The capsule hissed open with a soft burst of cold air.
Blake stepped out barefoot onto the smooth floor of his bedroom, rolling his shoulders as if he were shaking off the last traces of another world. The room was small, but every corner had been carefully arranged: a compact wardrobe, a narrow desk with a floating holo-screen asleep above it, shelves lined with a mix of game merch and travel souvenirs. In the center of everything, like an altar, stood the immersion capsule — sleek, glossy, cables running into the wall, its interior still faintly lit in pale blue.
He stretched until his back popped, joints protesting after hours inside the pod. Then his lips pulled into a smile that refused to stop at "normal."
"Top 100," he murmured.
He let the words sit there a second, tasting them, then repeated, quieter, almost to himself.
"Top 100… I actually did it…"
He rubbed his face with both hands, still grinning.
"I actually made it into Top 100 with Necromancer," he muttered. "That should not be possible…"
He knew exactly how close it had been — and how much luck had been involved.
"Elemental advantage, perfect matchup, and a guy whose build was practically a public PDF," Blake said under his breath as he walked toward the door. "I swear, he posted more about his strategy than the devs did about the game."
He chuckled to himself, but the thought that followed was more sober.
"I'm not repeating that against just anyone…"
Necromancer was brutal in group skirmishes, raids, territory sieges. In anything that looked like a small war, the class shone. But the ranking ladder? That sacred list of one-on-one duels, pure skill, pure reading of the opponent?
One Necromancer.
Him.
He rested his hand on the door handle for a moment, let the reality sink in again — Top 100 — then pushed it open.
The living room opened up in front of him, wider than the bedroom but still modest. A large sofa occupied the center, its dark fabric worn just enough to be comfortable. A low table held a few empty cans and a half-open snack packet. Plants in simple white pots sat along the windowsill, soaking in the glow of the city lights beyond the glass. The decoration was tasteful, warm, lived-in — comfortable, but far from extravagant.
On the sofa, a man in his fifties leaned back with one arm draped over the backrest and the other resting on his stomach. His hair was graying, but his posture still had strength in it, his face lined more by smiles than by time. The television in front of him filled the room with flickering light and excited voices.
On screen, the arena Blake had just left was being replayed. Commentators' overlays floated at the corners, with stats, graphs, slow-motion replays of roots, shadows and a skeletal dragon in blazing detail.
[Commentator 1: "And you're watching it again — the moment a Necromancer enters the Top 100 with a flawless victory! No damage taken, perfect execution!"]
[Commentator 2: "I still say this was matchmaking luck. Elemental disadvantage, predictable build, and all the info the kid could want. Try that against Rank 72 or 58 and see what happens."]
[Commentator 1: "Luck or not, you don't accidentally summon a ten-meter skeletal dragon and vaporize a Druid avatar like that."]
The man on the sofa glanced toward the hallway, as if sent by instinct rather than sound. His gaze found Blake standing there in a simple T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still slightly flattened from the capsule.
A slow, proud smile spread across the man's face.
"Blake Dranver Rabengard," he said. "The first Necromancer Ranker of Last Chance."
Blake's cheeks heated instantly.
"Dad, stop," he said, walking past the sofa, trying not to look at the replay of himself on the screen. "Don't say it like that, it sounds cringe."
His father laughed, a warm, unrestrained sound.
"It is cringe," his dad said. "That's why it's my job to say it."
Blake covered half his face with his hand and kept going toward the open archway that led into the kitchen.
"Seriously," Blake said. "You're gonna make it sound like I'm some legendary protagonist or something."
His father pushed himself up from the sofa and followed, the TV still playing behind them.
[Commentator 3: "Look at that timing— he waits for the armor to regrow and then commits to the overcharge. That's not just luck, that's study."]
"So," his father said as he stepped into the kitchen, still smiling from ear to ear, "Mr. Ranker. What's the plan now?"
Blake opened the fridge, cool air brushing his face. Inside, holo-labels blinked over cans and containers.
"What plan?" Blake asked, grabbing a soda.
"The plan," his dad said, spreading his hands. "You just got into the Top 100 of the most influential game on the planet. That opens doors to anything you want. Sponsorships. Team offers. Coaching. Content. You've got the age and the money to move out and start your own life. So." He leaned on the counter. "What are you going to do?"
Blake popped the tab open with a hiss and took a sip before answering. The bubbles prickled against his tongue.
"I was thinking about traveling," Blake said. "You know… actually seeing the world. There are places I've only visited in VR or through streams."
His father raised an eyebrow.
"Travel, huh? Just like that?"
"Just like that," Blake said. "Well… not just like that." He tapped the side of his temple. "I'm not dropping the game. I worked way too hard for this rank to lose it in a week. But now that I finished the goal I set for myself, I kind of want to see places I don't know yet. New cities. New countries. New food. New trouble."
His father laughed again.
"Of course," his dad said. "Top 100 and still a greedy kid."
"Greedy with experiences," Blake said, taking another sip. "Not money."
From the living room, the TV voices rose again, their tone shifting.
[Commentator 2: "Look, the real question is: how long is this going to last? We're talking about a Necromancer in the Top 100. This class shines in group battles. In one-on-one, its ceiling is much lower."]
[Commentator 1: "You're saying Blake's rank is temporary?"]
[Commentator 2: "I'm saying his stay up there is going to be short. The next time he queues into a bad matchup, this little fairytale is over."]
Blake's father's smile evaporated.
He slid a hand into his pocket, pulled out a tiny, ultra-thin remote — barely the size of two fingers — pointed it vaguely toward the living room and pressed his thumb down. The TV cut off mid-sentence, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment.
"They don't know what they're talking about," his father said.
Blake looked at him over the soda can.
"They're just jealous," his dad said. "Their names are never going to be written into the history of this game the way yours already is."
Blake chuckled softly and looked away, pretending to focus on the carbonation still fizzing in his drink.
"I don't really care about what they say," he said. "I mean… it's kind of funny, actually."
He glanced back at his father, at the stubborn spark in the older man's eyes.
"But," Blake added, "I like how mad you get on my behalf."
His father grinned again, softer this time.
"Someone has to," his dad said. "Your mother would have broken the TV."
Blake smiled, a little twist of warmth and ache in it, and took another sip.
Hours later, the apartment felt different.
The lights were dimmer, set to a warm tone. The table in the dining nook, pushed closer to the kitchen, was covered with dishes — leftovers of a feast that had been ambitious for two people. Empty bottles and glasses glimmered among plates.
Blake sat on one side of the table, his cheeks a bit flushed, his eyes relaxed. Across from him, his father was… significantly less subtle about being drunk.
His dad's laughter had gotten louder, gestures wider, words dragging occasionally, but the pride never dipped.
"I'm telling you," his dad said, waving his fork like a pointer. "I'm going to show that fight to every single one of my friends."
He pointed across the table.
"I'm going to say, 'That Necromancer right there? That monster with the bone dragon?' That's my son. Blake Dranver Rabengard. My boy."
Blake rolled his eyes, smiling.
"You already told me that," Blake said. "Like five times."
"That's because it's true six times," his dad said. "And I'm going to tell my coworkers. And my boss. And the guy who runs the bakery downstairs. And the dog from apartment 504."
"The dog doesn't speak our language," Blake said.
"I don't care," his dad replied. "I'll show him the replay. Dogs can feel greatness."
Blake laughed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
"You know I'm still just… me, right?" he said. "Same guy. Same bedroom. Same capsule."
"You're an idiot," his father said.
Blake blinked.
"Thanks?" Blake asked.
"You're an idiot," his dad repeated, "because you still think you're 'just you' after doing something no one has ever done with that class."
He lifted his glass, though his hand trembled a bit more than before.
"To Blake," his father said. "My son. The first Necromancer Ranker."
Blake raised his own glass and clinked it against his father's.
"To Dad," Blake said. "The first person who believed I could actually pull this off."
His father's eyes glistened a little. He laughed it off, took a drink—
And then his expression changed.
The hand holding the glass clenched. His other hand flew to his chest. The lines on his forehead deepened in a sudden, sharp wince.
"Dad?" Blake said, immediately straightening in his seat.
His father tried to inhale, but the breath came out jagged.
"Wait," his dad said. "Hold on…"
He pushed his chair back, trying to sit more firmly, but his legs faltered. The glass slipped from his hand, clattering onto the table and rolling off the edge.
"Dad!" Blake shouted, jumping up and moving around the table.
His father tried to sit, tried to stabilize himself on the chair, but his strength was already rushing away. His knees buckled. His body leaned forward.
Blake caught him, arms wrapping around his torso, the sudden weight slamming into his chest.
"Hey, hey, it's okay, I've got you," Blake said. "Dad, look at me. Talk to me."
His father's gaze was unfocused now, pain and confusion swimming in his eyes. His lips moved, but no words came out. His whole body trembled once—
And then went completely limp.
"Dad?" Blake whispered.
No response.
"Dad!" he repeated, louder, panicked now.
He lowered his father carefully to the floor, heart hammering in his own chest, hands shaking as he tried to lay the older man flat on his back.
"It's okay, it's okay, you're okay," Blake said, though his voice already sounded like someone else's. "Come on… come on…"
He pressed his fingers to his father's neck.
Nothing.
His vision blurred.
"No," Blake said. "No, no, no—"
He interlocked his hands and started chest compressions, counting under his breath, trying to remember the exact rhythm from emergency tutorials he'd watched and never thought he'd use.
"One, two, three, four… breathe… come on, Dad… five, six, seven— breathe—"
He kept going. He didn't know how long. Seconds and minutes lost all meaning.
His father's eyes never opened.
His chest never rose on its own.
The silence between compressions grew heavier and heavier.
Then, through the fog of his panic, Blake heard something else.
Screams.
They were coming from the hallway outside the apartment.
He froze for a moment, breathing hard, hands still resting uselessly on his father's chest. Then he swallowed, wiped his face with the back of his arm, and stumbled toward the door.
His legs felt weak, but he forced them to move.
He opened the door.
The corridor stretched out before him — now lit with the harsh white of emergency lights. At the apartment directly across from his, a young woman knelt on the floor, her face streaked with tears. In her arms, she held an older woman, whose head lolled back at an unnatural angle.
"Grandma, breathe! Please, breathe!" the girl cried. "Don't do this, not now!"
As Blake watched, the older woman's body jerked once, then went slack.
Her head slipped from the young woman's embrace, dropping to the side and hitting the floor with a sickening thud that seemed to echo down the entire corridor.
The building fell silent.
Blake stood there in the doorway, unable to move, unable to speak, the scene in front of him blurring together with the image of his father on the floor behind him.
His mind tried to grab onto something — anything — that made sense.
Nothing did.
Seconds crawled past. It felt like an eternity.
He didn't know what to feel. Panic, grief, anger, terror — they all pressed into him at once, like a wave. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. His hands were cold. His thoughts spun in circles.
And then the world broke.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Fine white lines appeared in the air, like cracks in glass. They spread across the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the empty space itself, forming a web of glowing fractures.
The corridor shook. The lights flickered.
Blake grabbed the doorframe with both hands, his instincts screaming at him that something was very, very wrong, more wrong than any disconnect, any glitch, any blackout he had ever seen.
Pieces of reality started to slide apart, each fragment outlined in blinding white.
At first, Blake felt pure, primal danger — the sense that if he stood there for another second, he would be torn apart with everything else. His muscles tensed to run, though there was nowhere to go.
Then light began to flow.
Soft, white luminescence seeped from every surface, from the walls, from the floor, from the air itself. It rose like mist, gathering into streams and ribbons.
Some of it came from the bodies.
Blake turned back toward his apartment, toward the shape lying on the dining room floor. A glow poured gently out of his father's chest, rising like breath in winter air, then drifting toward Blake.
"Dad…" Blake whispered.
The light reached him — and didn't pass by.
It sank into him.
Warmth spread through his body, washing over the panic, flattening it, dulling the edges of his terror. The sense of danger faded, replaced by a strange, deep calm, the kind that felt like sinking into water and letting it hold you up.
Around him, more light flowed in, from the hallway, from the neighbor, from somewhere far beyond his sight. Every strand converged on him, melting into his skin, filling his chest until he felt almost weightless.
The world continued to fracture, pieces of reality sliding and crumbling away, falling into a brightness so intense it erased everything else.
Blake closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, the corridor was gone.
He stood in a place so white it almost didn't exist.
There was no ceiling, no floor that he could truly define, and yet he was standing, his feet supported by… something. The air was clear and still. There was no temperature, no breeze, no sound.
At least, not at first.
Around him, scattered in a vast circle, stood dozens of other people. Some looked dazed, others terrified, some furious, some trying very hard to look composed and failing. Their clothing, however, was what caught his attention most.
Class outfits.
Recognizable ones.
Blake's heart gave a small, disbelieving jump.
He had seen all these faces before — in highlight reels, analysis videos, fan art, ranking breakdowns. He had studied them, paused footage, zoomed in on armor details, checked watch patterns, skill usage, cooldown timings. He knew the way they moved, the way they talked to their streams, the way they raised their hands before unleashing their ultimates.
Rank 3 with the crimson cloak and the twin swords.
Rank 17 with the metallic mask and the swirling lightning tattoos.
Rank 42 with the crystalline staff and the long silver hair tied in a high ponytail.
Everywhere he looked, another familiar figure. Another name he had typed into search bars late at night.
The Top 100.
"We're all here…" he whispered.
He glanced down at himself.
He wasn't wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt anymore.
Bones traced his arms, chest and shoulders in elegant, cruel lines, dark pelts forming layers beneath. The very same runes that had glowed in the arena pulsed faintly along his skin.
His Necromancer avatar.
Before he could process that, before he could even decide whether to panic again, a voice rolled over the entire space.
"Welcome."
The word echoed, not because there were walls, but because the voice itself carried weight.
Blake lifted his head.
Above them — or what counted as "above" in a place with no real orientation — something moved. A figure descended slowly, as if walking down invisible steps. As it came closer, details crystallized.
A man.
His hair was white, falling in loose waves to his shoulders. His beard was also white, neatly trimmed, framing a face marked by age but not weakness. His eyes were sharp, deep, watching everything at once. He wore robes of pure white, layered and draped, with subtle patterns of circles and lines embroidered into the fabric, glowing faintly.
He did not hover.
He stood, as if the air itself had decided to act as solid ground for him and him alone.
"Welcome," the man repeated, his gaze sweeping across the gathered Rankers. "To all of you."
He smiled — not kindly, not cruelly, but with the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what was happening while no one else did.