First, the world goes mad.
Not a front—just a total melee. Humans slice beastfolk, beastfolk tear into dwarves, dwarves hammer elves, demons crush humans. No one with anyone—everyone against everyone. Banners burn, the earth runs with blood, a scream rips the air to rags.
Above the battlefield—their gods, and it's worse up there. The elves' Solar Maiden lashes the demons' Night Sovereigness with radiance; the dwarves' gray-bearded Smith brings his hammer down on the beastfolk's storm idol; the human Archangel cuts the sky and rains lightning; from underground something in a mask of bone laughs and drags weapons to itself like a magnet. Deities topple over one another like drunken titans. There are no prayers—no one left to hear them.
I stand at the center of this hell, knee-deep in mud and blood, gripping a sword that trembles like a living thing. Beside me someone growls —"Forward!"— and we go, because there's nothing left behind us.
An elf's arrow hangs in the air, guttering out, then falls like a blade of grass. Sparks from a dwarf's hammer—cold, dead. A god takes a step—and the ground explodes. A breath—and whole regiments collapse into ash.
The sky cracks like glass. White, blind light pours from the fissures. I skid and plunge down with dozens of bodies. In the ringing silence, a voice without age asks:
—"And what will you be?"
I want to say "hero." A dry cough comes out.
—"Shadow or blade. Choose."
The light tears to shreds. A shadow settles on my face for a heartbeat, like a mask—and…
The alarm shrieks. My phone launches under the bed.
A fifteen-square-meter room and one colossal mess: yesterday's mug, a monitor that hasn't seen "Off," a chair with my life draped over it. In the window, something between night and morning—who cares.
—"Wonderful," I tell the room. —"Same dream again."
My name is Kano Rom. In the real world that explains nothing. In games it meant one thing: if a fight needed carrying—I carried it. I could solo-carry a team. And I paid for it alone—trust costs too much to give away.
Kettle, shower, toast. Dark hoodie, pants, sneakers; backpack over the shoulder. Three old tracks in the headphones—now they're just noise.
The office greets me with a turnstile and the smell of yesterday's pizza. Open plan—so everyone can watch you slowly drown in emails. From behind dividers drift breezy "morning"s, the "nothing personal" kind of laughter.
Glass meeting room. I report briefly: done, handed off, fixing. The manager nods, pauses, and looks at me like I'm asking for a loan.
—"You do the work," he says. —"But your impact is zero. Where's initiative? Where's accountability? Where's a result that changes the game?"
—"I work," I say.
—"It's not enough. That's all for today."
Someone to my left snickers under their breath. I jot myself a note: "do my own analytics—for myself." Funny. "For myself" always means later.
The day drags: "send the update," "why so long," "needed it yesterday." I nod and do it. Inside—emptiness, like after a battle where you gave yourself down to the bone and the reward went to somebody's buddy.
Once I wanted friends and a girlfriend. Later—at least one person I could text "I feel awful." Now—I text no one. The game taught me one rule: open up—get used.
Late evening, the office goes server-room quiet. I shut the laptop, stretch my back. A note stays on the desk: "buy decent tea." I won't.
—"Later," I say to the empty room.
Subway. A metallic tang in the air, a steady hum in the bones. Turnstile "beep," the escalator swallows. The platform is full but not crushed: hoods, phones, everyone in their own small war. In the glass glare—my silhouette: hoodie, backpack, shadows under the eyes. Not a hero. Not a monster. Just me.
The train's roar swells.
She surfaces from the crowd toward me: pink hair, clear eyes. For a moment—eye to eye. A quick, warm smile, like "I see you." She passes half a step—and stumbles: heel, bag strap, edge of tile—doesn't matter. Her body pitches forward where you can't fall.
I move before thought. Catch her by the elbow, turn her, pull her from the edge. Other hands catch her now, she drops to one knee, someone yelps "careful!"
And I lose my footing. My toe snags the lip, the backpack yanks, my balance jams. The sole slides, and under my feet there's suddenly nothing.
The world shrinks to three points: her flustered eyes; the heat of skin under my fingers—I shove her back, to safety; and the headlights carving the tunnel with white knives.
—"It's okay," I manage to whisper to her. —"Hold on."
The roar becomes a solid wall. Wind punches my chest. Someone screams "stop!" someone "God!" They drag her back, hold her tight.
I drop.
For a heartbeat a fragment of the dream flickers: gods fighting, and the question—"Shadow or blade?" The answer will come later. Not now.
White light. Click.
Darkness.