My name is Ryze.
Once, I was just another nameless player in Countless Star.
Not a world champion, not a streamer, not even in the top rankings. Just an ordinary player lost in a world that worshipped perfection.
In Countless Star, only the gifted rose above — the Starborn, players bound to celestial spirits, masters of radiant magic and endless quests.
I wasn't one of them.
No matter how hard I trained, my bond with the stars never awakened. I was called "the dim one." An outcast.
So, I left.
While others chased constellations and divine relics, I found comfort in something simpler — guns.
Fast-paced, instinct-driven FPS games. Valorant Prime. Warpath. Counter Strike: Origins.
There, it didn't matter how much starlight you were born with — only how fast you could pull the trigger.
That's how the Resistance found me.
A ragtag band of cross-players and outcasts from every game world, fighting back against the Empire's grip and rescuing trapped players.
People like me — people who didn't belong anywhere else.
The helicopter rattles violently as it cuts through the fractured clouds above the Riftlands. The world below flickers between realities — pieces of old maps stitched together by corrupted code.
Ruined castles from Countless Star rise beside modern skyscrapers from NeoVice. Half-loaded textures shimmer across the ground like shattered glass.
I stare out the open door, wind tugging at my cloak. My armor's light — reinforced leather, patched with scavenged plating from different worlds. A mix of magic and machinery. I wear my history like scrap metal.
One of the soldiers beside me — a veteran from Warpath — chuckles over the comms.
"Hard to believe you're from Countless Star, Ryze. Never thought one of you magic princess types would join an FPS squad."
I grin faintly, eyes still on the horizon.
"I'm not like them. Never was."
Another soldier laughs. "Guess that makes two of us. We're all misfits here."
The pilot's voice cuts through the chatter.
"Attention all units. We're entering the operation zone. Target confirmed — a freight train carrying six hostages, all Countless Star players. Estimated two dozen hostiles on board."
"Understood," I reply, checking my weapon.
The Starlink Rifle hums softly as I chamber a round — a custom hybrid between a sniper rifle and a magical conduit. Silver runes crawl along the barrel, glowing faintly with every movement. A relic of my old world, reforged for a new one.
"Ryze," the pilot calls again. "You'll have overwatch. Keep the line clear until extraction."
"Copy that."
As the chopper descends, I catch a glimpse of the terrain below.
The Riftlands stretch endlessly — valleys of broken textures and terrain fragments where old game worlds have collapsed together. Patches of lava rivers fade into grassy plains; half-rendered mountains float midair like disconnected memories.
Far below, a train snakes through the chaos, gleaming silver against the dark. Its engines glow red with overclocked power cells, smoke trailing in corrupted pixels.
My stomach tightens. Even from here, I can see it — the faint, flickering runes that seal the hostage car. Rune magic. Countless Star's specialty.
This wasn't just a random ambush.
Someone from my old world sold them out.
The train rattles violently as it speeds through the Rift canyon.
Six players sit bound in the center car. Their wrists glow with magic restraints, runes crawling like fireflies across their skin. Most are young — maybe new players who never even reached the mid-quests.
Four of them sob quietly, their tears reflecting the faint blue light.
Two others stay composed — a red-haired girl glaring at the mercenaries, and a purple-haired girl whispering softly to the others.
"Damn it," the redhead mutters. "How did we end up like this?"
"The runes are blocking everything," the purple-haired girl replies. "Our spells, our skills, even our inventory access. We're powerless."
They exchange a quiet, fearful glance.
The kidnappers — mercenaries — are nothing like the usual griefers. Their gear is mismatched, scavenged from different games. Combat exos from Warpath, cloaks from Eclipse Online, shotguns from Valorant Prime. Cross-players. Hired guns.
"What a catch," one says, checking his datapad. "Six pure-blood Starborn. Client's gonna pay at least in millions."
Another laughs. "but its surely a waste of good product."
The leader, a tall man with a cybernetic arm, steps into the car. His visor reflects the frightened girls like broken mirrors.
"Keep your mouths shut," he growls. "Our buyer doesn't like damaged goods."
He pauses for a moment, looking at the runes that bind them. His voice drops.
"Can't believe one of your own sold you off. What a waste."
"Target in sight," the pilot reports. "Crossing the canyon now."
I steady my breathing and activate the scope on my rifle. The train fills my vision — each car glowing in infrared, hostiles marked by pulsing outlines.
"All teams, mark your drop points," I command. "My priority is overwatch. No stray fire near the center car."
The team acknowledges. I lock my scope onto the front engine and adjust for wind and speed.
The crosshair glides over the metal as the rhythmic clatter of wheels echoes faintly through my headset.
"Ryze," one of the soldiers says, "you ready?"
"Always."
The world falls quiet in that instant. Only the faint hum of the rifle and the soft crackle of magic fill the air.
I exhale slowly.
Through the lens, the world sharpens — the digital clouds, the glimmer of steel, the reflections of frightened eyes in the hostage car.
I used to be one of them.
A nobody. Powerless. Forgotten.
Now I fight for those who can't fight back.
The pilot's voice counts down.
"Ten seconds to drop."
The others prepare to jump. I stay behind, anchoring to the side hatch.
"Three… two… one—"
I whisper,
"This is my chance."
The rifle flares. Silver light floods my vision as I pull the trigger.
The bullet — a streak of starlight — tears through the night, tracing a luminous arc across the sky.
It hits the engine dead-on. The explosion blooms like a small sun, fire and debris lighting up the canyon.
The shockwave ripples through the clouds, scattering corrupted pixels like ashes in the wind.
I lower my rifle, watching the train derail into the canyon below.
For a moment, silence fills the world.
Then the comms come alive — shouts, gunfire, the crackle of spellfire.
The operation has begun.
I reload calmly, eyes fixed on the burning wreck below.
"I'm not the Starborn they cast out anymore," I whisper. "I'm Ryze — the Starlink Sniper."