Game 4: The Unread Mail
The air around him was unsettled as it had been since the moment he realized that his body was no longer his own, and again when the word "Terminal" flashed on his status screen like the cursed and stone-etched warning. His chest hurt with despair and rage; his heart pounded against his ribs, as if it would burst. He hoped it was some trick, that the screen was lying or spewing out mangled code. But the system's cold and merciless precision offered no scope for hope.
And then came the chime.
A sharp sound broke through his emotional storm--clear, metallic, like a bell ringing in his two ears and mind. The systems voice subsequently followed in a detached and calm manner: You have one unread mail in your mailbox. Would you like to check it now?"
He froze. His fists, locked and quivering over his knees, began to slacken. For the moment he was tempted to think that the words were a weakness hallucination. A mail in this half, game, half, nightmare world, where he was trapped in a body he barely knew, what could it be? It was not a weapon or guide or potion for healing. It was a letter.
He swallowed hard and his throat was dry and in a cracked voice that did not sound like his own he said: 'Open it.'
The system obeyed instantly, like a butler bowing to a master. The screen dissolved, then re-formed as a single dark envelope traced in faint silver light. He touched it with a finger that was thin, fragile, the finger of a boy who had been sick too long. The envelope peeled apart, and words began to appear, one line after another, each one burning into existence as though carved into his skull.
[To: Kiran Kyle / DeKalb von Lythop]
His breath stopped.
The chamber, hazy and digital around him, seemed to tilt sideways. The name glared from the screen, bold and undeniable. His real name. His birth name. Not just Kyle, the mask he wore before shutting the world away. Not just DeKalb, the cursed shell he had chosen here. Both together.
Someone knew.
He staggered back a step, almost falling as his weakened legs buckled. His chest clamped tight, panic crushing the air from him. That name had not been spoken in years. Kiran Kyle. His parents' voices flickered faintly in memory, calling him to dinner, scolding him, whispering it before sleep. But their faces were blurred now, their voices faded by time and sickness. Even before he had fallen into this game-world, he had barely remembered them.
And now the name was here again, written with surgical clarity, like a knife pressed to his throat.
".Who. who the hell." His whisper cracked before it reached the end. His hands shook violently, his knuckles bone-white.
The letter went on, cold and patient.
[You don't remember me, but I need to say this. It's been a long time.]
[You did well over the last two years.]
[You deserve to be here.]
[Welcome back to the game.]
Each sentence dropped like a hammer into the hollow of his chest. His body went still, his eyes wide, his throat refusing to swallow.
It wasn't the name that gutted him. Not even the fact someone knew who he was. It was the phrase, cruel and impossible:
"Welcome back."
Back?
The thought curled in his skull like smoke, hot and choking. He had never been here. He had only touched this world through the glow of a screen, through menus and stories. He was supposed to be a stranger here, some intruder cursed with the same sickness that haunted his real life. He had never stood inside this world.
So why. welcome back?
His knees buckled and he sat heavily on a chair that blinked into being beneath him, conjured as if the system had anticipated his collapse. His body trembled, skin clammy. That one phrase scattered his memories like broken glass. He was fourteen again, hunched at a desk, coughing blood into tissues he stuffed into the trash. His computer screen glowed with Travellers. He clicked. He created. Swordsmanship. Genius Combat. Terminal Illness.
But nothing more. Nothing to suggest he had been here before. Unless.
His eyes darted back to the screen, desperate, furious. "What do you mean welcome back? What the hell do you mean, back?"
His words bounced against the empty chamber walls. No reply. Then new text flickered alive.
[You're wondering about that line, aren't you.]
[Yes. You're no longer in your old world. This is your reality now.]
The breath tore out of him like a punch to the gut. His chest heaved, his lungs clawing for air. He wanted to scream, curse, demand answers, but his voice stuck. His old world, his dying body in that cramped apartment, the cluttered desk with its empty bottles, the silence of long nights alone, gone. Was that what this meant? That his corpse lay lifeless in that room, while his mind had been dragged here?
Or worse, that the world he came from had never been real at all?
He pressed his palms against his face, gripping hard enough to hurt, teeth grinding. His stomach twisted with sickness, confusion, terror. And yet, deep inside, anger flickered. Whoever this was, they had stolen everything. His death, his rebirth, even his truth.
And they dared to send him a letter.
The next lines appeared, deliberate and slow.
[Listen. There's much I cannot tell you now.]
[Your identity. will reveal itself piece by piece.]
[For now, one advice: go to Ironheist Academy.]
[There, build your strength. Follow the main story as closely as possible.]
[Do that, and the truth will open before you.]
The words lingered on the screen, glowing faintly, like embers that refused to die.
Ironheist Academy. The name struck something deep in his memory. He remembered it from Travellers, the early chapters, the branching paths players could choose. Ironheist wasn't just any place. It was the hub where bloodlines, factions, and secrets tangled together. A place of training, of prodigies, of betrayals that shaped the story's bones.
And this message told him to go there. To follow the main story.
His heart thudded painfully. This wasn't advice. It was a command.
He looked at the glowing words and inhaled shallowly. There whispered from his thoughts a truth he couldn't voice:
Who's pulling the strings? Who knows me this well? Who brought me here?
The screen pulsed one time as if it heard him. Then a final line cut across it.
[Don't stray. Or You will not live long enough to discover who you really are.]
The screen flickered. The chamber dimmed. His throat tightened, his body stiffened and for a long second, he could not move. His mind was screaming to shout, demand, fight. But the mail was sealed shut, the silver envelope snapped closed, the system chimed once and the conversation was over.
Silence.
Chest heaving, eyes burning, he sat. His fists were clenched so hard that his nails cut his palms. He wanted to smash the screen, rip this world apart. But the fury, fear, or whatever it was, seeped in, and whispered the truth: the voice was correct. He was fragile. He was dying. He had only a year. He couldn't afford to stray.
Ironheist Academy. Follow the story. Survive long enough. Find the truth.
And somewhere in that truth . . . his real name awaited him.
Kiran Kyle.
He drove himself to his feet, his knees shaking-but locked lock-stem. He would not drown in questions Not anymore. If Ironheist had the answers, he would drag his dying body there. Even if the academy was full of monsters in human skin. Even if to follow the "main story" meant walking into betrayal. Even if it was the truth that lied at the end which tore him apart.
His chest raised and fell in jolting bursts. His hands were trembling, but his eyes were steely. He was DeKalb now, but underneath that name another still burned: Kyle.
And whoever thought they could dictate his fate had made one mistake.
They had underestimated the wrath of a dying man.