"He's casting 'Worldbreaker'! Everyone to the safe zone, now!" a voice screeched in his headset.
Kenji didn't move. His eyes flickered across the boss's animation, noting the subtle tell in its shoulder movement a half-second before the official cast bar appeared. "False cast. He's baiting. DPS, keep pushing. He'll do the real one after the tail swipe."
He was right. The boss's massive tail slammed down where the "safe zone" would have been, obliterating the spot. The real cast bar for 'Worldbreaker' began to fill a second later, and Kenji was already moving, calling out the new, true safe zone with a cool, "North-east pillar. Go."
This was his element. This was where he was a god. In the real world, Kenji was just another face in the crowd. But here, in Ignition, he was Spxrrow. The strategist. The first and only player to solo the Serpent of the Shattered Sea. The one whose gameplay videos garnered millions of views. He lived for this—the perfect execution of a perfect plan, the sheer, beautiful math of a fight reduced to its variables.
With a final, thunderous roar, the boss—a colossal dragon of living magma named Igneon—collapsed. The screen erupted in a storm of gold, experience points, and legendary loot.
A chorus of cheers and relieved laughter exploded in the voice chat. "We did it!Holy crap, Spxrrow, you are insane!" "That dodge at the end!How did you even see that?" "Loot!Someone link the loot!"
Kenji allowed himself a small, tight smile, finally leaning back in his chair. His shoulders ached from hours of tension. "Good run, everyone. Clean up. I'm checking the logs." His voice was hoarse from hours of callouts.
He was the first to leave the party. The social niceties, the loot distribution—it was all noise. The victory, the flawless execution, was the only prize that mattered to him. He tabbed out, pulling up his streaming software. The chat was still scrolling at a manic pace.
Apex of Ruin. The final expansion. The one that had defeated him. He'd been the first to reach the final boss, the World-Eater. He'd spent twelve straight hours learning the mechanics, inching closer each attempt. He'd had it. He'd seen the final phase. And then… a city-wide internet outage. A flicker, a disconnect, and just like that, his character was gone, and the world-first achievement belonged to someone else. The greatest player in the world, defeated not by a game, but by a faulty internet cable.
The frustration was a physical thing, even now, weeks later. He'd never gone back. It felt like a permanent stain on his record.
With a sigh, he shut down his rig. The room plunged into darkness, the sudden silence feeling oppressive. The glow-in-the-dark clock on his wall read 2:17 AM. Ramen. He needed ramen.
Pulling on a hoodie, he grabbed his wallet and slipped out of his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. The night air was cool and carried the faint smell of rain. Akihabara was quieter now, the electric buzz of the city muted, though neon signs still cast their colourful glow on the wet streets.
He was so deep in his own head, replaying the Igneon fight, thinking about the one fight that got away, that he didn't notice the two men step out of the shadows of a narrow alley until it was too late.
"Hey, kid. Nice night for a walk."
Kenji looked up, his gamer's mind instantly assessing the situation. Two of them. Bigger than him. Blocking the path. This was a common ambush spot in a dozen MMOs. In a game, he'd have a dozen ways to handle it: a stun, a knockback, a stealth potion.
In reality, his options were zero.
He tried to step back, but a hand clamped on his arm. "Just your wallet. Don't make a fuss."
His heart hammered against his ribs. This was wrong. This wasn't part of the script. He was Spxrrow. He didn't lose. A cold, defiant anger rose in him. It was the same anger he felt at the World-Eater, at the disconnect. He wouldn't just hand it over.
He jerked his arm back. It was a futile, stupid move. A movement born of muscle memory from a digital world where actions had instant, calculated consequences.
The world exploded in a white-hot flash of pain.
He looked down, confused. A knife handle protruded from his stomach. It looked unreal, like bad CGI. The man who held it looked even more surprised than Kenji was, his eyes wide with panic.
"You idiot! I said just grab it!" the other man hissed.
The first man yanked the blade out. The pain that followed was unlike anything Kenji could have ever imagined. It was a debuff that couldn't be cleansed. A Damage-Over-Time effect that was ticking far, far too fast.
His legs gave way. The cold, wet asphalt met his cheek. The two men were arguing, their voices fading in and out. He heard footsteps running away.
Alone. He was alone.
The rain began to fall, mixing with the warm blood spreading beneath him. He stared at a puddle, watching the distorted reflection of a neon sign dance in the ripples.
This is it? The thought was distant, numb. A random encounter? A critical hit from a trash mob?
His life wasn't flashing before his eyes. His career was. The first time he hit max level. The world-first raid clears. The millions of damage dealt. The adoration of thousands of viewers. The Citadel of Embers. The World-Eater. The disconnect.
He had never finished the game.
The darkness at the edges of his vision wasn't a screen fade. It was final. It was a total party wipe.
A final, bitter thought echoed in his mind, a player's last prayer to no one in particular.
I wish… I could have another shot. I'd make it… so easy…
And then, Kenji "Spxrrow" Sato, the greatest gamer no one would ever remember, saw nothing at all.