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Arthur Gray—once known as Mike—opened his eyes.
Not because he wanted to.
But because the explosion refused to die.
It reverberated inside his skull like a cathedral bell struck in the void—endless, hollow, echoing through bone and blood. Each toll sent a dull, throbbing ache slicing through his temples, as though his mind were a cracked gong still trembling from a blow delivered lifetimes ago. For a heartbeat, he wondered if this was death.
Not peace.
Not oblivion.
But pain without a body.
Sound without a source.
A ghost trapped in the shell of a memory.
He inhaled.
And recoiled.
The air was wrong.
Not stale. Not smoky. Not the antiseptic sting of hospital corridors or the scorched acridity of the battlefield he last remembered. This air was too clean—stripped of dust, pollen, decay. It carried a metallic chill, like breathing liquid silver. It tasted of ozone and silence, as if the world had been scrubbed clean of imperfection… and humanity.
Arthur pushed himself up.
His body groaned in protest—muscles stiff as petrified wood, joints creaking like rusted hinges. His palms scraped against rough, damp concrete, slick with dew and something darker. The scent of mildew clung to his clothes, mingling with the stench of rotting cardboard and urine.
He was in an alley.
Not just any alley—a fissure between monolithic towers that clawed at the sky like obsidian fingers. Walls slick with grime leaned inward, as if conspiring to crush the space between them. Above, torn tarps and splintered planks formed a makeshift shelter over him—less a home, more a sarcophagus cobbled from refuse. Rain had gnawed through its seams; wind howled through its ribs.
He stood, swaying.
Hunger clawed at his gut—a deep, gnawing emptiness that hadn't been fed in days. His limbs trembled not from fear, but from sheer depletion. He was a candle burning its final wick.
Then—silence.
The ringing in his skull faded.
And the city spoke.
Not with words.
But with light.
The alley opened onto a view that stole his breath and held it hostage.
Before him sprawled a metropolis unlike anything human hands could conceive.
Skyscrapers—no, spires—pierced the heavens, their surfaces shimmering with bioluminescent veins that pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves. Some towers twisted like helixes of glass and steel; others floated, untethered, suspended by unseen magnetic fields, rotating lazily in the night air.
Above the streets, flying trains sliced through the sky on ribbons of light—silent, swift, tracing arcs of cobalt and gold across the firmament. No tracks. No engines. Just grace made manifest.
And the people…
They didn't walk.
They soared.
Some wore sleek exo-wings that unfolded like origami from their spines, humming with soft energy. Others bore actual wings—feathered, scaled, or crystalline—beating with impossible elegance. A few simply rose, encased in translucent halos of rippling light that cradled them like divine hands.
It was night.
Yet the city blazed brighter than noon.
Every surface glowed—pavements, windows, even the raindrops suspended midair for a breath before vanishing into nano-absorbers. Holographic koi swam through the air, dissolving into fireflies when touched. Children laughed as they leapt from rooftops, their shoes flaring with kinetic dampeners that let them bounce three meters high and land without a whisper.
And the streets…
Populated by beings Arthur had only seen in myth.
A fox-eared diplomat in a tailored coat exchanged pleasantries with a golem whose stone skin shimmered with embedded circuitry. A child with iridescent moth wings shared a glowing pastry with a reptilian merchant whose scales shifted color with his mood. No guards. No segregation. No tension.
Just…harmony.
As if war were a forgotten language.
Arthur stood frozen, not by fear, but by awe so profound it bordered on pain.
This city didn't just defy imagination.
It laughed at it.
"This place…" he murmured, voice hoarse, cracked like dry earth.
Strange.
And yet…
Familiar.
That paradox coiled tight in his chest, a knot of déjà vu and dread.
Before he could steady his breath, a voice erupted—not in his ears, but inside his skull.
Playful.
Mocking.
Infuriatingly cheerful.
> [Hello! Hello! Wake up, you lazy thing. Your brain has finally seen the light.]
Arthur went utterly still.
His pupils contracted. His spine straightened. Every instinct screamed trap, illusion, enemy—yet his face betrayed nothing. Cold. Calm. A mask forged in betrayal.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice like winter steel.
> [I'm your mother, dear boy. Didn't you miss me?]
A beat of silence.
Then—Arthur's lips thinned into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"That's impossible," he said, flat, absolute. "I never had a mother. So I don't care who you're pretending to be."
For one heartbeat…
Silence.
Then—
> [Ah… that's awkward.]
The voice deflated, the bravado crumbling into something almost… human. Embarrassed.
> [Sorry… I didn't know.]
Arthur's eyes narrowed. Ice formed around his next words.
"Apologize later. Answer now. Who are you?"
A theatrical sigh echoed in his mind. The voice cleared its throat—oddly, as if it had one.
> [Alright, alright. No jokes this time.]
> [Allow me to introduce myself properly.]
The world seemed to pause.
The glow of the city dimmed a fraction. The wind hushed. Even the distant hum of levitating traffic softened, as if bowing to the moment.
Then—
> [I am the Abyss System.Your personal assistant. Your guide. Your sole tether to truth in this world.]
Arthur frowned.
"The… Abyss?"
The moment the word left his lips, memory detonated.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
It flooded him—torrents of data, images, timelines, maps, kingdom sigils, faction crests, character trees, endings both glorious and tragic. Faces flashed—heroes with swords of starlight, villains draped in sorrow, NPCs whose names he'd never bothered to learn.
He staggered back, catching himself on a rusted pipe.
"This…" His voice cracked. "This is the game world."
A dry, hollow laugh escaped him—short, bitter, edged with disbelief.
He knew this place.
Not as a tourist.
But as a player.
He'd spent thousands of hours here. Mastered its mechanics. Memorized its hidden paths. Predicted its twists before they happened.
And yet…
The avatar he'd once controlled?
Wasn't him.
He hadn't been the Chosen of Light.
Nor the Fallen Emperor.
Not even the tragic bard who died singing in the snow.
He'd been nobody.
A nameless orphan listed in the game files as "Extra #7, Sector G – Unassigned."
A background sprite. A face in the crowd. A character with no dialogue, no quest, no destiny.
Meant to be forgotten.
The System chimed in, shamelessly upbeat.
> [You finally got it! Well done!]
> [Took you longer than I expected, honestly.]
Arthur's eyes hardened into flint.
"If you don't stay quiet for one minute," he said, voice low, lethal, "I'll consider you my first enemy in this world."
The System burst into delighted laughter.
> [Oh, I really like you!]
> [Such a sharp mood… very refreshing!]
Arthur didn't respond.
He turned his gaze back to the gleaming city—its impossible beauty, its serene chaos, its open secrets.
He had died.
Betrayed by the man who called him brother.
Shot in the back while shielding a lie.
Buried in an unmarked grave beneath a sky that didn't care.
And now?
He awoke in the body of a ghost—a boy erased before he was written.
But here…
In this world of wings and wonder…
No one knew his fate.
No prophecy bound him.
No role confined him.
No script dictated his end.
For the first time in any life—past or present—he was free.
And knowledge was his weapon.
Arthur closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they held a quiet, burning fire—a spark in the dark.
"Start," he said.
"I want to know everything."
The System's voice swelled with glee.
> [That's the spirit!]
> [Then let's get to work, Mister Arthur Gray.]
A pause.
A breath.
Then—
> [Welcome to the Abyss.]
And beneath the neon sky of a city that defied reality, a forgotten extra took his first real step.
Not as a pawn.
But as a storm waiting to break.
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