There were no walls. No ceiling. No floor. Yet somehow Landen stood on something, surrounded by slow, glowing waves of black and blue energy—like he'd been dropped into the heart of a living galaxy.
"It was YOU!" he shouted, His voice bounced off nothing and came back from everywhere. "YOU brought me here!"
The energy above him began to spiral faster, the waves peeling back like a curtain to reveal —
An eye.
One enormous eye, wide enough to swallow the sky. Its pupil burned with silver light, and right now, that light was aimed squarely at Landen.
"I had imagined," the voice said, "that mortals would carry themselves differently in the presence of a god."
It didn't come from any one direction. It came from all of them, pressing against his ears and chest.
Landen spun around anyway, searching for something to argue with. A face. A body. Anything.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "If you're real, show yourself."
"I have already told you, I am the Son of the Creator."
""Okay. And your name?"
A pause.
"I am beyond names. Names exist to distinguish one being from another. I am singular. I simply… am."
Landen scoffed, folding his arms. "No name, huh? That's going to get annoying fast." He thought for half a second. "I'll just give you one."
The cosmos seemed to tighten.
"You will not," the god said. Firmer now. The silver light sharpened.
""I'll call you —"
"Do not —"
"— Bob."
Silence.
Even the swirling energy stopped, as if the universe itself needed a moment.
Then the massive eye disappeared, and a figure plummeted out of the darkness above—arms flailing—and hit the ground a few meters away.
Thud…
""Argh —" The figure grabbed his backside and groaned. "I told you not to give me a name."
Landen blinked. "You're not a god. You're just some kid."
The boy looked up.
And Landen's confidence took a quiet step backward.
Those eyes — silver, radiant, glowing — were the exact same light that had just filled the entire sky. His spiky white hair shimmered with the same eerie luminescence, like starlight made flesh. He looked roughly eight, maybe nine. He also looked like he could unmake a solar system before breakfast.
"Of all the names," the boy said flatly, "you went with Bob?"
"Yeah." Landen shrugged. "It rhymes with God."
"Bob does not rhyme with God."
"Close enough."
Bob pushed himself to his feet with the careful wobble of someone reinstalling themselves into a body after a long absence. He flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulders. Shifted his weight like he was remembering which foot was which. His white robe swayed around him, sleeves long enough to hide his hands.
Then —
Vrip.
He was one meter from Landen's face.
"It's you," Bob breathed, silver eyes wide. "It's really you."
Landen hadn't seen him move. One blink, and the distance between them had simply ceased to exist.
Bob seized his hand and shook it vigorously.
Vrip.
He shot upward, now floating high above, arms thrown wide.
"Landen Thorne—the Legendary Lone Knight!" His voice rang through the abyss. "The number one player in the world!"
Vrip!
Back in Landen's face. Holding a pen and a small card, which he thrust forward with both hands.
"Can I get your autograph?"
Landen looked down. It was a trading card. His own face stared back at him, beneath his name and the letters RC, and in bold across the bottom: One of One.
He looked up slowly. "...Where did you even get this?"
Bob was practically vibrating.
Landen studied him for a moment. So much for the voice that had shaken the universe. "Are you going to tell me why you brought me here, or —"
"I have been watching you," Bob said, circling him with the enthusiasm of someone appraising a rare collectible. "For a very long time."
"That's only slightly unsettling."
Landen almost smiled. But something felt off — gods didn't gush like fanboys without wanting something in return. He waited.
Bob's expression shifted. The excitement didn't vanish, but something steadier settled beneath it.
"I summoned you here because you are… unusual." He held Landen's gaze. "You possess the mind of a general. A tactician who sees ten moves ahead before his opponent has finished their first. A strategist who dismantles people before they realize they've already lost." A pause. "Within you lies the potential to be a God of War — someone capable of reshaping battles, commanding armies, achieving things that have no ceiling."
Landen said nothing.
"But," Bob continued, and his tone turned colder, "You never utilized your gift." His silver eyes narrowed.
"Instead, you became complacent. Content with mediocrity. Chasing women. Wasting years on a game instead of becoming what you actually are."
Silence.
"All that potential," Bob finished quietly, "and yet you choose to remain… ordinary."
There was a brief silence.
Landen's jaw tightened. "If I'm such a disappointment, why bring me here?"
"Because your strengths far outweigh your weaknesses." Bob crossed his arms, and a faint smirk returned. "And I intend to help you close the gap." He met Landen's eyes steadily. "I need your help, Landen."
That landed strangely. "A god needs help from a mortal?"
"Yes. I've lost the ability to directly intervene in this world. But the time has come — events are already in motion, pieces are already placed, and what happens next will determine the fate of everything." He tilted his head. "You are the variable I need."
Landen raised an brow. "Mind simplifying that for me?"
Bob sighed. ""Think of it like chess. I am the king. You will be my knight."
"No."
Bob blinked.
"I had one goal my entire life," Landen said, his voice quiet but firm. "One dream — to compete in the International Tournament. The biggest stage in the world. You're not taking that from me."
As the words left his mouth, a rift cracked open in the abyss — a tear in the darkness, just wide enough for a person to step through. He hadn't asked for it. It was just there.
He turned toward it.
The two of them locked eyes for a long moment. Then Bob looked away first.
"You have every right to refuse," he said quietly.
Landen turned and walked toward the rift.
"However."
He didn't stop.
"Back in your world…" Bob's voice followed him. "Five years have already passed."
Landen stopped.
He turned slowly.
"Five years?"
""The transition wasn't instantaneous—though from your perspective it was." Bob's voice carried no cruelty, just the flat weight of fact. "The tournament you trained your entire life for has already been held. It's over."
Landen's legs stopped cooperating. He dropped to his knees.
Five years. All the grinding, all the isolation, all the years alone in front of a screen — it had culminated in a slot he would never fill, a stage he would never stand on. His legend hadn't faded. It had simply ended, quietly, without him.
"You've got the wrong person," he said, staring at the ground. He genuinely meant it. "I'm just a gamer."
"Do not dismiss that lightly," Bob said. "Every hour you spent in that game was building something. Strategy. Reaction. Pattern recognition. Emotional control under pressure. Patience." He crouched down slightly. "You trained your mind for years without knowing what you were training it for."
"I don't know how to fight," Landen said. "I've never hit anyone in my life."
"You'll learn."
"No, you're wrong."
A pause.
"Landen." Bob's voice was quiet, but absolute. "This is not my decision. This is your destiny."
The word hit somewhere deep.
Destiny. He'd never believed in it — not really. But he thought about the years. The obsession. The isolation he'd dressed up as discipline. The tournament that had somehow never felt like the real destination, no matter how badly he'd chased it.
And then he thought about the arena he'd seen. A real battlefield — flesh, steel, power — built around the same logic he'd spent his life mastering. Strategy. Positioning. Reading your opponent before they'd finished their thought.
This is why you were here.
He looked up. "Am I actually ready for something like this?"
""The moment you qualified for the International Tournament proved that you were." Bob extended a hand. "And I wouldn't send my knight in unarmed."
"A sharp tone cut the air, and a transparent interface materialized in front of Landen, clean and precise, hovering in the dark.
At its center, a single word:
[ START ]
"The MOBA System," Bob said. "It's designed to work like the games you know."
Landen reached out and tapped it. The display bloomed open around him.
[ PICK YOUR CLASS ]
[ MAGE ] [ ASSASSIN ] [ FIGHTER ] [ DEFENDER ] [ MARKSMAN ] [ SUPPORT ]
"Yooo… this is awesome," The grin crept across his face before he could stop it. He rubbed his hands together eagerly.
"We have to go with the fighter class, obviously."
[ PRIMARY WEAPON SPECIALIZATION ]
The list scrolled — blades, gauntlets, staffs, axes, hammers, and more.
He didn't need to read past the third option.
"What's a knight without his sword?"
[ SECONDARY WEAPON SPECIALIZATION ]
The same option of weapons reappeared.
He thought for a moment, then selected:
[ FIST ]
"Can't always count on having a weapon."
The screen simplified to a final choice:
[ ACCEPT THE CELESTIAL SYSTEM ]
or
[ RETURN HOME ]
"Take caution on your next choice," Bob said. "If you accept, you will gain the power of the MOBA System—become my knight and fulfill your purpose in this world. But if you elect to return home, you will forget everything that happened here and resume your life as a gamer."
Landen stared at the two options.
The Lone Knight was a fitting title. Though he was famous for being the top player in the world, his life was very lonely. Melinda wasn't his lover. In fact, he had never had a girlfriend. Most of his days were spent alone. In front of his computer. Immersed in the one game he loved.
But really, it wasn't love. It was an addiction. An obsession to maintain his title. This led to seclusion from everyone, including friends and family. In fact, these past few days—no computer, no leaderboard, no performance to protect— had been the first time in years he'd felt free. With this new world, this new system—he had an opportunity to start over.
And then there was this. A world built like the game he'd devoted his life to. A system that spoke his language. A purpose that, insane as it was, actually made a strange kind of sense.
This was why he was here.
He made his choice.
For a moment, everything went white and quiet.
Then the world came back — and with it, a soft interface embedded directly in his vision, steady and clear:
[ Welcome to the MOBA System ]