Eld extended a bony finger, directing Fiona's gaze toward the cemetery gates. A thick fog clung to the entrance, swirling like a malevolent entity. It wasn't the pristine white mist of innocence but a sickly gray tinged with the faintest crimson hue, as if stained by countless battles waged by players who had trodden this path before her.
Through the haze, Fiona discerned the imposing silhouette of a metal gate, its edges jagged and warped. The fog danced around it, revealing glimpses of rusted iron and arcane symbols etched into the surface. The road leading to the gates stood desolate, bearing witness to the unforgiving nature of the game. Broken weapons and used artifacts lay half-buried in the dirt, remnants of fallen players who had dared venture beyond this point. Their names were etched in the very stones of tombstones surrounding the entrance, players who quit without even starting the game.
A sense of foreboding hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the brutal challenges awaiting those who dared tread this path. Fiona felt a knot of confusion tightening within her. Was this a gateway to a nightmare, a battleground where countless players had triumphed or succumbed, leaving their mark on this desolate landscape?
The first challenge loomed before her, the cold wind whispering that the silhouette inside the fog was not a normal monster but a boss. Her mind raced towards the menu, the first step in her journey focused on checking her stats and skills.
Fiona squinted at the translucent screen that materialized in front of her.
Health: Critical.
Experience Points: 0.
Experience points translated from real life: 3.
This wasn't right. Starter players always began with full health and a tutorial. Pushing past the initial shock, she focused on the other options.
Skills: A row of grayed-out icons hinted at abilities yet to be unlocked, shadowed by runes instead of normal characters. Fiona couldn't decipher what these symbols meant.
Inventory: Empty, just as she suspected.
A faint blue glow pulsed around a section labeled "Stats." Intrigued, she hovered her finger over it. A small window materialized, displaying her base stats:
Strength 15, Dexterity 5, Intelligence 4, Wisdom 7, Vitality 10, Faith 10, Mind 7, and Willpower 1. Each had a numerical value, currently shrouded in a faint red haze.
Wondering about the red color over them, she asked Eld. He answered from the top of the stairs in the mausoleum, 'The red means that you have a condition in real life that prevents you from using your full strength.'
'I hope you know what those stats mean,' he added.
Tenza nodded. Strength related to physical power and how much damage she could deal to enemies. Dexterity referred to her agility and physical attack accuracy, while Intelligence and Wisdom referred to magical power and accuracy, sometimes helping her comprehend the lore of the game. Vitality referred to her physical defense, while Mind should refer to her magical defense. She wasn't sure about the Willpower stat, so she posed the question to Eld.
'That, Tenza, is the ability to master yourself, how much control do you have over both your body and mind?' he explained.
The DRD translated, in real-time, her abilities and skills—both physical and spiritual—from her body, resting over the slick bed beside it.
A shroud of mist clung to the gravestones of the players who quit, blurring their inscriptions into eerie shadows. Fiona stumbled through the uneven ground, the damp grass squelching under her leather boots. A low moan escaped her lips as a wave of dizziness washed over her. The miasma from the entrance made her breathing shallow, it stinged her eyes. A cold gust of wind rustled the skeletal branches of a nearby tree, sending a shiver down her spine.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her resolve. This bizarre situation, this cemetery spawn, held a hidden meaning. She just had to figure it out.
Tenza cautiously treaded the desolate path leading to the gates. The ground crunched under her boots, a chilling reminder of countless fallen players. The thick fog clung to the entrance, obscuring details beyond a few meters. Suddenly, a hulking silhouette emerged from the mist – the first guardian. A towering figure carved from weathered stone, its face a mask of stoic indifference, it looked at her like an elephant watching an ant. Tenza squared her shoulders, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
But before she could charge, a sense of unease prickled her skin. The fog swirled, revealing another guardian lurking just outside the gate – its presence masked by the first. A cunning trap. Tenza, fueled by desperation, lunged towards the scattered weapons. She grasped the hilt of a broken sword, its once gleaming surface dulled by time and neglect. As her fingers closed around it, a tremor ran through the metal. A sickening crunch echoed in the air as the blade disintegrated in her hand, transforming into a pile of rust-flecked dust that sifted between her fingers.
The weight of history pressed down on her – a stark reminder of countless fallen players, their weapons succumbing to the same fate. In that moment, Fiona felt a crushing sense of inadequacy. The remnants of past glories mocked her, highlighting her own lack of skill and preparation. She wasn't a warrior; she was an imposter, unworthy of wielding such a weapon. The apathy of the battlefield mirrored her own – a dull ache of defeat replacing the initial surge of adrenaline. The weapon, devoid of its former owner's spirit, refused to answer her call. Tenza stood there, the dust settling around her, a stark symbol of her own helplessness. She had no choice than to use her fists to fight.
Tenza launched herself at the towering guardian. Images of skilled boxers danced in her head. She imagined herself dodging blows with grace, her punches landing with bone-crushing force. Reality, however, painted a different picture. Her first punch, aimed for the guardian's ankle, connected with a dull thud. Pain shot up her arm, and she stumbled back, surprised by the ferocious sting. The world around her blurred into a painful reminder of her own ignorance in any way of fighting.
The guttural roar of the guardian, the taste of metallic blood in her mouth, the dizzying dance of her own failed attempts – it was all too much. "Where's the slow-motion?" she thought fleetingly, referencing countless action movies she had seen. This wasn't a video game; this was a raw, brutal simulation of reality. In the heat of the moment, she clung to the delusion that her blows were making a dent. But as the attempts dragged on, and the guardians remained unscathed, a chilling truth settled in her stomach. She wasn't a warrior; she was a novice flailing in the dark.
Disoriented and bruised, Tenza realized the folly of her approach. She was woefully unprepared, both physically and mentally. Each time she attempted to fight, the guardians made quick work of her, sending her flying back to her respawn point.
Eld resembled a weathered gargoyle more than a comforting caretaker. His craggy features were etched with a perpetual frown, and his deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. He moved with a ponderous grace, his every step seeming a chore. While Eld never mocked Tenza's failures, a heavy sigh escaped him each time he unearthed her from a shallow grave. It wasn't a malicious sigh, but one laden with a weary disappointment. He knew she would try again, of course, but witnessing her repeated stumbles against the guardians seemed to be a source of constant frustration for him.
Eld wasn't apathetic; he simply seemed burdened by the weight of his duty. He was the caretaker of countless lost souls who had attempted, and failed, to pass through the cemetery gates. Tenza was just another name on his very long list. Yet, despite his resignation, there was a flicker of something else in his golden eyes – perhaps a spark of hope that Tenza might somehow defy the odds.
A wave of cold dirt washed over her as Eld, seemingly unfazed by the repeated resurrections, pulled her from a shallow grave. Shame burned in Fiona's chest alongside the physical pain. She was no hero; she was just an imposter, a fool who charged into battle with nothing but bravado.
Her legs trembled unconsciously, facing the twin guardians once again. Tears welled up in Tenza's eyes, blurring the imposing form of the stone guardian before her. A sob escaped her lips, choked by the ever-present weight of despair. This wasn't supposed to happen. The countless hero flicks she'd devoured, the stories of flawless champions overcoming impossible odds – they all lied. The modern media painted a picture of heroism devoid of struggle, a tapestry woven with effortless victories and unwavering strength. Where were the grit, the blood, the raw determination that heroes of the 20th century were forged in, like Star Warrior?
Those heroes, the ones relegated to dusty history archives, resonated with a deeper truth – the truth of struggle, of overcoming limitations, of rising from defeat stronger than before. Sinking to her knees, Tenza cradled her throbbing head. The sting of the guardian's casual blow, a mere swat that sent her flying, still lingered. The DRD system, a marvel of modern technology, muted the pain to tolerable levels. Yet, in its very efficiency, it robbed her of the visceral reminder of her failure. This sanitized suffering felt hollow compared to the raw emotions coursing through her – despair, frustration, and a gnawing sense of betrayal.
Her meticulously crafted strategies, honed from countless games, crumbled to dust. The modern heroes she idolized, the very foundation of her aspirations, offered no solace. But amidst the wreckage of her ideals, a flicker of defiance sparked within her. Somewhere, beyond the curated media of her time, were stories untold, of heroes who defied the odds, who clawed their way to victory through sheer grit and determination. Those heroes, the ones from forgotten tales, whispered promises of a different path, a path paved with struggle and resilience.
Tenza's once determined posture crumpled, replaced by a hunched figure wracked with sobs. Her shoulders shook with the force of her despair, and her fists clenched and unclenched as frustration warred with a newfound determination. Tears streamed down her dirt-streaked face, blurring the imposing form of the unyielding guardian before her. Despite the DRD system's efforts, a faint grimace contorted her features – a testament to the raw physical vulnerability she had never truly experienced before.
A metallic tang flooded Tenza's mouth, a sickening counterpoint to the salty sting of her tears. The world spun around her, the imposing form of the guardian blurring at the edges. Why? The question echoed in the desolate cemetery, a relentless mantra accompanying each crushing defeat. Why keep charging at an immovable wall, hoping for a different outcome? Her every tactic was as useless as a child's scribbles against the raw power of the guardians.
As Tenza crumpled to the ground once again, a tremor ran through her. One of the stone guardians, for the first time, shifted its gaze. A slow, deliberate turn brought its monolithic form to face something beyond the swirling fog at the cemetery gates. Tenza's tear-filled eyes squinted through the mist, a flicker of curiosity momentarily breaking through the fog of despair. A dark shape emerged from the haze, a lone player shrouded in the miasma of the cemetery. The figure remained silent, its form an enigma against the swirling mist.
Through the swirling fog, a dark shape solidified, drawing Tenza's tear-filled gaze. Its form shimmered and danced in the mist, details obscured but a sense of power emanating nonetheless. A faint glint of dark leather, perhaps, or a hint of chainmail beneath, sparked a flicker of recognition in Tenza's addled mind.
The towering guardian, for the first time since its stoic vigil began, shifted its gaze. A low rumble emanated from its depths, a guttural acknowledgement of this new arrival. "Not another one of those..." the sound seemed to convey, "... finally, a warrior and not an imposter..."
With a flourish that defied the limitations imposed by the mist, the figure drew a weapon. A longsword, bathed in an ethereal glow, cut through the fog like a brushstroke across a canvas. The very air crackled in its presence, the fog itself seeming to recoil from the blade's brilliance. This was no ordinary weapon; it held the power to cleave reality itself. Though encased in digital armor, the figure exuded an aura that transcended the game's limitations. It was the presence of a seasoned warrior, one who had tasted the blood of countless battles and emerged stronger.
The voice that boomed forth, a command laced with steel and resolve, was unlike anything Tenza had ever heard in any game or even her ordinary life. "Get up!" it roared, a mythical hammer shattering the invisible wall of despair that had imprisoned Tenza. The sound carried an electrical charge, coursing through her body with a jolt. Gone was the languor of defeat, replaced by a sudden surge of adrenaline.
Her legs, no longer trembling, found purchase on the cold earth. Tenza rose, propelled by an unseen force, a fierce determination flickering in her eyes. The guardian loomed before her, still formidable, but a sense of purpose, a feeling she hadn't experienced before, coursed through her veins. This wasn't just about winning the game anymore; it was about proving something to herself, about defying the limitations that had held her back. The fear that had gripped her before had started dissolving. In its place, the ember of a warrior flickered to life, fueled by the unexpected arrival and the electrifying command that echoed in her very bones and made her heart skip a beat, akin to the ancient leaders of forgotten kingdoms and empires.
Tenza stood tall, no longer a gamer defeated, but a challenger reborn, ready to face the guardian once more, her blood boiled from just a simple command, the blood of her ancestors, both Muisca and Spanish conquistadors, reached every single cell in her body, it felt electrifying, powerful, almost uplifting. "Did my ancestors feel this when their morale was raised to confront the odds they faced?" A timid smile graced her face as she clenched her fists; the towering guardian was still undefeated, now relentless on his attacks towards her, fiercer, but the flavor of metal in her mouth tasted like glory when the unknown player, this unknown warrior at the other side commanded her to stand up every time.
Maybe the Zipa, the old Muisca rulers were like this player, wielding the power to command armies. Can she learn this forgotten and mystical power? And apply it to her life, pushing her to reach heights destined for the protagonists of their lives? Giving back her place in the spotlight of her ordinary life?
Tenza stood up, hundreds, millions of times, from the grave of defeat, fed by the unknown player's command, the blood of her ancestors answering the call of a true leader, a true ruler. The pain still surged at her every attempt at punching the guardian, but it felt meaningless before the might of her ancestors. This player, this warrior, this ruler at the other side of the gates wasn't asking her to follow him but to raise up, to fight the odds, even if she doesn't succeed, even if she is unable to win, he was asking her to keep trying, to never accept defeat.
Tenza's fist, as weak as a feather, connected with the guardian, only to be shrugged off with ease. Exhaustion gnawed at her, the virtual world blurring at the edges. Suddenly, a firm hand landed on her shoulder. "Enough for today, Fiona," Sensei Leonardo said, his voice calm but firm.
After her mistakes and failed attempts at the stone guardian, Fiona felt the world blurring and vanishing, waking up again in the dojo. Fiona flinched at the interruption, the thrill of the fight fading as the exhaustion hit her full force. Yet, beneath the fatigue, a spark of curiosity flickered. This wasn't just a game anymore; Embers of a Wish was way more than that. The electrifying command of the unknown player, the echo of her ancestors' spirit, had awakened something within her.
"Ok, Sensei," she replied, a newfound respect coloring her voice. "I understand." As she removed the headset, the soft moonlight entering the dojo still stung her eyes. But a different kind of clarity had settled in her mind. This brutal simulation, a stark contrast to the sanitized versions she was used to, had revealed a raw truth about heroism. It wasn't about flashy victories; it was about grit, determination, and the unwavering will to rise from defeat.
Fiona's gaze fell on the sensei, carefully turning off the DRD using voice commands. "I want to ask, sensei, I'm interested in the stories of the 20th century." Those were the stories she craved now, the ones that spoke of true heroes, the forgotten warriors of the 20th century. No more sugar-coated narratives, she wanted the unfiltered truth.
Sensing her shift in focus, Sensei Leonardo chuckled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Looking for inspiration in the past?" he asked, taking his hand to his chin. "Perhaps you can search for the story of a particular boxer; he inspired generations of fighters both in sports and real life." A flicker of curiosity sparked within her. She asked for Sky, to which Sensei Leonardo revealed that he went to use the other prototype they had.
Excitement bubbled within Fiona as she looked for the other prototype in the next room. She saw him lying in the slick bed connected to the DRD, smiling. Then when she approached the screen, she realized. The unknown player, the one who had rekindled her spirit, was none other than Sky.
As the figure sheathed its longsword, a glint of recognition pierced through the fog of Fiona's exhaustion. The way he held the weapon, the slight tilt of his head. "Sensei," she blurted out, her voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and dawning comprehension. "That's… that's Sky, isn't it?"
Sensei Leonardo's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Indeed," he confirmed. "He's been itching to play this game with somebody." His character, clad in dark leather with hints of chainmail beneath, mirrored the image that had emboldened her. Yet, unlike the other players who enjoyed the game in boisterous groups, Sky stood alone.
Fiona watched as he moved amongst the jubilant crowds, a silent observer. He seemed to exist on the periphery, much like herself before. Finally, he approached a lone bench and sat down, a solitary figure amidst the digital celebration. He rested his longsword against his shoulder, its ethereal glow casting an introspective light on his face.
Fiona opened her mouth to speak, a wave of emotions washing over her – gratitude, surprise, perhaps even a stronger friendship. But before she could utter a word, Sensei Leonardo's voice echoed in the room, clear and calming. "Don't worry about him, Fiona," he said, his voice tinged with understanding. "Despite the solitude, Sky is having fun. He enjoys the game, not for the companionship it offers, but for the sense of wonder and exploration."
Fiona's gaze remained fixed on Sky, absorbing Sensei Leonardo's words. His perspective, his ability to find joy within solitude, resonated with her. Perhaps, she mused, true heroism wasn't just about fighting and conquering; it was also about finding strength within oneself, even in the face of isolation.
She asked Sensei to say goodbye to Sky as she went to change back to her worn clothes. She hung the biosuit carefully and traced her hand over it, already eager to use it once again. Putting her headphones back on, she asked Archon to look for the boxer Sensei Leonardo suggested, adding it to their watch list, alongside Star Warrior. But Archon asked, "All 6 movies or one specifically?" Getting a response from Fiona, both happy and curious, "All of them, please." Tonight, they will watch the prowess of true, forgotten heroes.