Chapter 1 - The Quiet Fall
A world watched her climb to the top. None of them saw the chains.
Tokyo, Japan – July 17th, 2040
Room 406, Saitama Metropolitan Hospital
The fluorescent ceiling light buzzed softly above Ruki, flickering every few minutes as if even it were losing strength. The smell of disinfectant clung to the sterile air, mixing with the faint, rhythmic hiss of the ventilator beside her. Wires and tubes curled around the capsule bed like vines, feeding medicine, oxygen, and numbers into machines that never slept.
Ruki Yusato lived in this room.
Her lungs collapsed when she was six. Her muscles followed, slowly failing under the weight of a rare autoimmune disorder the doctors described with careful, padded words.
Progressive. Incurable. Aggressive.
It meant she would never walk unassisted. Never run. Never step outside without machinery breathing for her.
The outside world existed more on television than outside the window. Her days were measured in IV bags, charts, and the steady beeping of monitors that treated her like a problem to be tracked instead of a person to be known.
Ruki lay half-reclined in the custom VR pod that had replaced her normal hospital bed, the smooth interior cradling her like a sleek white coffin. The capsule made it easier for her to play, easier for her father's company to film, easier for everyone to pretend this was all "cutting-edge care" instead of a very expensive cage.
On the wall, the TV droned. She listened without really watching, a ghost in her own room.
"Typhoon Mahoro is expected to reach full strength by 8 p.m. Japan Standard Time. Blackouts across northern Saitama are likely."
The anchor's voice rode over footage of churning clouds and a swollen coastline. A satellite image spun lazily on-screen, a white spiral eating its way toward land.
Storms always made things worse.
Ruki could feel this one in her bones. Her chest felt heavier than usual, every breath a little more work than the last. Her fingers twitched under the thin blanket tucked over her lower half, like her hands were trying to answer from another room.
Just another bad night, she told herself. She had survived plenty of those.
Her gaze slid away from the storm animation and drifted to the narrow shelf beside the door.
A white headset case sat there like an exhibit, her father's company logo etched into the lid, edges worn smooth where hands had handled it a thousand times. Behind it, a framed, glass-front plaque from her streams leaned against the wall, its surface catching and bending the TV's glow.
Next to both sat a small vase. The flowers inside were half-wilted but stubbornly hanging on, their stems wrapped in a ribbon printed with a familiar crest: a segmented ring crossed by four simple marks.
Seguri Alliance.
Sae's neat handwriting was still visible on the card tucked between the stems.
Get well, Ru-Ru.
-Sae, Valen, Kite, Deadbolt
Ruki's lips tugged into a weak smile.
"Ru-Ru," she whispered, voice rough around the ventilator plastic. The nickname rasped out thin but real. In her head she could still hear Valen's warm teasing and Sae's soft scolding when they used it. "You four are the only ones who get to call me that."
Her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with her disease.
The headset.
The plaque.
The flowers.
All three were proof of the same thing: the life she built for herself, and the way other people turned that life into something they could package and sell.
"Ruki?"
Misaki's voice pulled her attention back to the foot of the pod. The nurse stood there with a chart in hand and worry in her eyes. Misaki's dark hair was pulled back in a low tail, a few strands escaping near her temples. Her expression tried to stay professional. Her hands betrayed the tension.
Misaki stepped closer, eyes flicking from the monitors to Ruki's face.
"Pain level?" Misaki asked. "One to ten."
Ruki thought about lying, then decided she was too tired for it.
"Seven," Ruki said. Her voice scraped, but she pushed the words out anyway. "Eight if I breathe like a normal person."
Misaki's mouth quirked in something that almost counted as a smile.
"Then we do not breathe like a normal person," Misaki said. "We take slower breaths. Smaller hills instead of mountains."
The line between Misaki's brows deepened as she checked the ventilator readings. The reassurance came out on autopilot.
"Backup generators have been tested," Misaki said. "We have drills for nights like this."
"I hope so," Ruki said. She let her eyes flick to the ceiling, listening to the storm chew at the building. "Things still break."
"Room 406 is priority. You know that," Misaki said.
Misaki's gaze kept sliding back to the window, to where rain streaked sideways across the glass and distant thunder growled under the hum of the machines.
Ruki let her own eyes drift back to the shelf.
The headset case stared back at her, smug and quiet. The thing that gave her everything. The thing that helped take it away. Her fingers twitched again, a tiny, useless spasm under the blanket, like her body was already reaching for it.
"Misaki," Ruki said.
Misaki looked up immediately at the change in her tone.
"I need to log in," Ruki said.
Misaki's shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chart.
"Ruki," Misaki said slowly, "your numbers are already unstable. We are under a blackout warning. Full dive, in this weather, with your lung function, is a very bad idea."
Ruki let out a small, humorless breath that barely counted as a laugh.
She swallowed, throat burning.
"I have made enough money for them to build ten of these pods," Ruki said. "If I have to crawl through rehab with you yelling at me the whole way, I will. I want a life that is mine. I just need to talk to Sae and Valen and tell them what my parents are actually doing. I am done being their puppet. If they cut me off, fine. At least it is my choice."
Misaki hesitated, the protest already there in her eyes.
"Ruki, are you sure about this?" Misaki asked. "Your parents are in Osaka tonight, presenting at that conference."
"Yes," Ruki said. The word came out sharper than she expected. She did not take it back. "I am sure."
The ventilator rasped louder now that she was listening for it. Each breath sounded like it cost more than the last.
"Ever since my breakout into the global ranks," Ruki said, "and forming Seguri, that is the only time they remotely cared I existed. The moment sponsors saw a disabled girl sitting at the top of global leaderboards, they smelled blood and ad revenue. They pushed every event, every stream, every interview until I was on the verge of collapsing, and then they called it 'inspiring.'"
Her gaze slipped back to the flowers.
"Sae and Valen are more like my real parents than my own," Ruki said softly. "They worry if I sleep. They tell me to log off. They do not care if we win a war as long as I am still in the call."
The thought made her chest tighten, the good kind and the bad tangled together.
"They have never even seen my face in real life," Ruki said. "But they remember me without a camera telling them to."
Misaki's hand tightened on the chart until the paper crinkled.
Ruki met her eyes again.
"I want Sae and Valen to hear the truth from me," Ruki said. "Not from a press release."
The storm howled against the window like it wanted to argue with both of them.
"Please," Ruki said quietly. The word sat between them like another machine, humming, impossible to ignore.
Misaki stared at Ruki for a long moment.
Six years ago, Misaki was the one who strapped that first headset onto Ruki's head, right here in Room 406. Ruki could still feel the ghost of Misaki's fingers at her temples, could still hear Misaki's voice defending her over the buzz of cameras and executives when things ran too long.
Misaki let out a slow breath.
"Fifteen minutes," Misaki said at last. "Messages only. If your levels drop, I pull you out. No arguments."
Ruki's mouth twitched.
"I argue all the time," she said. "You still win."
"That is the only reason we have made it this far," Misaki said.
Her gaze softened as she set the chart aside and walked toward the shelf.
Ruki watched her reach for the headset case.
The plastic clicked as the latches popped open, a sharp little sound that knifed through the TV, the rain, the machines. Ruki's skin prickled. For a heartbeat, she heard two versions of Room 406 layered over each other: this one, packed with proof of what she had become, and an older one, bare and hopeful.
Same ceiling. Same hiss of the ventilator. No flowers. No plaque.
Back then, it was just me, Misaki, and that stupid box, Ruki thought. Before the conferences. Before Seguri's crest ended up on merch. Before everyone decided my life was content.
Misaki lifted the lid. The faint chemical smell of the headset's plastic cut through the disinfectant and dragged the old memory the rest of the way free.
Her first dive.
Her first step.
The first time Room 406 felt too small to hold what she was feeling.
Ruki did not let the memory finish.
Thunder cracked so loud it rattled the window. The TV glitched for a second, the storm image breaking into squares before it snapped back into place. The ventilator hissed louder in her ears, like it could feel the pressure outside.
Not today, she thought. I am not going backward.
She opened her eyes and focused on Misaki.
"Let us get you in and out," Misaki said quietly.
Misaki moved around the pod, checking every tube and cable that tied Ruki to real life and to the machine that let her borrow another one. A compact monitor sat on a small metal cart beside the pod, its screen split between hospital vitals and a simplified VR operator interface, a stripped down version of the big rigs Yusato Tech used for public events.
Ruki watched Misaki's fingers flick across the controls, turning off the broadcast functions her father's engineers had left on by default. No outbound feed.
"Manual session only," Misaki said under her breath. "No audience. Just you and whoever you choose."
Ruki breathed out slowly through the tube.
no.
"Good," she said. "That is how it should have always been."
Misaki lowered the headset over Ruki's eyes with practiced care, avoiding every line and sensor. The foam settled around her temples, cool and familiar.
"I am right here," Misaki said. Her hands rested for a moment on Ruki's shoulders. "If anything feels wrong, you say my name. I bring you out through the console. No hard pull."
Ruki gave the smallest nod the straps would allow.
"Okay," she whispered.
The room dimmed as the pod's internal lighting shifted. The storm became a muffled roar. The steady beep of monitors blurred into the background.
The login chime sounded in her skull like a drop of water hitting still surface.
Everything went dark.
Login screen. Password. Character select.
Ruki's vision opened onto a familiar harbor in Untold Eternity. Her Beast Lord avatar stood on worn stone near a quiet dock, the water lapping gently against the pier. Lanterns swayed on iron posts, their light turning the surface of the sea into broken gold. Farther out, dark silhouettes of ships rocked at anchor, banners marked with Vel'Dranis city sigils barely visible in the mist.
The air tasted like salt and woodsmoke, not bleach and plastic. Somewhere behind her, an NPC merchant called out the same canned line she had heard a thousand times, folding perfectly into the background noise of gulls and distant chatter.
Here, breathing felt like nothing.
Ruki flexed her fingers. They responded immediately, closing around her staff. Her body in this world was the one she had built for herself, not the one disease had hollowed out.
This is why, she thought. This is why I stayed.
"Focus," she told herself.
A soft gesture brought up her interface. Menus folded open around the edges of her vision.
Friends list.
Sae. Valen. Shared channel online.
Her heart kicked up a notch.
She opened a message window and watched the cursor blink, a tiny, impatient eye.
She started typing.
"Things here are worse than I told you."
Her fingers moved faster once the first line was down.
"My parents have been forcing me into events and streams even when my health is failing. They are selling my sickness. Please, I want to leave this place."
She paused. The harbor sounds washed over her.
"Misaki has been fighting them, but they will not listen. They push until I am back in ICU, then call it dedication. If things get worse and I cannot talk to you myself, please cause some hell. Love, Ru-Ru."
Her throat tightened.
She stared at the text.
Sae's calm voice lived in the back of her mind, always asking if she had eaten, if her meds were on time. Valen's temper flared there too, all fire and sharp teeth pointed at anyone who disrespected their "kid." Kite's steady muttering about protection and routes. Deadbolt's rare, simple words that meant more because he used so few.
If they read this, they would move. That was who they were.
Ruki forced herself not to overthink it.
She sent the message.
The text shimmered and shot away along an invisible line.
A small icon blinked at the top of her vision.
External power fluctuation detected.
Ruki frowned.
"Misaki?" she said, trying to open voice chat.
The harbor shimmered. Sky and water tore for a moment into gray static, then snapped back. The music warped, slowing down like someone was pinching the sound between two fingers.
Another warning prompt tried to appear and smeared into white noise.
"Misaki," Ruki repeated. "Something is wrong."
Her words sounded muffled, like they were passing through water.
In Room 406, the overhead lights cut out.
The TV died mid-sentence. The storm on screen froze, then vanished into black.
Every machine in the room screamed at once.
Misaki spun to the monitor cart. The main power indicator was solid red. The emergency icon flickered between yellow and nothing, like it could not make up its mind.
"Come on, fuck!" Misaki yelled, slamming her palm against the console as the typhoon swallowed the hospital's power.
Outside, Typhoon Mahoro roared over Saitama, wind and rain drowning the city in darkness.
By the time Misaki reached the panel to get Ruki out of the game, the room had already gone completely black.
End of Chapter 1