The sun was already leaning west when Hydro walked across the school grounds, his uniform crisp but slightly wrinkled from the tension he hadn't noticed he carried all morning. The hallways were a mess of laughter, congratulations, and the scent of cheap perfume mixed with the faint metallic tang of lockers. Students hugged, shouted, snapped photos—everyone celebrating the culmination of years he'd just endured.
Hydro's shoes made soft taps against the polished floor. He could hear the buzz of chatter and the occasional honk of parents waiting outside. But to him, it all felt distant, like the noise of another world. He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, not wanting to draw attention. His gaze swept over the crowd of students and parents, and for a moment, he almost hoped his mother would appear among them.
She didn't.
He swallowed, the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. His father stood a few meters away, hands folded behind his back, expression neutral. The air between them was still, almost deliberately empty. It wasn't resentment—it was habit, a quiet understanding that words weren't needed in these moments. But Hydro felt it anyway: the absence of the person who should have celebrated this day alongside him.
The ceremony started, voices echoing in the auditorium, the principal's speech blending into the background. Hydro listened without really listening. The words "proud" and "achievement" seemed to bounce off the walls, but not off him. He thought about the years of study sessions, the late nights spent trying to understand concepts that never stuck, the countless "barkada" accusations from his parents. All that effort. All that struggle. And yet, here he was: a graduate, but somehow invisible in the eyes that mattered most.
As the diplomas were handed out, Hydro kept his posture straight. When his name was called, he walked forward without a tremor, reached for the certificate, and nodded once to the principal. Applause erupted around him, faces smiling, phones raised. He didn't look at them. He didn't even smile.
His father gave a small nod from the side of the stage, quiet, almost stiff. Hydro acknowledged it with a subtle lift of his chin. It wasn't affection; it wasn't warmth. But it was enough.
After the ceremony, the crowd spilled outside. Students hugged friends, parents fussed over photos, and strangers congratulated strangers. Hydro trailed behind, silent, carrying his bag over one shoulder. The sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and pink, but it didn't feel like celebration. It felt like weight pressing on his chest.
Finally, the crowd thinned. Hydro fell into step beside his father. The street was quieter now, the sounds of the city dimming with the evening. Cars rolled past lazily, motorbikes hummed in the distance, and the air smelled faintly of gasoline and dust. Hydro didn't speak. His father didn't either. The space between them wasn't awkward; it was routine.
They passed the school gates, moving toward the narrow street that would lead them home. Hydro glanced at his father once, catching the profile of a man who had tried in his own way, who had attended this ceremony even though he didn't understand every part of it. No one celebrated with him. No one shouted his name. No one hugged him. It was just the two of them, walking in silence through the fading light.
Hydro tightened the strap of his bag, letting the silence stretch. It wasn't lonely; it was quiet. And for now, it was enough.
The streets outside the school were quiet now, the chaos of celebration dwindling behind them. Hydro walked beside his father, the uniform collar slightly stiff against his neck, bag strap digging faintly into his shoulder. His father's hands were folded behind his back, silhouette outlined by the soft glow of streetlights.
They didn't speak immediately. There was no urgency, no awkward pause. Just the rhythm of two people walking, side by side, carrying years of unspoken words. Finally, his father broke the silence, voice low but steady.
"Your grades… still the same as last year," he said. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just stating a fact.
Hydro exhaled, the words settling around him like dust. "I know." He didn't want to explain, didn't want to justify. He had tried so many times, and the argument always ended the same way.
"You know, back when your brother and sister were your age…" His father's voice softened slightly, almost nostalgic. "I never had to worry about their grades. Honor students, both of them. Made everything easy. You… never made it easy, Hydro."
Hydro's jaw tightened. He didn't want the comparison, didn't want the reminder. He had spent years trying, failing, trying again, and still… here they were. Yet, despite the resentment building up in him, he kept his voice calm. "I've been trying. I really have."
His father glanced at him, eyes flicking to the young man he'd watched grow up. "I know you've tried. I know. But I still don't understand. You used to be… different. Smart. Focused. You were the one I could count on, the honor student." His tone wasn't reprimand—it was memory, tinged with quiet confusion and longing.
Hydro's fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag. Honor student. That word… it used to sit on his chest like armor. But now it felt like a weight he could never lift. "I… I tried to be that again," he said softly. "I really did. But… it's like I keep failing the same thing over and over. No matter what I do."
His father paused, letting the words hang. The street was empty except for them; the distant hum of motorbikes, the occasional car, the faint bark of a dog—it all faded beneath the tension of their conversation. Finally, his father spoke again, quieter now. "Maybe… maybe I expected too much. Maybe I wanted you to be them, or… I don't know, who I thought you should be."
Hydro didn't respond. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream that he wasn't them, that he never wanted to be them. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he shifted the bag, shrugged slightly, and continued walking. The silence returned, heavier this time, filled with the weight of shared understanding neither could voice.
After a few steps, his father said, almost to himself, "Your mom… she's abroad, working. Your siblings, they've moved on to their own rooms in college. The house… it's just us now."
Hydro nodded, letting the statement pass. The house felt smaller in his mind now, the echoes of laughter and argument from years past floating faintly through the air. His mother working overseas, siblings busy with their own lives—he was alone with his father. Alone in a way he had never truly been, even amidst the crowd of family.
"You know," his father continued, slowing his pace, "when you were younger, you had this spark. You'd dive into things headfirst. Projects, hobbies… even schoolwork. I remember thinking, 'This kid… he's going to do something great.'"
Hydro swallowed, a faint sting catching at the back of his throat. "I haven't done anything great," he muttered. Not a complaint, just a statement.
"Maybe not in the way I expected," his father said, voice gentle. "But… I see the effort. I see how hard you've tried. Maybe… that counts for something."
Hydro exhaled slowly, looking down at his shoes as they tapped against the uneven pavement. The words… they were small, but they felt heavier than any praise he had ever received. "It doesn't feel like it counts," he said quietly. "I keep messing up. No matter what I do, it's never enough. I've been trying… but I'm still the same."
His father's gaze softened, and for the first time since leaving the school, he reached out, placing a hand briefly on Hydro's shoulder. "I don't know what to tell you," he admitted. "I can't fix it. I can't make the world recognize what you've done. But I do know this: you're still here. You've still tried. You've still pushed through, even when it's hard. Even when it hurts."
Hydro's lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, wanted to shout that trying wasn't enough, that all the effort had been swallowed by failure. But the quiet sincerity in his father's voice made him stop. It wasn't the solution, wasn't the recognition he wanted… but it was real. And that mattered more than anything else in that moment.
They continued walking, the houses growing taller and closer together as they approached their neighborhood. The streetlights flickered softly, casting long shadows across the pavement. Hydro's father didn't speak again for a while. He just walked, steady, measured, letting the night stretch between them.
"I don't know what's next for you," his father finally said. "College? Work? Something else?"
Hydro shrugged, letting the bag settle comfortably on his shoulder. "I… I haven't decided." Not because he didn't have plans—he had too many thoughts, too many possibilities—but because he knew none of them would satisfy anyone else. His parents, teachers, even friends had expectations, labels, definitions. He wanted none of it.
His father nodded slowly, as if acknowledging an invisible truth. "I guess… all I can say is… do what you think is right. Even if it's hard. Even if it seems impossible. You've been trying all these years… maybe it's time to try for yourself."
Hydro looked up at him, meeting his father's gaze for the first time since leaving the school. The older man's face was calm, tired, but not unkind. There was no scolding, no judgment—just presence. And for a moment, Hydro felt something shift inside him, a subtle weight lifting. Not entirely, not completely, but enough to make the world seem slightly lighter.
They reached the small gate of their house. The yard was quiet, untouched, familiar. Hydro paused, hand on the gate, and turned slightly to look at his father.
"Thanks," he said quietly. Not for the grades, not for the ceremony, not for anything that could be measured. Just… thanks for being there.
His father's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly, and he nodded. "Always," he said.
They stepped inside the house together. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the faint smell of cooking lingering from earlier, the empty rooms that once held laughter—all of it welcomed them home. Hydro's mother was abroad, his siblings at college, leaving just the two of them. No celebration, no fanfare, no applause. Just the two of them, and the muted comfort of familiarity.
Hydro placed his bag down by the door and ran a hand through his hair. His father moved to the kitchen, preparing to make a cup of tea, a quiet ritual that marked the end of the day. Hydro watched him, feeling a mix of gratitude and detachment. Not sadness. Not anger. Just… acceptance.
He knew tomorrow would come, and with it, the same endless expectations, the same relentless push to achieve, to measure up, to be more than he felt he could be. But for tonight… for tonight, he was simply here.
And that, for Hydro, was enough.
The house smelled faintly of garlic and onions simmering in soy sauce. Hydro set his bag down quietly, the straps dropping with a soft thump against the wooden floor. His father moved around the kitchen, placing a few bowls on the table, steam curling upward like a delicate reminder that life went on despite everything.
Hydro sat, silent, waiting for the ritual to pass. There were no smiles, no congratulations. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of utensils. His father poured rice into bowls, hands steady, measured, as if the act of preparing the meal anchored him in the calm he needed.
"You know," his father began, voice soft, careful, "about what happened a few months ago… with your mother." He didn't sound angry, or even disappointed. Just… sad. Quietly disappointed, maybe. Or maybe he was just… reflective. "You've carried that argument with you longer than you should have."
Hydro pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, looking down at the table. "I know," he said, voice low. "I said things I shouldn't have, but… it's gone. She's abroad, and there's nothing I can do about it now."
His father nodded, as if confirming a thought to himself. "Yes… but I worry, Hydro. Not because of the words, not because of the argument. But because I see you holding onto it. And I see you… wanting to leave."
Hydro's grip on his chopsticks tightened slightly. He set them down. "I want to leave," he said, almost as if testing the words in the air. "I can't… I can't stay here. I've tried. I've tried to be what you expect, what Mom expects, what the world expects… and it's never enough. I can't… I just can't."
His father exhaled slowly, and the sound was heavy in the quiet kitchen. "I know," he said calmly, sadness lacing the words. "And that's what scares me. I can't stop you, I know that. But… leaving like this… I worry what you'll find. The world out there… it's not always forgiving. You need to stay, even just a little longer. To figure yourself out. To… to see what you really want."
Hydro's eyes flicked to the rice steaming in the bowls, the warm smell failing to comfort him. "I don't want to stay," he said firmly. "I've stayed long enough. I've tried to fit. I've tried to be what everyone wanted me to be. I'm done."
His father paused, reaching for his tea. He sipped slowly, eyes never leaving Hydro. "And if you go… what will you take with you? Your lessons, your effort, your heart?"
"I'll take myself," Hydro said, tone low but certain. "That's all I can take."
There was a long pause. The only sound was the soft clinking of spoons against bowls, the faint hiss of simmering oil in the kitchen. His father leaned back slightly in his chair, a shadow of worry passing over his face. Not anger. Not fear. Just… quiet concern.
"Hydro," he said finally, voice gentle, "I understand why you feel this way. But the world doesn't owe you a second chance. I've watched you fight with your grades, with school, with everything you've tried to carry on your own… and yet, here you are, still standing. You have strength. Don't underestimate it. Please."
Hydro met his father's gaze, the simmering tension between them thick but unspoken. "I know," he said softly. "I know you're worried. But staying here… I'd only be delaying the inevitable. I have to leave, Dad. I have to see what's out there for me. Even if it's scary. Even if… I fail again."
His father's hand hovered over the tea cup for a moment, then rested back on the table. "I just… don't want you to get hurt. Not because the world is cruel, but because I know you. I know your pride. I know your stubbornness. And I know you don't ask for help. So I worry."
Hydro exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping his lips, half bitter, half tired. "You worry too much," he said, voice low, almost a whisper. "I appreciate it. I really do. But this… this is something I need to do. Alone."
His father's eyes softened, a quiet understanding settling between them. He didn't argue further. He didn't scold. He just… nodded, as if accepting what he could not stop. "Then go," he said finally, voice calm, almost resigned. "But promise me… promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll… remember yourself out there."
Hydro nodded, not needing to say more. He picked up his chopsticks again, eating quietly, but his mind was already elsewhere. Plans, ideas, restless thoughts whirled in his head like a storm he couldn't stop. The house, the dinner, the quiet worry of his father—it all felt like a warm anchor he was about to leave behind.
The conversation didn't end with words. It ended with the quiet acknowledgment that the bond between father and son was real, but that the son had to step into the unknown to grow. Hydro's restlessness had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. Tonight, it burned a little brighter.
By the time he finished his meal, the kitchen was silent. His father cleared the bowls slowly, methodically, giving Hydro space to think. Hydro sat back, eyes fixed on the wooden table. Outside, the sky had darkened further, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the windows. He could almost feel the world waiting for him beyond the walls of the house.
Hydro's thoughts drifted to the future. What lay beyond these streets, these walls, this city? Would he find purpose? Would he find freedom? Would he finally escape the endless cycle of trying and failing?
He didn't know. He wasn't sure. But the thought of staying… it was unbearable. The simmering tension inside him had grown too strong. He needed air, space, movement. He needed to leave, even if just to find out what he was capable of.
His father watched him silently, sensing the storm inside, but too calm to interfere. He understood. Hydro needed this. And perhaps… in some quiet way, he was proud.
The night stretched on, quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. Hydro's decision was made, even if the world had yet to test him. He had chosen to leave, to step into the unknown, carrying only himself, his memories, and the quiet weight of his father's worry.
And that was enough to start the journey.
Alright, here's **Chapter 1 [4/4]** — the closing of Graduation Day and the true start of Hydro's journey. I'll make it immersive, tense, and faithful to the lore:
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# **Chapter 1 — Graduation Day [4/4]**
The night air was cooler than Hydro expected, brushing against his skin as he stepped outside the house. The faint hum of distant traffic, the glow of streetlights, the occasional dog barking somewhere down the street—it all felt quieter now, heavier somehow, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
His father followed him to the gate, standing a few steps behind. Neither spoke. The earlier dinner conversation had left an unspoken understanding hanging in the air: Hydro needed to leave. His father had tried to anchor him with advice, worry, and quiet concern, but he knew better than to tie him down now.
"Hydro…" his father finally said, voice low, careful. "I know you want to go, but… promise me you'll think it through. Don't just run out there blindly."
Hydro's hands rested in his pockets. He looked up at the dimly lit street beyond the gate. "I've thought about it," he said softly, almost to himself. "I've thought about it for years. And I… I can't stay. Not anymore."
His father's eyes flickered with a shadow of sadness. "I worry," he admitted quietly. "I worry that the world… will be harder on you than it should. That you'll get hurt."
Hydro let out a quiet laugh, more bitter than amused. "I've been hurt all my life," he said. "This… this is just another step. I'll be fine."
His father nodded, jaw tightening slightly. "Just… remember what I said tonight," he said, voice calm, almost as if repeating a mantra to himself. "Remember yourself. Remember your strength. Don't let anyone… or anything… make you doubt who you are."
Hydro's gaze shifted to the street ahead, lit faintly by the glow of passing cars and streetlamps. He nodded once, a small, firm gesture. "I won't," he said, then stepped off the threshold.
The night seemed endless, stretching out before him like a path into the unknown. His footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, his uniform brushing against his skin. He didn't look back at the house. Not once. He didn't need to. His father's words, calm and quietly sad, were already etched into his memory, and that was enough for him to carry forward.
He walked for blocks, the city quiet but alive, each streetlamp casting long shadows that danced across walls. Thoughts tumbled through his mind—his uncelebrated graduation, the argument months ago with his mother, the years of grades that never met expectations, the friends who weren't really "barkada" but had been the only ones who understood him.
He paused for a moment at a street corner, hands in his pockets, watching the city breathe. The feeling of leaving home, of stepping into the unknown, was both exhilarating and terrifying. For the first time, he was truly alone, with only himself to rely on.
A car rolled past the corner where he stood, headlights cutting through the dark. Hydro stepped back instinctively, heart fluttering slightly. It was just a normal car—just another car in the city—but in that moment, it felt like a line had been crossed.
And then… it happened.
The car's headlights seemed to flare for a split second. Hydro blinked, instinctively moving out of the way. The world wavered. And then—nothing.
The street, the car, the city itself… all of it vanished in an instant. Hydro felt a strange sensation, like gravity had shifted, like the air itself had been pulled from him. The pavement was gone. The streetlights were gone. The hum of the city faded into silence deeper than night itself.
He landed softly, though the sensation of landing was not unpleasant. Around him stretched a temple, massive and ancient, built from stones that seemed older than time. Symbols etched into the walls glowed faintly, pulsing with light, as though breathing. The air smelled faintly of incense and something else—something alien and eternal.
Hydro's heart raced, but not in panic. Curiosity, awe, and the faint sting of disorientation mingled in his chest. He took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning the temple's immense interior. The silence was absolute, save for the faint hum of power—or maybe it was expectation—wrapping around him like a current.
Then it spoke.
A voice, calm, neutral, and without physical form:
["Would you like to become a Player?"]
Hydro froze. His mind raced, processing. A Player? What does that even mean?
He instinctively moved to press "No"—to reject this strange offer—but before he could act, the air behind him tore open. A rift, glowing faintly like liquid starlight, yawned into existence. The temple stretched and warped as if reality itself was bending.
The universe didn't give him a choice.
Hydro was pulled forward, not violently, but with an inevitability that left no room to resist. In a blink, the temple, the rift, the voice—all vanished. And then he was somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere… impossible.
A world where the impossible was normal. A world where every fictional story, every game, every legend, and every cosmic being existed in the same space. The laws of reality shifted constantly, threatening, exciting, and terrifying all at once.
Hydro staggered slightly, catching himself. He looked down at his hands, then around at the chaos unfolding in every direction: characters and creatures he didn't recognize, landscapes that defied physics, lights and colors that burned like energy itself.
He was alone. Not just physically, but in a way that cut deeper than any previous loneliness. The people, the family, the city he had known—all gone. Only him. Only this.
Hydro swallowed. His chest tightened. His thoughts raced. This is… insane. What the hell even is this place?
But beneath the awe, beneath the fear, a spark lit inside him. That restless part of him—the part that had wanted to leave home, that had felt suffocated by expectation, that had carried uncelebrated years of effort—stirred.
This was his chance. His first real chance.
Hydro took a deep breath, tightened the strap of his uniform bag instinctively, and squared his shoulders. The unknown lay ahead, and whether it would break him or make him stronger… he would find out.
Perfect. Let's move into **Chapter 2 [5/4]**, picking up immediately after Hydro's arrival in the Fiction Multiverse. I'll keep it immersive, building tension, isolation, and the first subtle hints of his abilities.
The cold hit him before he even realized it was there. Hydro's breath came out in white clouds, puffing against the pale expanse that stretched endlessly in every direction. Snow crunched under his shoes, the soft sound amplified by the eerie silence surrounding him. No birds. No animals. No hum of civilization. Just the wind, slicing across the frozen landscape like a whispering knife.
He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, though it did little to ward off the chill. His fingers were already stiff, his ears aching from the cold. And yet… there was something hypnotic about it. The snow reflected the pale light of an unseen sun, and the horizon shimmered in impossible shades—silver blending into blue, fading into white. Hydro blinked, feeling an odd dissonance in the air. Nothing about this place obeyed the rules he'd ever known.
His eyes scanned the distance. A ridge of jagged ice loomed in the far horizon. Beyond that… mountains, sharp and imposing, like shards of glass frozen into the sky. He stepped forward cautiously, boots crunching, scanning for anything that might move. Shadows shifted at the corners of his vision, but when he turned… nothing.
Hydro's mind raced. Where am I? What is this place?
It was impossible to explain. He was in a world that felt alive yet deserted. It wasn't that it was empty—it was wrong. Off-kilter. Every detail felt exaggerated: the wind carried whispers he couldn't understand, the snow fell in patterns that defied gravity, and the air had a metallic bite, almost like electricity.
He clenched his fists. I can't panic. I've been in tough spots before. Just… explore. Figure it out.
Step by step, Hydro moved forward, leaving a trail of footprints in the pristine snow. He noticed something strange almost immediately: the snow behind him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if his steps had left echoes in the ground itself. He shook it off, but the sensation lingered—an instinctive feeling that he wasn't just moving through the environment. Something about him… affected it.
After walking for what felt like hours, he spotted movement on the horizon. At first, he thought it was a mirage, but then a figure appeared—tall, faceless in the distance, shrouded in a cloak that blended seamlessly with the snow. It didn't run. It didn't approach. It just… watched.
Hydro froze, instinctively reaching for his bag. His heart beat faster, but not out of fear. Something deeper, something primal, surged in his chest. He could feel it—his senses sharpening, his awareness expanding. Every crunch of snow, every whisper of wind, every flicker of shadow was amplified.
He realized, almost with a jolt, that he could… sense the figure. Not see it clearly, but feel its presence, its weight, like a pulse in the cold air.
What is happening to me?
Hydro shook his head, trying to clear it. No. Focus. Survive first.
He moved again, deliberately slow, eyes scanning. The figure didn't move. The wind carried a sound now—a low hum, melodic but unnatural. It seemed to respond to him, rising in pitch as he advanced, then dipping as he paused.
Hydro stopped, chest heaving slightly. He crouched, pressing a hand to the snow. It felt different here. Denser. Alive. He touched it, and for a brief moment, it seemed to ripple, like water frozen in motion. He withdrew his hand quickly, startled, heart pounding.
This place… it's responding to me.
The realization struck him hard. If the world itself reacted to his presence… if his own thoughts, movements, and instincts could affect it… then he wasn't just another traveler here.
A faint laugh escaped him—short, incredulous. "Figures," he muttered under his breath. "Of course I'd get dragged into some insane multiverse where reality itself bends around me."
The figure on the horizon shifted again, imperceptibly this time, almost like it had acknowledged his thoughts. Hydro felt a shiver run down his spine—not fear, but recognition. Something is watching. Something is testing.
He clenched his fists, tightening them until his knuckles whitened. "Fine," he whispered. "If this world wants me… then I'll figure it out."
Step by step, he advanced, each crunch of snow beneath him echoing in the vast emptiness. He didn't know how long he walked—minutes, hours, perhaps longer—but the horizon never seemed closer, and the figure remained. And yet, Hydro felt no despair. Only focus. Only the quiet surge of determination that had carried him through every failure, every argument, every disappointment back home.
For the first time since leaving his father's house, he felt… unbound.
The figure began to dissolve into the snowy distance, leaving behind only a faint shimmer. Hydro paused, taking a deep breath of the icy air. In that moment, he understood something crucial: this world was alive. Not alive like people, but alive like a thought, a challenge, a puzzle that would bend and shape itself around him.
And somehow, he knew… he was not just surviving it. He was beginning to adapt.
Hydro squared his shoulders and set off again, boots crunching through the untouched snow. The mountains loomed larger now, and the horizon stretched endlessly. The cold cut through him, but the fire inside burned brighter.
This was only the beginning.