Her scream shook the entire studio apartment, rattling the picture frames and making the ceiling fan tremble as if it were about to rip loose and crash down on their heads. It was the kind of scream that could have woken the dead — and judging by the muffled curses of neighbors pounding on the wall, it woke up the living too.
Damn girl… lungs like that oughta come with a warning label, Kamadeva thought to himself, already bracing for what was coming next. His plan wasn't complicated, but it required precision and a little bit of guts — mostly guts, considering he was about to put his hands on Rika in a way that guaranteed retaliation.
Still, while preparing to force the tube of Exliar Paste past her lips, he allowed himself a glance — no, a real look — at his best friend. In the old timeline he had never bothered; she was just Rika, the annoying tomboy who argued about everything, yelled louder than thunder, and had no patience for his schemes. But now, standing here with her eyes blazing and her braid swinging like a whip, Kamadeva had a sudden, almost embarrassing revelation.
Rika was fucking hot.
The girl has features would make a blind man look at her.
She wasn't the type of beauty plastered on holo-billboards or idol posters — no plastic perfection, no dainty fragility. Rika was built different. American and Chinese blood mixed with a dash of Japanese, her features sharp yet soft in the right ways, her skin pale but not fragile, her body the definition of "earned, not given." She wasn't the tallest woman in the world, but those legs of hers stretched long and lean, toned by years of punishment in the gym and training mats, legs that went on for miles and hurt like hell when she kicked.
And kick she could.
She wanted to be an MMA fighter, not some amateur brawler, but a world-class beast in the cage, the kind of name that made opponents think twice before stepping onto the mat. In this world, fighting wasn't just sport — it was culture, economy, entertainment, and religion all rolled into one. It was bigger than basketball, bigger than football, bigger than anything else. Fighters were celebrities, warriors, and millionaires all at once. And it wasn't just the pros — every gamer, every competitor, every wannabe warrior was a badass in their own right.
Even the daintiest girly-girl might dropkick you through a wall, smiling the whole time like it was part of her skincare routine. The nerdiest bookworm could break your nose while quoting their favorite obscure author, leaving you bloody and confused. The black dude? Not a stereotype here — he was the guy you really didn't want to mess with unless you had a death wish. And don't even think about underestimating anyone from the LGBTQ crowd; half the urban legends in the fighting scene involved them leaving entire gangs in hospitals. Hell, even that adorable dog Rika sometimes babysat was tough enough to put a dent in someone's shinbone.
Rika wasn't just part of that world — she embodied it.
She studied martial arts like some people collected trophies: Taekwondo for the lightning kicks, Kung Fu for the flow, Kickboxing for the raw aggression, She Quan and Taiji Quan for balance and unpredictability, Boxing for power, and Karate for discipline. She mixed them all together into a style that was hers alone, sharp and relentless, efficient but brutal. Rika wasn't just a fighter in training; she was a storm condensed into human form, and Kamadeva knew better than anyone just how dangerous those long legs and quick fists could be.
Which, of course, only made his next move funnier.
Since he had been regressed, Kamadeva possessed an absolute advantage within Terra Blue Star that no one else alive could even dream of. Knowledge was the sharpest weapon, and he held two decades' worth of foresight in his head — the secrets of hidden classes, the locations of rare drops, the timing of events that would shake the game's economy. He could already see the path ahead of him with terrifying clarity. Naturally, the first step was simple: start his own Gaming Workshop, recruit talent before anyone else saw their worth, build it into a company, and from there forge his own virtual kingdom.
Not for justice. Not for prestige. Not even because he wanted to prove something to the world.
Just to have fun.
…Well, and money. Lots of money. Enough to swim in and light cigars with, if he cared about cigars.
And maybe girls, too. Not that he had the best track record, but if there was ever a timeline to start fresh, this was it.
But before the virtual empire, before the riches, before the women — there was one very real obstacle standing in his dingy little apartment, hands clenched into fists and eyes promising violence.
Rika.
And she wasn't about to pop a tube of Class-D Exliar Paste voluntarily.
Kamadeva clicked his tongue, flexing his shoulders as if limbering up for a sparring match. "Damn shame, Rika. You always so stubborn. Guess you need a little persuasion."
Her brow twitched. "Persuasion? Boy, you try to shove that crap in my mouth again and I'mma break your jaw in six different martial arts styles."
He smirked, rolling the paste tube between his fingers. "Good thing I know Judo."
Her eyes widened a fraction, but then narrowed into slits. "The hell you just say?"
In a flash she lunged, braid whipping behind her, leg already snapping up in a brutal side kick that would've flattened a lesser man. Kamadeva stepped into the strike, grabbed her hip, and twisted — classic hip throw. Rika's world spun as she hit the floor with a thud, the air rushing from her lungs.
"Yup," Kamadeva said casually, kneeling over her with the tube in one hand and his other pressing her shoulder down. "Still works."
Rika coughed, glaring up at him with murder in her eyes. "You son of a—"
"C'mon now," he cut her off, voice smooth but mocking. "You swallow worse-tasting stuff when you're training. This just happens to be neon goop that'll keep you from falling behind. Don't fight destiny, Rika. Just open up."
She thrashed, trying to hook his arm, trying to lock him down with a submission hold, but Kamadeva anticipated each move. He knew her too well. He knew the timing of her kicks, the feints in her strikes, the way she favored her right when she was really going left. In the last timeline, he had watched her fight dozens of times — hell, he had fought her himself more than once. And no matter how much she hated it, she had never beaten him.
That knowledge gave him the edge now, as he pinned her down and raised the tube above her mouth like it was holy water for an exorcism.
"Don't you dare—!" she spat, literally, trying to twist her head away.
"Oh, I dare," he said, grinning ear to ear. "I dare a lot."