Understood! I'll expand Chapter 3 to over 1,500 words with rich descriptions, deep internal monologue, vivid scene-setting, and detailed portrayal of Arvan's powers, his mental and physical state, the environment, and the intense combat situation. The goal is to immerse readers fully int
The corridor hummed with a low mechanical growl, the metallic walls vibrating faintly as the starship's failing systems struggled to maintain stability. Emergency lights flickered, bathing the narrow passage in an unsettling red glow, casting long, jagged shadows that danced like restless spirits. Thick smoke curled in the air, its acrid sting burning Arvan Frax's nostrils and throat with every labored breath.
He pressed his back flat against the cold steel panel, every fiber in his body screaming in protest. His muscles trembled violently, heavy bruises blossoming across his ribs from the relentless impact of the last encounter. The dull, persistent ache from a clawed strike throbbed painfully, reminding him how fragile this borrowed body truly was.
Arvan's eyes, glowing faintly with a pale blue light—the unmistakable signature of psychic energy—fluttered open. He blinked rapidly to clear the haze clouding his vision. The afterimages of the last battle still flickered behind his eyelids: the monstrous drone-like creature lunging with deadly speed, the explosive blast of psychic force scattering shards of metal and sparks across the corridor.
He had survived—but just barely.
His breath came in sharp gasps, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his cracked lips. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he flexed his fingers, trying to coax the erratic flow of psychic energy that still shimmered beneath his skin. It was there, but barely. Like a flickering candle struggling against a rising wind.
Why is it so weak? The thought gnawed at him. I read about EsGod's limitless power. But this… this is nothing like that.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He was a stranger to this world, a man plucked from a quiet life in Purbalingga—a place filled with the scent of rain on cracked asphalt and the noise of vendors hawking street food. Now, the reality was this: a cold, dying starship trapped in a war that stretched across galaxies.
Arvan Frax. The name felt foreign, a label forced on him by fate and circumstance. His old name, Arfan Prasetyo, seemed like a ghost from another lifetime—one where the greatest battles were fought in the pages of novels or the glow of a screen.
He closed his eyes briefly, focusing inward.
I am not a hero. Not yet. But I have to be stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
The distant echo of heavy footsteps reverberated through the corridor. The creatures were relentless. Arvan's psychic senses tingled with the presence of another approaching enemy—fast, calculated, and deadly.
He scrambled to his feet, every movement a fresh assault on his battered body. Ahead, the corridor forked, with emergency exit signs flickering erratically. The right passage led toward the armory—a potential sanctuary. The left descended into the shadowed maintenance tunnels, a maze rumored to be crawling with hazards even in peace.
Arvan's mind raced, weighing risks and options in a fraction of a second.
"Armory," he whispered. "If I'm going to live, I need weapons."
But the path was anything but safe.
His dimensional sensing ability—a fragment of EsGod's legendary power—glimmered faintly in his mind, alerting him to a spatial anomaly near the armory entrance. Something was waiting.
As if on cue, a sleek, metallic drone burst from the shadows, its limbs a terrifying fusion of razor-sharp blades and thrumming energy conduits. Its multifaceted eyes locked on him with cold precision.
Adrenaline surged through Arvan's veins. His heart hammered like a war drum as he raised his hands instinctively, channeling the fragile psychic energy trembling inside him.
He conjured a thin shield, barely stronger than a whisper, just in time to deflect the drone's first slash. Sparks flew, and a burning heat radiated where blade met barrier.
The drone struck again, faster this time, its movements calculated and merciless. Arvan staggered back, his shield flickering dangerously.
This isn't a game. This isn't a story where the hero can pause and strategize.
He recalled the countless hours lost in gaming, reading about characters who mastered powers with ease, who moved through battles with grace and confidence. But he was not them. He was a man clinging to scraps of power, learning on the fly, every mistake costly.
As the drone lunged for a fatal blow, Arvan's eyes narrowed. He reached deeper, tapping into the dimensional manipulation ability he barely understood.
The air warped and twisted. A shimmering rift opened beneath the drone's feet, pulling at its metallic limbs, destabilizing its footing.
The creature hissed in frustration, momentarily thrown off balance.
Arvan seized the moment. Gathering all his strength, he thrust his palm forward, releasing a concentrated psychic blast that struck the drone's core—a pulsating orb of glowing energy.
The drone exploded in a cascade of sparks and metal shards, collapsing into a smoldering heap.
Arvan sank to his knees, panting, every breath burning like fire.
His body trembled uncontrollably, the weight of exhaustion pressing down like an unyielding force.
But beneath the physical agony was something deeper—an aching awareness that this fight was only the beginning.
He sat in the darkness, fingers trembling as he traced the faint blue glow still pulsing beneath his skin. The remnants of psychic energy that once surged with the promise of godlike power now felt fragile, unreliable.
Arvan's mind drifted back to Purbalingga. To quiet evenings spent escaping into novels, comics, and games—worlds where heroes wielded their powers effortlessly, where villains were defeated with a flick of the wrist.
He remembered his old self: a man burdened by the monotony of work, by the weight of a country struggling under political and economic strain. His escape had been stories—fantasies where anything was possible.
Now, those fantasies had become his reality—but without the safety nets of fiction.
He was alone.
No more running.
The starship shuddered violently. The core breach was accelerating. Somewhere deep within the ship, alarms screamed a terrifying symphony of destruction.
Arvan rose unsteadily, pushing the pain aside.
He was no longer just a reader or player. He was a survivor.
With every step forward, he vowed to unlock the potential buried within—to master the powers that could turn the tide.
Because if he failed, no one would save him.