The clock tower bell chimed twice, its deep tone echoing across the sprawling green turf of the sports field. As the sound rippled through the air, a subtle wave of light washed over the tower's sign: Sunderhaven Academy. The field, alive with the tuneless shouts of high school students, buzzed with energy. Scattered across the high bleachers in tight-knit groups of three or four, they hollered, jeered, and laughed, many still in their gym clothes—t-shirts, track pants, and the protective padded gear we wore for the games. Imagine fantasy half-plate meets paintball armor, then throw in marshmallow aesthetics for good measure. Yeah, it's as ridiculous as it sounds.
I stood in the middle of the field, bent over and wheezing like an asthmatic dog after a mile-long sprint. My eyes darted around, taking in the glowing structures scattered across the field. Over two dozen hardened-light constructs shimmered faintly in the sun, ranging from makeshift barricades to sniper-worthy vantage points. They'd been set up for this match, but right now, they were mostly just obstacles between me and survival.
To my left, then my right, I caught glimpses of my teammates Ryu and Mylo—farther away than I'd hoped. Great. Just great. Meanwhile, directly in front of me stood the trio of doom: my opponents.
The first Terrance, tall and scrawny, with salt-and-pepper hair and a nose sharp enough to poke holes in drywall. His grin screamed "serial antagonist." To his side lurked the second guy Viz, a stocky kid with long, green-dyed hair that framed his freckled face. He looked like the kind of guy who'd follow orders just for the joy of watching you squirm.
And then there was him: John Nelson. The Nelson. The name everyone in school knew—mostly because he made sure we didn't forget it. If the gods had a secret recipe for creating the ultimate arrogant jock with a sadistic streak, John Nelson was the end result. Six feet of muscle, blonde hair cropped short, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a personality so obnoxious it could probably be bottled and sold as pest repellent. He was the school's war-game superstar, a high-ranking noble, and, naturally, completely unbearable.
Before I could even blink, Nelson shot forward like a linebacker on steroids.
"So… this is me," I muttered under my breath. "And you're probably wondering how I got myself into this mess."
Nelson, of course, had to ruin my moment of introspection.
"The Nelson will tell you how you got here!" he bellowed, grabbing my head with hands the size of dinner plates. Before I knew it, he'd slammed my face into the nearest wall.
The warm hum of the hard light pressed against my cheek, almost comforting if not for the whole brain-rattling agony thing. My ears rang like the aftermath of a movie explosion. My sword and shield slipped from my hands, clattering to the ground as Nelson's body began to glow.
In one fluid motion, he dragged my dazed self along the wall and hurled me like a ragdoll. Fifteen feet later, I hit the ground. Hard.
Somehow, at the very last second, muscle memory kicked in. I tucked, rolled, and landed—sort of. The wind got knocked out of me, and my ribs felt like they'd just gone ten rounds with a baseball bat, but hey, I was alive. Barely.
"I am the Nelson, and Nelson means champion! Don't you forget it!" he declared, arms raised like a WWE superstar basking in the spotlight.
The crowd loved it, of course.
"Nelson! Nelson! Nelson!" they chanted, their voices growing louder with each repetition.
"Destroy that scrawny puke!" someone shouted. Thanks for the encouragement, random classmate. Really appreciate it.
And me? I just laid there for a second, staring at the sky and wondering how my life had come to this. Maybe this would have been different if he had a different last name like Wheezer or Flowers.
Yeah, so, that's John Nelson. Better known as The Nelson. Jockosaurus Rex. War-game legend. Ego the size of Jupiter. And, unfortunately, he's also the guy who gets away with everything because the school treats him like some kind of gladiatorial demigod.
I sighed, forcing myself to my feet. "And today, I'm the unlucky chump he's decided to turn into a highlight reel."
The war games aren't all bad. They're like a real-life video game, and I can get behind that. I play a lot of games, and they've taught me a thing or two—like this move right here.
I dove to the left, tucking my arms in and rolling just like I'd practiced a thousand times in my living room, back when I didn't have to worry about getting punched into next week. The world spun, but I came out of it in a low crouch, scanning for my weapons.
A hail of non-lethal gunfire erupted from the right flank. Nelson and Viz staggered, nearly tripping over themselves as the shots rained down.
My chance!
I slid forward, barely slipping past Nelson's massive frame while Terrence stood there like a deer in headlights. Mylo shield-rushed him from the left, leaving the guy wide open. Finally, time to turn the tide on this jerk!
...Except I was wrong.
Terrence's anima powers came into play, and a small earthen wall shot up behind him, blocking Ryu's shots like he'd practiced this move a million times. How is this fair? Nobles get actual superpowers, and all I get is an extra piece of equipment to make up the difference. Seriously, who balanced this game?
I didn't have time to dwell on it because The Nelson loomed over me like a guillotine in cleats. His fists—complete with padded knuckle dusters that were anything but comforting—came down hard. I rolled left, then right, dodging two massive blows that could've turned me into a human pancake.
On the third dodge, I miscalculated. The world spun again, and I barely registered the clatter of Mylo knocking Viz backward. Somewhere in the chaos, I heard shouting—not from the bleachers filled with my "adoring fans," mind you, but from Ryu.
"Get out of there, Peter! It's time to use the Joestar secret technique!" Ryu yelled.
"What?!" I shot back, already regretting engaging in a conversation mid-fight. That split second of confusion cost me dearly.
Nelson's fist connected with my head like a freight train, and my world went dark.
Let me just say, Ryu's a great friend—my super-nerdy, anime-loving gaming buddy—but his timing? Impeccably awful.
When I came to, I was slung over Mylo's shoulder like a sack of cat food. Calling it a "bumpy ride" would be generous. My skull throbbed, and my ears rang, but as the noise faded, I could finally make out Mylo's voice.
"Ryu! Stop standing there spouting off your weeb nonsense and cover me! I've got him!" Mylo shouted.
"I'm not a weeb; I'm otaku!" Ryu shot back, pride dripping from his voice as he unloaded cover fire on Team Nelson.
Ah, Mylo. He's the polar opposite of The Nelson—serious, focused, a good friend and, thankfully, on my team. Mylo dropped me—none too gently—behind the cover where Ryu was crouched.
Ryu gave me a quick once-over. "You good?"
"Define 'good,'" I muttered, wincing as I barely sat up.
Three minutes and fifteen seconds left on the clock. This war game wasn't over yet. Of all the match types, this was zone control—tactical, strategic, meant for careful maneuvering. But Team Nelson? They didn't care. Brute force was their strategy, and they were damn good at it.
Viz stepped forward, false confidence dripping from his voice. "And just where do you think you're going?" he sneered, dragging out the words like a blade across stone.
Honestly, I couldn't decide what was worse—The Nelson himself or the parasites orbiting him.
Nelson's thick arms draped over his lackeys' shoulders, pulling them in close. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement as he looked between them. "Viz, Terrence… I think it's about time we put that self-righteous backwater noble Mylo in his place. I'm about done playing with this pipsqueak." His gaze flicked to me like I was a stain on his boot.
Viz's lips curled into a sharp grin. "You got it, boss."
The air tightened, crackling with energy as Viz dragged his hands through it like peeling back an invisible curtain. Without warning, Mylo was yanked off his feet—ripped forward by some unseen force and left stumbling, exposed.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Just stood there, frozen, as Nelson extended a hand to Terrence. The ground responded, rumbling beneath us. A massive club of solid earth rose like a summoned weapon, falling heavy into Terrence's waiting grip.
In an instant, Terrence lunged. Spinning with terrifying speed and precision, he became a brutal blur of motion. It was like watching a pro baseball player fused with a samurai in full strike.
"Neeeellllllssssooon! Home run!" he roared, the club colliding with Mylo in a sickening crack.
Mylo barely managed to raise his shield, instinct saving him from being broken in half.
The force hurled him through the air, slamming him into an eight-foot hard light barrier. The structure buckled under the impact, collapsing as Mylo crumpled to the ground, dazed and motionless.
The crowd erupted. Cheers and whistles filled the air, drowning out any sense of decency.
"Doing great, Nelson, baby!!" Lilly's voice cut through the noise, giddy with pride.
Nelson turned and gave her a casual wave, soaking in the applause like a born performer. Then his eyes snapped to Ryu, sharp and mean.
"So, it's just you now, huh, nerd?" he sneered.
Ryu squared his shoulders. "I'm not a nerd. I'm an Otaku." His voice didn't waver, even after watching his best friend get turned into a ragdoll.
Viz shot Terrence a puzzled glance. "Hey, Terry… what's an Otaku?"
Terrence blinked. "Uh… I think it means he likes anime?"
Nelson growled, rolling his neck. "The Nelson doesn't care what an Otaku is. Get him."
Ryu's face hardened. He muttered under his breath, "Guess it's time for the Joestar Secret Technique…"
Then he bolted.
Gunfire lit the air behind him as he blindly fired shots while sprinting, weaving through the obstacles like his life depended on it—because it did.
"Stop running, you little coward!" Viz bellowed, feet pounding the ground in pursuit.
"NEVER!" Ryu's voice cracked with defiance as he vanished behind cover, drawing them farther away.
And all I could do was watch, feeling the weight of failure crush my chest.
Because if I didn't figure out something fast, we were all going down.The health gauge on my arm blinked an angry red: 5/150.
One more hit, and I was done.
Nelson loomed ahead, chest heaving, his breath ragged with frustration. His prey was slipping away, and he didn't like that one bit.
He raised his hands, signaling his lackeys to halt.
"Hold up." His voice cut through the air like a blade. "The Nelson grows tired of this." His lips twisted into a smirk. "Viz. Terrence. Ready the Nelson Bazooka."
Terrence's eyes gleamed. He planted his feet wide, grounding himself, and with a guttural growl, ripped a massive stone cylinder from the earth—four feet long, carved with brutal precision. It even had a crude sight and a grip that seemed almost… ergonomic.
Efficient as ever, Terrence handed a dense earthen sphere to Viz. Without hesitation, Viz rammed the ammunition into the barrel, using his noble powers to pack it tight.
Nelson barely waited for Viz to step aside before he hoisted the makeshift cannon onto his shoulder.
"FIRE!" he barked, the word raw and impatient, like a spoiled kid demanding his turn.
Viz clapped his hands together with a violent crack, and the cannon boomed.
The packed dirt shot screamed through the air, a crude, deadly missile hurtling straight for Ryu.
But Ryu wasn't standing still.
He dove left in a desperate roll, the projectile missing by inches and exploding into shards of dirt. His high-pitched scream echoed across the field, drawing cruel laughter from the spectators.
Nelson's face darkened.
Again.
The cannon roared, and again, Ryu dodged—his frantic movements sparking more jeers from the crowd.
The laughter wasn't for Ryu anymore. It was for them.
Nelson's jaw clenched.
"STOP RUNNING, JUMPING, AND ROLLING, YOU LITTLE SISSY!" he bellowed, voice ragged with rage.
Terrence, oddly calm, rubbed his chin. "Y'know… for a guy who only runs away, he's actually pretty skilled."
Viz let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah. He'd make a killing delivering packages in bad neighborhoods."
From behind a fractured light pillar, Ryu's voice drifted out, winded but defiant.
"Thanks, guys! If video games taught me anything—it's how to dodge roll like a pro!"
Viz and Terrence exchanged blank stares.
Nelson's grip tightened on the cannon. Without a word, he hurled it to the ground. It shattered on impact.
His finger snapped forward.
"Don't just stand there admiring him—GET HIM!"
The order was pure venom.
And Ryu?
He didn't need to hear it twice.
He bolted, weaving between cover, every breath punctuated by ragged, high-pitched screams that echoed through the chaos.
But before they could pursue, the air was sliced by the distant wail of sirens.
Sharp. Relentless.
Everything froze.
Moments later, the school intercom crackled to life, cutting through the noise with a cold, mechanical voice:
"All students are to drop what they're doing and report to the auditorium. A Freak incident has been reported near campus. Please proceed in an orderly fashion."
Silence.
Then the tension cracked like glass.
Nelson's smirk faltered, a look of annoyance on his face. Viz and Terrence stiffened, eyes darting toward the campus gates.
The crowd's laughter choked off into murmurs of unease.
No one needed to be told twice.
Freaks weren't a game.
And none of us wanted to find out how close that incident really was.