"THAT MOTHERFUCKA!"
Rika Moore's voice thundered through the modest Moore household, rattling the cheap picture frames on the wall and startling the neighbor's dog into barking. The outburst was nothing new — in fact, it was the closest thing the family had to a reliable alarm clock. Every morning without fail, Rika found some reason to scream about Kamadeva Alexandre, and every morning the rest of the Moores rolled their eyes, sighed, or chuckled while spooning breakfast into their mouths.
At the dining table, her father, Leonard Moore, lowered the newspaper just enough to peer at her over the rim of his glasses. His mustache twitched as he tried — and failed — to suppress a grin. "Let me guess," he drawled. "He texted you something stupid again?"
"He didn't just text me something stupid," Rika shot back, fists clenched at her sides. Her long braid whipped over her shoulder as she stomped toward the table. "He texted me like he knew what was going to happen today. Like he had the nerve — the goddamn balls — to smirk through the screen. He thinks he's clever, Dad!"
Her younger brother, Marcus, barely twelve years old, snorted into his cereal. Milk sprayed out his nose, making him choke and laugh at the same time. "He's always cleverer than you, Rika. Maybe you're just mad 'cause he beat you in that fight last week."
"Shut it, runt!" Rika barked, snatching the box of cereal from his side and shaking it menacingly. "Don't think I won't pour the rest of this on your dumb head."
Their mother, Cynthia, didn't even flinch at the threat. She calmly buttered a piece of toast and slid it across to her husband. "Rika, baby, you scream about that boy more than you talk about your homework, your grades, or your chores. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were obsessed."
"I'm not obsessed!" Rika roared, her cheeks heating as her family's laughter rose around her. "He's just— he's just— ARGH!" She grabbed a chair, spun it around, and dropped into it so violently that the wooden legs screeched against the floor.
Leonard chuckled into his coffee. "You know, back in my day, when a girl screamed this much about a boy, it meant she was sweet on him."
Marcus smirked, his mouth full of soggy flakes. "Yeah, Sis. Bet you dream about him at night."
The cereal box flew across the table and smacked Marcus in the face, scattering a storm of flakes everywhere.
"Don't test me!" Rika snarled, standing again, her fists trembling. "I wouldn't dream about that cocky, arrogant, lazy, freeloading, soda-chugging piece of shit if you paid me!"
Her family didn't even flinch at her fury. They were used to it — Rika's temper was as much a fixture of the Moore household as the wobbly dining table or the flickering kitchen light.
But underneath the theatrics, there was a harder truth gnawing at her.
Money.
The Moore family wasn't poor in the sense of starving, but they lived paycheck to paycheck. Leonard worked long hours as a mechanic, his hands scarred and blackened by grease. Cynthia picked up shifts at a local clinic. Marcus was too young to help yet, though he talked about getting a job as soon as he turned thirteen. And Rika… well, Rika was supposed to be their ticket forward.
She was strong, smart in her own rough way, and more determined than anyone else in her class. Her family had scraped together what they could to cover her tuition at God COG University's prep program, knowing that if she got into a gaming workshop, their entire future could change. Gamers who broke big didn't just get fame — they got endorsement deals, sponsorships, even government contracts.
But workshops weren't cheap. Entry fees, equipment costs, training schedules — it was all designed to bleed a family dry before a student even touched their first match. Rika also sighed up for the Fighter Course.
Gaming and Fighting are two two biggest ways to make money in the world. The Gaming world makes 7.6 trillion dollars year while various fighting athlete making billions.
Turley a Gamer & Marital Punk world without being too depressing.
"Why him?" Rika muttered bitterly, stabbing her fork into a pancake so hard the plate rattled. "Why does he always show up right when I don't need him?"
Her mother arched an eyebrow. "Maybe because deep down, you do need him."
Rika's face turned red. "I do not—!"
"Baby," Cynthia said with a sly smile, "you shout about him so much I feel like he lives here rent-free. Might as well pull up a chair for him at breakfast."
Marcus snorted. "Yeah. Put him right next to Rika so they can fight and make out at the same time."
That was the last straw.
"AAAAARGH!"
Rika launched herself across the table, snatched her brother into a headlock, and noogied him until he squealed. Cynthia sighed, sipping her tea, while Leonard shook his head behind his paper.
"Someday you'll thank me," Marcus wheezed, his voice muffled under Rika's arm. "When you two get married—"
The noogie intensified.
"—okay, okay! When you two kill each other! Much better!"
Finally releasing him, Rika stomped toward the door, grabbing her bag on the way out.
"Where are you going?" her mother called after her.
"To settle this shit!" Rika shouted, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the house.
....
The streets buzzed with life as she marched down them, braid swinging like a whip behind her. Every step was charged with fury. Neighbors waved, accustomed to her fiery energy, but no one dared stop her. They knew that look in her eye — the look that meant someone was about to get their ass handed to them.
Her fists were tight at her sides, her jaw clenched. Kamadeva had always had that effect on her. Ever since they were kids, he'd been the only one who could push her buttons so perfectly, so deliberately. He knew her temper, knew her pride, and he poked at it like a child poking at a beehive just to see if it would sting.
And the worst part? He always seemed to get away with it.
She remembered the first time they fought. He had been scrawny, cocky, running his mouth about some video game boss he'd beaten. She had swung on him without hesitation, expecting him to crumble. Instead, he dodged, grinned, and tapped her shoulder like it was all a game. She'd tried again and again, furious, and every time he slipped just out of reach. When she finally connected, he'd laughed like she'd just made his day.
And when they sparred years later, when she had trained and honed herself, he had still beaten her. Once. Just once. But once was enough. It gnawed at her every day since.
Today would be no different. Today, she would remind him why no one else dared to mess with Rika Moore.
By the time she reached Kamadeva's rundown studio apartment, her rage had crystallized into laser focus. She stormed up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the peeling paint, the buzzing lights, the faint smell of mildew in the air. At his door, she didn't bother knocking. She slammed it open with enough force to bounce it off the wall.
"KAMADEVA!" she bellowed. "Get your smug ass out here right now before I drag it out myself!"
Inside, the apartment was just as messy as she remembered — clothes everywhere, old soda cans stacked like trophies, gaming magazines scattered across the floor. And in the middle of it all stood Kamadeva, calm as a monk, his arms folded across his chest.
The bastard was smiling.
"Good morning, sunshine," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "You're late. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
Rika froze, caught off guard by his composure. For a heartbeat, her anger faltered. But then she saw that grin — that infuriating, knowing grin — and her fury came roaring back.
"You think this is funny?!" she snapped, stomping toward him. "You text me like you've got some big secret, like you're smarter than everyone else, like you—"
Before she could finish, he moved. One smooth step forward, one quick motion, and her wrist was caught. Then, with a twist, she found herself spun around and locked into his armfold, her back pressed lightly against his chest.
The world tilted.
Her cheeks burned.
And Kamadeva leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, his grin wide enough to split his face.
"Careful, Rika," he teased, his voice low and mocking. "You keep coming at me like this, people are gonna start thinking you like it."
Her scream shook the apartment.
....
~Flashback~ Earlier that day.
The shopping district of Northside buzzed like a hive about to burst. Neon billboards screamed from every corner, projecting the countdown to Terra Blue Star's launch in bold, glowing letters. Vendors barked deals, street performers juggled holographic flames for tips, and the air reeked of fried food, synthetic oils, and desperation. Everyone — from broke students to corporate sharks — was here for one reason: preparation.
Kamadeva didn't remember this many people buying stuff before than again he did joined a Gaming Workshop instead of buying the equipment.
On his left, a group of freshmen from God COG University squealed at a vendor selling "discount" nutrient packs that were clearly one bad batch away from food poisoning. On his right, a scalper waved a handheld console at a nervous parent, shouting about "limited edition preorder bonuses" while jacking the price threefold. Kamadeva snorted. Scams everywhere. Some things never change.
At the far end of the district stood the Green Aid distributor, a sleek glass-fronted building guarded like a bank vault. Security drones hovered above the entrance, scanning IDs, while a line of customers stretched around the block. Each one wore the same look — hunger, not for food, but for status, for power, for the ticket into Terra Blue Star's new frontier.
Kamadeva's lips curled into a grin. "Well damn. Guess history doesn't lie. These babies really are about to vanish."
The line shuffled forward inch by inch. Students whispered anxiously, others argued about black-market alternatives.
"Bet they sell out before we even get in.""No way, I've been camping here since last night.""Bro, shut up, you're gonna jinx it—"
Kamadeva tuned them out. His mind wasn't on the line, but on the future. He remembered the moment years from now when cabins became rarer than gold, when desperate players sold kidneys, houses, or spouses just for a chance at one. He wasn't about to let that nightmare repeat.
By the time he reached the counter, sweat clung to his brow, but his grin never wavered. He slapped down his ID and transferred the lottery funds without flinching. The clerk, a weary-looking man with bags under his eyes, slid the purchase slip across the counter as if handling a holy relic.
"Two Virtual Cabins, Model 7," the clerk said in a monotone. "Delivery scheduled for tonight. Guard it well. People will kill for these."
"Don't worry," Kamadeva replied, flashing a cocky smirk. "I've been killed before."
The clerk gave him a strange look, but Kamadeva just pocketed the receipt and stepped aside.
Now came the second item: Exliar Paste. Unlike the gleaming Green Aid store, the shop for this was tucked in a dingy corner of the district, hidden behind a flickering neon sign that read "Supplements & Mods." Inside, the air was thick with chemical tang, the shelves stacked with nutrient packs, muscle enhancers, and shady off-brand serums.
A clerk with cybernetic eyes leaned on the counter, flipping through a magazine. He barely looked up when Kamadeva approached.
"Whatcha need, kid?"
"Exliar Paste," Kamadeva said. "Twelve cases of D-class. Five hundred A-Class."
The clerk raised a brow. "Starter grind, huh? Most folks just stick with Nutrient Fluids. Paste tastes like shit."
Kamadeva shrugged. "Don't care. It works."
The clerk chuckled, disappearing into the backroom before returning with two bulky packs. The logo on the side was faded, but Kamadeva didn't need branding to know what he was looking at. The cheapest grade of pseudo-serum. The knockoff of a legend.
He dropped the credits on the counter and scooped up the packs.
Perfect. Pod for the body. Paste for the grind. Step one complete.
As he stepped back into the neon-lit street, Kamadeva tilted his head toward the sky, watching the holographic countdown tick down second by second. Twenty-four hours until Terra Blue Star opened its gates. Twenty-four hours until the world changed again.