Game 1: Finale Save File
Kyle's life didn't end the day the doctors said the word terminal. It had been ending for a long time, piece by piece. The first night he coughed blood into the sink. The first time his muscles refused to obey him. The first look on his mother's face when she pretended not to see his pain. People think death happens all at once, a clean cut. Kyle knew better. Death was erosion, a slow wearing away until nothing but a shadow remains.
That morning, the hospital felt like a world made of bleach and noise. White walls reflected nothing back. The fluorescent lights hummed without warmth, and the air smelled of disinfectant and latex. Nurses floated past in pastel uniforms, their smiles paper-thin. Kyle caught his reflection in the polished floor: a gaunt young man in his early twenties, hair dull, skin so pale it looked borrowed. Even his name, Kyle, felt like a coat he no longer fit into.
When the doctor came in, his clipboard looked heavier than it was. His mouth moved, but Kyle already knew the rhythm: incurable, progressive, no remission, comfort care, numbered days. They'd had this conversation before. Today was just a final confirmation. Kyle nodded like an obedient student while his insides twisted. He didn't scream. He didn't beg. Hope had long since stopped feeling like oxygen and started feeling like a waste of it.
On the cab ride home, the city blurred past the window, neon signs flickering, people laughing at bus stops, children tugging at their parents' hands. No one noticed the young man in the back seat who was already halfway gone. He pressed his forehead to the glass, watching raindrops crawl down in crooked paths. Each one slid into another and disappeared. He wondered if people would remember him the same way, briefly visible, then gone.
His apartment greeted him with silence. The blinds were drawn, electronics casting a faint glow across the room. Dust had settled on bookshelves he hadn't touched in months. Empty bottles crowded the sink. He ignored it all and went straight to his desk. The computer waited, humming softly, the one thing that had carried him further than any treatment ever could.
He switched it on. Blue light painted his hollow face. The title screen of Travellers appeared, an old game most people had abandoned, but the one world he still clung to. Inside it, he wasn't dying. Inside it, he was someone else entirely.
For two years, he had lived more in Travellers than in reality. He had been countless warriors, wanderers, and lords. But one character had always been his anchor: DeKalb von Lythop, a cursed prodigy. DeKalb had been born into nobility with a mind too sharp and a body too fragile, destined to rise and destined to fall, a candle meant to burn fast and bright. Kyle loved him because DeKalb was a mirror.
The doctors had said his time was almost over. He had listened without flinching. But now, in front of the screen, he allowed himself one selfish wish: to finish the game one last time. To breathe inside it until his own lungs refused to.
He clicked New Game.
The interface unfolded with familiar sounds, the menu glowing against his tired eyes. On the character creation screen, attributes hovered before him, strength, agility, intellect, charisma. Abilities sparkled in neat boxes, each one a promise. He felt like a gambler placing his final bet.
"Two genius traits," he whispered, voice hoarse in the empty room. He chose Swordsmanship Genius, a talent that let his avatar master techniques at impossible speed. Then Combat Intuition, a sixth sense in battle. Together, they were the foundation of legends.
But the game wasn't generous. A red warning pulsed: Penalty Required. Select Negative Trait.
Kyle scrolled past curses, weaknesses, and flaws that would cripple any ordinary run. His hand moved without hesitation. He clicked Terminal Illness.
The description filled the screen: Your life is limited. Every battle drains you. No matter how strong you grow, death will not wait.
Kyle let out a dry laugh. "Perfect," he muttered. "No lies here."
He sat back and followed with his eyes the character he had created. The menu light caught in the silver hair of DeKalb. His figure was thin, but dignified, and his eyes were keen, as steel. He was a brilliant and delicate figure. Kyle was hurting in his chest, but not because he was ill, but because he was recognized. This was him. This was the reality, bare and simple.
He pressed Confirm.
A loading screen would normally follow, moving artwork, a pause, followed by the prologue text. Rather, the screen was brighter than ever. Kyle initially believed that the monitor had malfunctioned, but then he touched it: a pull.
It started as a pull at the fringe of his vision, as though gravity was bending backward. The feeling diffused over his body. His skin prickled. The chair on which he was seated was no longer solid. The buzz of the computer had become a roaring noise that was filling his ears.
Kyle took the desk, but his hands went through the wood like it was smoke. Panic surged. His heart hammered unevenly. He attempted to scream, but the note broke and was absorbed in noise.
The screen devoured him. Colors were stretched out in streaks, bits of the game flew by in a torrent, kingdoms were lifted, dragons were flown, shadows of gods whispered promises. The whole world of Travellers seemed to empty into him. His body turned, melted, and was absorbed into the current.
There was one thing that ran through his mind: This is not possible.
But the pull didn't let go.
His apartment vanished. The chair, the dust, the bottles, his crumbling body all lost.
The spiral of light was all that was left, and he was sucked down by it. His lungs were on fire like he was drowning. His eyesight faded away leaving only blackness behind.