The shattered towers of Arkenterra's ancient ruins loomed beneath a crimson sky. The battlefield crackled with magic circuits and chaos. Lightning rained from summoned clouds. Arrows zipped across the air, blinking in and out with teleport enchantments. Sword clashes echoed like thunder, metal meeting metal in a war of top-tier elites.
Three guilds. Fifty players. All level-capped. All are wearing ultra-rare event gear. Their target is the Heaven's Relic—a one-time drop bound to disappear after tonight.
"Push left! Mages, suppress the flank—don't let them charge the spire!"
"I need cooldown cover! Who took aggro off the Boss?!"
"AOE! NOW! Before they hit the altar—"
A shockwave silenced them.
It wasn't from a player.
It wasn't from the boss.
It was from him.
A solitary figure stepped out of the shadows behind the relic's pedestal, his cloak dragging behind like a shadow-made flesh. The air stilled. Particles froze mid-frame.
Guild leaders choked on silence.
Then, one whispered, dread soaking each syllable:
"The Lord… He's here."
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. A black blade shimmered to life in his right hand—something outside the database, beyond known code—a relic even the developers couldn't trace.
He moved. There are no lag frames. There is no loading delay—just death.
One strike—one guild leader down.
Another—countered mid-skill animation. Dead.
A third tried to disconnect. He died before his screen even turned black.
[GAME OVER]
[GAME OVER]
[GAME OVER]
Notifications began raining like blood droplets on glass. One after another, elite players were erased from the server like corrupted files.
A boy in his cramped apartment slapped his console.
"I was one quest away from the Heaven's Relic! I grinded a month for this! Of all people—why him?! Why is my luck this cursed?!"
But no one heard him.
Arkenterra Online.
A fantasy VR MMORPG
Unlike any other game ever created, Arkenterra Online didn't follow fixed routes, scripted quests, or predictable NPC behavior. There were no golden arrows indicating the way, no highlighted objectives, and no safety nets.
The NPCs weren't just background Characters. They had Their wills, emotions, and ambitions. They formed relationships, waged wars, grew old… and died. A blacksmith in one village might disappear forever if you didn't help him cure his illness. A prince you ignored could rise into a tyrant, turning your entire region into a war zone. Towns fell. Kingdoms changed hands. Even dungeons collapsed, buried by the world's shifting politics.
But the real was fear?
It wasn't the NPCs.
It was the fear of death.
In Arkenterra, dying meant permanent deletion. This means that if your character dies, your stats and gear will be lost. And you couldn't log in with the same account. That is no different from death in its own way.
"In this world, death is death."
Some called it art. Others called it a cruel joke. But to those who played it, it was like real life.
Every fight mattered. Every wound had consequences. Every choice—every hesitation—could be the last.
This wasn't a game.
It was a second life For players.
And only those who abandoned fear… survived in it.
It was a world where guilds ruled, and rankings mattered, and there was one anomaly—one myth cloaked in silence.
He was called Lord Arkhen.
A solo player.
A phantom.
While others relied on alliances' trade and voice chats to survive the brutal world of Arkenterra, he needed none. He never joined a party and never replied to a single message. He was a void in the system; a presence felt only when entire boss raids collapsed or when legendary items vanished without a trace.
He didn't follow paths; he rewrote them. Rumors claimed he was using bugs and cheating. But deep down, everyone knew—He was Undefeated in PvP without ever getting a single defeat.
And above it all, his name—Lord Arkhen—burned alone on the leaderboard. Rank: always remained the #1
But behind the legend was a man. A recluse with shadows under his eyes, staring at the glow of a screen in a dark room.
The hum of the monitors was the only sound in the room.
Three screens glowed in pale blue, casting long shadows over a kingdom of emptiness—half-eaten cup noodles stacked like ruins, empty energy drink cans guarding the edges of his desk like rusted sentinels. A graveyard of receipts, broken charger cables, and crumpled pill packets surrounded him, untouched for weeks.
Hiroto Kurogane didn't move, not even when the system notification blinked softly on his screen.
[Conversion Complete – 12,900 credits transferred]
He exhaled through his nose. Not a laugh. Not even relief. Just breath.
Click. Click. Click.
His fingers returned to motion, tapping out lines of code in the back end of a gray market tool, rerouting crypto through three dummy accounts before landing in his prepaid game-to-cash wallet.
The transfer beeped.
¥137,100 deposited.
"Three days," he muttered. His voice was cracked, like an old radio barely tuned. "Just bought myself another three days."
His chair creaked as he leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling fan—still. The air was stale. He couldn't remember the last time he opened a window. Or spoke to anyone. Or stepped outside.
He reached for a dented can of Z-Boost X, but it was empty.
Static crackled from one of the monitors. He blinked. It's just a loading error. Again.
The glow from the central screen displayed his character—Lord Arkhen—standing at the edge of a cliff in-game, sword lowered, cape fluttering against a non-existent wind.
"Lucky bastard," Hiroto said to no one. "You get to be a legend. I wish I could like you in real life as well."
He rubbed his eyes. They stung. Had it been twenty hours?
It didn't matter.
His gaze drifted to the side wall. Pinned above a dusty shelf, the only thing remotely personal—a faded poster, peeling at the corners.
"There's nothing left to lose…
So why stop winning?"
He reread it, just as he did every night, like it meant something once.
He adjusted his hoodie. It's the same one he wore yesterday. And the day before that. It's the same as last week.
His stomach growled.
"Too early to die, too late to cook," he muttered, then opened a delivery app on another screen. Discount menu. He ordered the Lowest-tier meal with the Cheapest carbs.
[Order Placed – ETA 48 minutes]
After placing the Order
Hiroto stared at the blinking cursor on his chat window—0 Friends Online—no New Messages.
After that, he went out to get alcohol from a nearby Convenience store.
The convenience store light buzzed overhead, flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on or die.
Hiroto stood in front of the sliding glass door, holding a cheap bottle of sake in one hand, a plastic bag dangling from the other. His hoodie was damp—the rain had started again, a drizzle that turned the pavement slick and reflective. Streetlight halos shimmered in the puddles.
He took a step. His sneakers splashed softly.
Another step. Then another.
No music. No words. Just the distant hum of neon and the occasional hiss of a car passing through the wet night. The city was alive, but it didn't see him. I didn't hear him. To the world, he was just another shape in the dark.
He didn't mind.
His breath came out in small clouds. Cold. Not freezing, but cold enough to make the bottle sweat against his fingers.
He glanced up. The sky was pitch black. Clouded. No stars.
Figures.
He turned the corner toward his apartment complex. Same route. It's the same ten-minute walk. Past the rusted mailbox. Past the old lady's closed fruit stand. Past the dead vending machine that still ate your yen.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass of a storefront window.
Unshaven. Eyes sunken. Hood low. The bottle in his hand looked more like a weight than a drink.
"…Still here, huh?" he muttered.
The reflection didn't answer.
He kept walking.
The rain gradually intensified. Dripping off rooftops. Running down the gutters. Pitter-pattering on the plastic bag.
And then—
A screech.
A sudden flash of light.
A roar of tires.
He turned slowly—too slowly.
The truck came out of nowhere. Headlights blinding. Horn screaming like a banshee.
He froze.
It all happened too fast.
Metal tore through the rain. Rubber skidded against asphalt. The bottle slipped from his hand.
CRASH.
His body flew.
Then—
Stillness.
—
Hiroto's POV
Everything was sideways.
The world spun in shades of red and black. The cold seeped in deeper than before. It's not the kind of cold a hoodie could fix.
His legs didn't move.
Neither did his arms.
His fingers twitched once. Then stopped.
"…Ughh…"
Pain.
Sharp. Then dull. Then everything.
He could taste iron in his mouth. His vision pulsed—streetlights blinking like dying stars.
"Blood…?"
He looked down. I couldn't see past the pooling red.
"I'm bleeding… Cold…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Can't move…"
Sirens in the distance. Maybe. Or it's just ringing in his ears.
"This is it… huh?"
He blinked slowly. Every movement felt like dragging his soul through the mud.
"All that grinding. All those hours…"
He remembered his desk. The screens are still glowing. Lord Arkhen is still online.
"Pointless in the end, huh…"
A cough shook his chest. Pain erupted like fire. His breath came shorter.
His heart thudded—slow, then slower.
And then—
A flash.
A memory, jagged and sudden.
A woman.
Long, dark hair. Standing in sunlight.
She was smiling.
Warm eyes. Warm hands.
His chest ached—more than the wounds. Deeper.
"…You always said I needed to touch grass," he murmured.
Another cough.
She said something then.
He couldn't remember the words.
Just the warmth.
Then, the silence that followed after she was gone.
He blinked again. Her face faded with the rain.
A tear slid down his cheek.
"…Looks like I'll be joining you."
His lips curved slightly—a broken smile.
But his eyes—his eyes were scared.
Terrified.
As the world dimmed, the silence grew louder.
It was so loud it drowned out the city.
The sirens.
The wind.
His thoughts.
But still, in the final flicker of his soul, one thought clawed its way to the surface:
"God… if you're real… or watching… or anything…"
His breath stuttered.
"…Just a moment…"
He couldn't feel the rain anymore.
"…Let me live…"
His chest rose once. Then fell.
"I want… to die properly…"
His eyes glassed over.
"…not like this."
—
Silence.
The camera pulls upward.
His body lies sprawled in the middle of the road, rain pooling around him, red mixing with gray. The bottle lies shattered, sake pouring out like blood onto the concrete.
No onlookers. No tears. No closing words.
Just a forgotten soul swallowed by the city's indifference.
And then—
The screen flickers.
Black.
Hiroto gasped.
His body lurched upward, eyes snapping open. Breath came sharp, like drowning in air.
Light.
Too much of it.
A soft, golden glow poured from the ceiling—no, not a ceiling. A chandelier. Floating. Held in place by shimmering chains
He blinked rapidly.
His vision sharpened. The ceiling wasn't cracked and yellowed like the one in his apartment. It was smooth ivory, rimmed with silver lines that pulsed faintly like veins. Above him, crystalline domes glowed with soft blue mana.
He wasn't on the streets of Tokyo.
"What the hell…?"
His voice came out wrong. Lighter. Younger.
He froze.
The sheets were soft beneath him, almost cloud-like. The bed was massive, its frame intricately carved with dragon-wing patterns and adorned with gold trim. White curtains surrounded the room like veils. The scent of roses lingered faintly in the air.
His hand moved to his chest on instinct. No wound. No blood. No pain.
Only warmth.
He threw the covers off and sat up fast—too fast. The silk robe that clung to his skin was unfamiliar, smooth, and formal. The room didn't hum with electricity. There is no buzz of machines. No clicking keyboard. Just silence and the faint, airy sound of wind through the drapes.
His bare feet hit the carpet. Plush. Clean. Too clean.
He stumbled forward, drawn by instinct, heart thudding in his throat.
A full-length mirror stood near the far wall, etched with ornate vines. For a moment, he hesitated—then stepped closer.
What stared back at him wasn't him.
Dark hair, but fuller. Healthier. No eye bags. No dead stare. His skin was clean, youthful, even glowing. His posture was straighter, his jaw more defined.
Hands.
He turned them over. No scars or callouses
He stared at the mirror
"This…" he whispered, backing away. "who is this child, and am I in his body."
He clutched his head. The weight of it all crashing down like broken code.
"I was dead… I remember it. "
His breathing grew shallow, faster. He stumbled again, hitting the dresser behind him.
"I was on the street—I remember the truck hit me, and I died.
The blood and the pain I felt was real ."
"There's no way I was mistaken. What the hell is happening?"
To Be Continued...