A message pinged.
[Private Message—Kuroshi]
“You planning to just loiter in that shop all day?”
Ren smirked.
“Isn’t that what shopkeepers do?”
“Wrong timeline. Meet me at the dueling arena—east pavilion. Let’s see what’s still functional.”
“I’ll go easy on you.”
Ren slid off the counter with a sigh.
“Fine.”
He materialized above the skyline of Elaris.
The Elaris Dueling Pavilion hovered high above the city, suspended in the sky like a stage built for legends. A shimmering dome encased the platform, etched with pulsing ward glyphs. Holographic panels drifted around the perimeter, cycling through match stats, loadouts, and arena broadcasts in sleek neon font.
It was bigger than he remembered—sleeker, more polished. Like the rest of the city, it had moved on.
Kuroshi stood at the center—silver armor gleaming, shield resting on one shoulder, sword strapped across his back. He raised a hand in a lazy wave, equal parts welcome and challenge.
Ren stepped forward. His HUD blinked.
[Notice: Dueling Arena Stat Sync Active]
All attributes scaled to Level 60 for balance.
“Still stuck at sixty?”
Ren tapped through his status panel.
“That was the cap when I quit. Guess I’m a relic.”
“Looks like the cap’s a hundred now. Level sync keeps it fair.”
Kuroshi rolled his shoulders.
“Fair enough, but I'll still win. No matter how much confidence you have in your PVP skills.”
The duel interface hovered to Ren’s right.
[Challenge: Friendly Duel]
Rules: No consumables. No assists. Manual cast enabled.
He accepted with a tap.
“Before you get flattened, quick rundown. First—manual casting. You don’t scream spell names anymore. You draw them. If the glyph is clean, the system gives you a 1.05 multiplier.”
Ren raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds small.”
“It’s not. That’s a five percent boost. In MMO terms? That’s meta-defining. People have rerolled entire builds for less.”
“Guess shouting Thunderbolt! isn’t cutting it anymore.”
“Second is elemental fusion. You can combine elements mid-cast. Wind and lightning, fire and ice... if the structure’s clean, you get a new effect.”
“How stable is it?”
“Depends on you.”
“Perfect.”
“And last, memory glyphs. You can preload up to ten spell slots pre-battle. Instant cast, no delay, no SP cost.”
Ren opened the tab. Every slot sat empty.
“There’s a catch, right?”
“Obviously. Spells are tiered now. The higher the tier, the more slots they eat. Tier I costs one slot. Tier II takes three. Tier III uses four, and Tier IV nukes? They burn five.”
Ren squinted at the blank bar.
“So no stacking all ultimates and cheesing the match.”
“Exactly. You either prep for utility or go all-in on damage, not both. It’s all about balance.”
[DUEL INITIATED]
Countdown: 3... 2... 1...
Kuroshi lunged the moment the timer vanished, shield glowing as he closed the gap. Ren sidestepped, barely—the shield clipped his hip.
“You’re slow,”. Kuroshi called. “And rusty.”
Ren backed off and flicked his hand to cast... Nothing.
He scowled, then traced a shaky lightning glyph through the air. A flicker of static coiled around his fingers.
The bolt struck Kuroshi’s shield with a loud snap.
[Manual Cast Bonus: +1.05 Multiplier Applied]
The next spell came faster—smoother. Ren followed it with a gust glyph, then chained the two in reverse. Wind fed lightning. Lightning accelerated wind. The system pulsed again.
[Elemental Fusion Detected]
New Spell Learned: Storm Spiral
Rotating wind column laced with static arcs. Applies slow and shock.
Sparks spiraled outward as the fused spell exploded across the arena. Kuroshi dug in with his shield, sliding back a step.
“That’s more like it.”
Then something strange happened just a beat later.
Wind glyph in one hand, lightning in the other—Ren crossed them out of instinct. The lines blurred. The cast snapped.
[Custom Spell Detected]
Spell Form: Unstable
Spell Type: Lightning + Wind
New Spell Created—Raijin Crest
Effect: Arcing storm dome. Unstable. High damage.
—Name assigned: Raijin Crest
The glyph ignited beneath his feet. A dome of lightning and wind exploded outward—wild, pulsing, unpredictable.
Kuroshi raised his shield too late.
[Critical Hit!]
Kuroshi -9221 Damage
He stumbled, armor sparking.
“What the hell was that?”
Ren’s fingers tingled from the residual backlash.
“Something new?”
“That hit harder than half the ultimates I’ve seen.”
“I didn't plan that to happen.”
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“Then you might want to plan around it.”
The match ended a minute later. Ren was still learning. Kuroshi pressed the advantage.
[Victory: Kuroshi]
Remaining HP: 29%
Ren exhaled and lowered his hand.
“Still lost.”
“You didn’t stumble,” Kuroshi said, offering a hand. “I’d call that progress.”
Ren took it.
“Next time I draw a perfect circle, you’re done.”
“Keep dreaming.”
They stepped off the platform. The light over Elaris shifted as the city settled into dusk. Enchanted lanterns blinked to life.
Ren opened his menu.
His hand hovered over the Logout button.
“You logging?” Kuroshi asked.
Ren nodded.
“Yeah. I needed this.”
“Bit of violence between friends?”
“Bit of clarity.”
A pause.
“Thanks.”
Kuroshi shrugged.
“See you later then.”
Ren didn’t reply.
He just smiled, faintly.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he tapped open his profile settings.
[Status: Offline]
He hesitated, then changed it.
[Status: Hidden]
A small change.
But not nothing.
Then tapped the logout key.
[LOGGING OUT…]
Darkness folded around him as the logout sequence completed. The crisp edge of the HUD faded, and the faint hum of the helmet’s inner circuitry gave way to the real world—quiet, still, dim.
Ren opened his eyes.
The low ceiling of his apartment came into focus first. Cracked paint. A slow-turning ceiling fan. The soft amber glow of a streetlamp slipping in through the blinds. He exhaled as the weight of the headset eased off his face.
For a while, he didn’t move.
He lay there on his futon, staring upward, listening to the nothingness that waited outside the game.
His heart hadn’t slowed yet. Not from the match. Not from the fight. From something else entirely.
Not fear.
Not adrenaline.
Something closer to familiarity.
He sat up slowly, joints stiff, a light ache settling in. His fingers still tingled as if they hadn’t fully returned from the world he just left. There was no wind here. No sparks. Just the hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.
The room smelled faintly of detergent and old takeout. A half-eaten cup of instant noodles sat on the desk nearby, long since cold. His phone buzzed quietly.
2:46 a.m.
He blinked. It felt like less time had passed. Or maybe more.
Ren leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. His hands hung loose between them. Every spell, every motion, still played behind his eyes like afterimages—glyphs pulsing, static singing along his arms.
Raijin Crest.
He hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t even known he could cast it. But the system had recognized it. Named it. Accepted it.
"You might want to plan around it."
Kuroshi’s voice echoed in his head.
Ren closed his eyes.
He remembered other nights like this. Post-raid cooldowns. Long strategy calls. Working through the night perfecting alchemy rotations for the shop. Back then, the world was different. He was different.
Not famous.
Not flashy.
Just... good. And present.
That version of himself had felt long gone. But now?
Now it stirred.
He stood and stretched. His legs resisted. The headset lay next to him on the futon, matte black and humming softly. The VX-09 IrisLink logo blinked once before fading into sleep.
Ren stared at it.
He still didn’t know what he wanted out of any of this. Not really.
But for the first time in a long time, he wanted something.
Across the world, in a high-rise apartment overlooking the still waters of the Seine, élise Delacroix sat alone.
The login screen pulsed softly in the dim glow of her office.
Her headset sat idle in her lap, her fingers curled loosely around it. She had told herself this might be the last time. One final login. One last glance before pulling the plug.
The thought didn’t scare her. That was the worst part.
She slipped the headset on, more out of habit than conviction.
[Welcome, @Alkahestia]
[Logged in: Valerion Spire]
The capital city unfolded around her—marble towers, glowing signage, alchemical fumes rising from multicolored smokestacks. The world had never looked sharper, but she felt miles away from it.
Valerion Spire. Her domain.
She stood on the highest balcony in the game, looking down at the industry she’d built—labs, workshops, guild affiliates, market lines. Dozens of NPCs moved in practiced patterns, automating processes she once micromanaged herself.
She was ranked #1 globally.
She hadn’t cared in months.
But back then, it had been different.
She had logged in hungry. Calculating. Competitive. Before her name became a brand, it had been a statement—sharp and intentional. She wasn’t here to decorate. She was here to dominate.
And then there was him.
No name. No guild tag. Just results.
Every time she pushed the system, he pushed back.
She remembered late nights competing for rare event materials, both of them logged in before sunrise to secure five copies of a mutagen that would despawn in under ninety seconds. He never spoke. He didn’t have to.
His work did.
Unlabeled potions sold from a nondescript shop in the lower quarter. Each one carefully tuned. Micro-coded. Subtle. She knew the craftsmanship when she saw it—and she hated how much she admired it.
They never exchanged a single message.
But when she launched her rapid-dispersion healing formula, he countered it within a week with a compound that traded quick burst heals for longevity.
When she started mass-producing wind-resistant flame flasks for siege battles, he responded with insulated containers that doubled as lightning cores.
The system never recognized the duel.
But they both knew.
Each invention was a conversation.
Each improvement, a reply.
Then one day... silence.
And eventually, stagnation.
Now there was no one left to race.
She turned away from the balcony and walked the ring of her tower slowly, ignoring the rising metrics on her HUD. Supply nodes maxed. Trade contracts complete. Her own guild’s automation system handled all forecasting.
Tonight had been a courtesy—a soft farewell.
She hadn't even said it aloud.
But she had known.
Until the vendor spoke.
The old man near the corridor wall, an NPC vendor she hadn’t glanced at in over a year, looked up from his crate.
“Alchemy breathes again.”
élise froze.
“What—What did you say?”
The NPC didn’t respond. Just continued cycling the same idle animation, looping back to adjusting a misaligned tag.
She moved, faster now, down the corridor toward the reagent stalls. Another NPC, a female glassblower’s apprentice, glanced up from her table as élise passed.
“The winds carry the scent of a master’s touch. Something is stirring. The glass hums. The reagents remember.”
No quest marker appeared.
No system flag triggered.
Just flavor text. But off-script.
élise’s blood surged.
She turned and walked faster.
Down a side hall, a vendor adjusted his wares—a rotating display of pre-made catalysts and level-locked elixirs. He muttered to no one in particular.
“They said the old one was gone. But alchemy speaks again. It remembers the hands that shaped it.”
She opened her private data logs, pulled up a dormant tag she hadn't touched in years.
[Shop ID #409 — Status: Dormant]
[Last Update: 1,146 Days Ago]
She manually zoomed the city map, filtered out traffic overlays, and found it.
The building looked the same—quiet, dusty, forgotten.
Except for the chimney, coded for smoke output.
A thin plume of smoke, barely rendered.
Not aesthetic.
Live activity.
“No...” she whispered. “No way.”
Her breath caught.
She zoomed closer.
The door still bore that faded crest—silver flask, twin crescents. The window still cracked. The shop still shadowed by taller, newer buildings.
But someone was inside.
Not a bot. Not a vendor. Not a proxy account.
Him.
She stared for several seconds, unmoving. He’s back.
The game hadn’t changed. The world hadn’t changed.
But she had.
Or... maybe she hadn’t.
She had just been waiting.
Standing still since the day he left.
And now—he was back.
“Of all nights...” she murmured. “You choose now to return.”
Her chest tightened. Not with grief. Not even with anger.
With purpose.
This was no longer her last login anymore.
Not by a long shot.
She turned from the observation deck, eyes sharper than they had been in years. Her heels struck the marble like a challenge.
“Finally, my rival. You’ve come back.”
She opened her guild interface and began to disable auto-approvals. Opened her personal recipe board and cleared three queued duplicates.
The fire hadn’t died. It had simply dimmed.
Now it had found something to burn again.
“Let’s see if you still remember this.”