BANG!
A body slammed hard against a row of lockers, rattling them loud enough to cut through the noisy chaos of the school hallway.
Classes hadn't even started yet, and already the corridors were packed with students—some rushing in, others already loitering around—but every single one of them stopped to stare.
The boy on the ground wasn't new to this. Elijah Stone, fifteen years old, scrawny, quiet, and—by most people's standards—forgettable. Except, unfortunately, he was the perfect punching bag. The kind of kid you bullied just because you could.
The guy standing over him, crouching now to look Elijah dead in the eye, wasn't new either. Big, cocky, and surrounded by friends who laughed at every hit like it was stand-up comedy.
Elijah leaned against the lockers, bloody and bruised. He couldn't stand if he tried. His eyes were swollen, his lip was split, and he was coughing up blood with what looked like broken teeth mixed in. It was clear—this wasn't a first-time beating. This had been going on for a while.
The bully grinned and ran his hand through Elijah's hair before slamming his head against the lockers again.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Is he bleeding yet?" one of the bully's friends asked, as casually as if he were asking about lunch.
The bully checked, searching Elijah's scalp like he was hunting for treasure. "Nah. Not yet," he muttered, and then continued slamming Elijah's head again and again—so many times he lost count.
Elijah's eyes fluttered. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. But not one student moved to help. Not a single one. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe, deep down, they enjoyed the show.
To most of them, Elijah was nothing. Just a loser who'd always been on the bottom rung of the social ladder. Fragile. Awkward. Hopeless.
And yet…
The bully finally stopped—not out of mercy, but boredom. Elijah still wasn't bleeding, and apparently, that ruined the fun. He yanked off Elijah's glasses, slid them on mockingly, and then chuckled when he noticed the lenses were so scratched up he couldn't see a thing.
"Pathetic," he muttered, and then punched Elijah in the face with the glasses still in his fist.
That should've been the end of it. But just as the bully turned to leave, his arm around his girlfriend, Elijah started laughing.
At first, it was faint—a choked-up sound from a boy who looked too beaten to breathe properly. But then it got louder. A dry, painful laugh that echoed off the walls and sent a chill through the hallway.
People stared.
The bully turned back.
Elijah, still shaking from the pain, rose slowly to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. His lip curled into a smile that wasn't quite sane.
Then he lifted his hand—and flipped the bully off.
"Hey, Screwball," Elijah said, his voice hoarse but steady.
That name hit a nerve.
The bully's smile faded. Screwball was the name people whispered behind his back after he missed a game-winning goal in middle school. It haunted him.
Now everyone was pointing fingers—literally—at Elijah, confirming who had said it.
Elijah just stood there, middle finger raised, still smiling like someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
He'd taken beatings his whole life. Every grade, every school. No one ever stepped in. No one ever fought for him. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't anything.
But he was used to pain.
And unlike most people thought… Elijah had a record. He'd been suspended. Expelled. Multiple times. And this school? This was his last shot.
"What did you just say to me, punk?" the bully growled, letting go of his girlfriend and storming toward Elijah.
Elijah didn't drop his hand. "Finally," he muttered under his breath.
The bully reached out to grab him again—but this time, Elijah moved.
With a sudden surge of strength, he broke the bully's wrist, wrapped his arms around his waist, and slammed him into the lockers with so much force that something cracked.
The hallway went silent.
The bully crumpled to the floor, gasping, and Elijah didn't stop. He kicked him. Over and over. Until his head finally started to bleed.
Two of the bully's friends lunged at Elijah—one grabbed him in a chokehold from behind, the other aimed for his face. But Elijah was ready. He kicked the one in front hard in the chest, pushing himself and the guy behind him into the lockers. Another crack. More screams.
And then, just to finish it off, Elijah bit the guy who was choking him.
Three bullies now lay broken on the floor.
And Elijah—bloodied, wild-eyed, breathing heavy—turned toward the girl. The girlfriend. The one who had laughed the loudest earlier.
She fell to her knees, trembling. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes shut in fear.
But Elijah didn't touch her.
He knelt, picked up his cracked glasses from the floor, and simply walked past her.
The school principal was waiting for him at the door. He didn't need to say anything.
"Send it to my place," Elijah said flatly. He knew what came next. Suspension. Expulsion. Didn't matter.
He went home.
His face was a mess. First thing he did was grab something cold from the fridge and press it against his bruises. Then he lay down on his bed, already knowing he wasn't going to school tomorrow.
The TV was still on. His favorite game—Heir of the Underworld—paused on the final level. He grabbed the controller and unpaused it, playing for only a few minutes before something strange happened.
A sharp, stabbing headache hit him like a truck. His vision swam. The sound in the room changed—it was like everything started ringing. And then—
[CONGRATULATIONS, YOU HAVE FINISHED THE GAME]
A message popped up on the screen. Elijah blinked.
[DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED TO THE ULTIMATE LEVEL?]
[Y / N]
He wasn't sure what was happening. He felt dizzy—like he was drunk or drugged—and before he could think clearly, his trembling fingers selected:
[Y]
A flash of bright blue light filled the room.
[CONGRATULATIONS. YOU ARE NOW A PLAYER OF—]
He didn't get to read the rest.
Everything went dark.
Elijah Stone had just unknowingly accepted the invitation to the world he thought only existed in pixels and code.