The room in the Atlantic Accelerator—a sterile cocoon of technology and sterile precision—seems to close in around Fiona, suffocating in its perfect order. The window, a portal to the infinite, frames the expanse of the gray ocean. Fiona sits before it, thirty years of survival carved into her skin, her gaze reaching beyond the waves as if searching for a place to bury the broken pieces of herself.
Outside, the Atlantic stretches endlessly, a flat and uncaring expanse, as cold and indifferent as the universe itself. No ships, no distant horizons—just the relentless pulse of the waves, each crash a reminder of how small and insignificant she feels. The ocean mirrors the hollow void in her chest, swallowing hope with every ebb of the tide.
"This is where dreams come to die," she whispers, her breath fogging the glass. She can see her reflection—pale, eyes dulled by the weight of years and failures. "I was a gamer once," she confesses to the empty sea. "A player of quests and fantasies. But life isn't a game—it doesn't have respawn points."
A tear escapes, tracing the worn lines of her face, and it feels like salt on an open wound. Her tears smear the horizon, turning the gray waves into indistinct blurs. Once, her dreams had burned bright, neon lights against the dark. Now, they fade like the dying embers of a fire too long untended.
Her daughter is here, somewhere, nestled in the arms of the Accelerator's cold machines. They'll fix her, heal her, give her the future Fiona can never provide. But what about her own broken wings? Who will mend her?
"Thirty," she says, the word bitter on her tongue, an age that has become her prison. "Too old for dreams. Too old for fantasies and high scores."
She had dreamed once—of becoming a champion, of standing on the grand stage of the Embers of a Wish World Championship. It was more than a game—it was a lifeline, a way to belong, to matter. She had stayed up nights, her hands sore from hours of training after her brutal Kyokushin sessions, the moon her only witness. No cheers, no recognition, only the quiet thrill of possibility keeping her going.
But the world laughed. "Video games? For someone your age? Dreams are for kids." And so she let them go, one by one. Her avatar would fade into the digital abyss, never to see that final level, never to claim victory. The championship, that distant constellation, was forever out of reach now.
Her eyes—once lit with constellations of ambition—now reflect only the empty sea. She cries for those lost dreams, for the unplayed levels, for the wonder and excitement she'll never feel again. The roar of imaginary crowds is silent. The taste of victory is now ash in her mouth.
The room seems to swallow her sobs, the sterile walls indifferent to her heartbreak. "Forgive me," she pleads, her voice cracking as she speaks not to anyone in particular, but to the universe itself. "Forgive me for dreaming… for believing I could be more."
She lets her soul pour out through her tears, every piece of her heart breaking under the weight of lost time. The ocean, the merciless Atlantic, will wash away her aspirations, drag them to the depths where they will lie forgotten. But maybe, just maybe, her daughter will find a future here. Maybe the Atlantic Accelerator will build the miracles Fiona will never see.
Sky arrives—a relic of another era, battle-worn and bent but unbroken. The wheelchair creaks beneath him, the sound barely a whisper in the sterile room. His body, bruised and battered from wars fought beyond memory, groans with every movement. Yet, his steel-honey eyes, sharp with defiance, scan the room, as if seeking out the sorrow he heard even from a distance. Her sadness, her whispered apologies to the cosmos, weigh heavier on him than his own pain.
His muscles rebel, each fiber aflame with exhaustion. His bones, fragile as ancient timbers, scream with every breath. The weight of the 20th century clings to him—the echoes of wars, revolutions, moon landings—all moments of struggle and triumph embedded in his marrow. But Sky is no relic. He is an Asteri Evris, the one who seeks the stars, the one who defies the pull of history. His will, forged in a century of survival, refuses to surrender.
"Not yet," he murmurs to himself, as if the taste of salt from her tears touches his lips. "Not while her dreams still have breath."
With a resolve that seems to defy the limits of flesh, he rises. It's a slow ascent, each movement deliberate, like a cathedral spire pushing against gravity, reaching for the heavens despite the earth's pull. His legs tremble, brittle as dried parchment from the aftermath of his battle, but they obey the only command that matters: rise.
He remembers Kipling's words, verses that are more than poetry now—they are law. "If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew," he recites inwardly, "to serve your turn long after they are gone..."
And so he forces them—heart, nerve, sinew—to hold him up, to bear the weight of his soul even as his body protests. Every step he takes toward Fiona is a rebellion against his own limits, each trembling footfall an act of defiance.
He is no longer just a man—he is a mortal who refuses to bend, a dreamer who challenges the stars themselves.
He approaches her, the distance between them shrinking like the space between two collapsing stars. His eyes, weary but still burning with purpose, meet hers. In her gaze, he finds empty galaxies, once bright with dreams, now dimmed by resignation. Fiona—who surrendered too soon, who let the world's cold verdict silence her hopes. Fiona—whose reflection in the glass was not that of a gamer, a fighter, or a dreamer, but of someone defeated.
He—Sky—was once the same. His pixels were not fantasies but bullets, his dreams coded in the harsh staccato of Morse. Yet, through the struggle, he emerged.
He stands before her, trembling, breath shallow but steady. "Why?" he breathes, his voice soft but unyielding, the word a fragile comet streaking through the darkness. "Why surrender... when I can still hear your heartbeat?"
His question hangs between them, raw and real. Her tears, like salted constellations, fall silently, streaking the last remnants of hope across her face. But she sees him, standing there, on the edge of collapse, held up only by willpower older than the stars themselves.
Sky's legs shake beneath him, but his spine refuses to bend. He is no angel, no invincible warrior—just a mortal, one who has been shaped by the fires of struggle, a stubborn dreamer who never learned how to retreat.
He opens his palm, and the very air around them shifts. The world tilts, as though the laws of reality itself bow to his will. Hydrogen atoms—the fundamental building blocks of stars—are drawn toward him, swirling in the air as if compelled by an unseen gravity. The room shivers with the birth of something primordial. Fiona watches, her heart trembling like a fragile vessel, as Sky commands the cosmos, creating a micro fusion reaction—a heartbeat of a star in the palm of a mortal.
His aura ignites, blue as the endless sky, warm as the heart of the sun. It reaches out to her, not just as light but as the echo of galaxies colliding, of supernovas birthing worlds. She feels it in her bones, in her very essence. Her fist clenches over her chest as she fights back tears, but they threaten to spill. This man, this human-made-cosmic, wields the secrets of the universe with a grace that leaves her breathless. In his eyes, she glimpses infinity.
A nurse rushes in, her face etched with panic. "Sky, stop! You're not in any condition for this!" But her words fade into the background, drowned out by the cosmic symphony he conducts with perfect focus. He doesn't hear her. He can't—his mind is attuned to something higher, something beyond the limits of mortal understanding. Fiona watches, transfixed, as hydrogen fuses, creating helium in his outstretched hand.
She yearns for it. That power. To command the universe with a thought, to touch the stars, to hold raw energy in her grasp. It feels impossible, unattainable—something only gods and celestials could possess. But here he stands, a man, unraveling the fabric of reality before her. His every breath, ragged and labored, carries the weight of solar winds and the burn of stellar fire.
"This... this is stellar nucleosynthesis," Sky trembles, his voice the fragile tail of a comet streaking across eternity. "The process that powers the stars. Fusion…"
In his hand, the orb of light burns brighter—hydrogen transforming, fusing into helium in a cycle that has birthed suns since time immemorial. His breath grows heavier, each exhalation a struggle, yet he persists. The room pulses with cosmic energy, and both Fiona and the nurse hold their breath, witnessing the dance of creation itself. In that instant, Sky transcends man and mortal. He is a conduit for the stars.
The fusion process completes, and from the searing light emerges iron—an element forged in the dying heart of stars. And in his hands, he shapes it with a gentle command, molding it into something familiar, something from a world now long past. Fiona recognizes the form—an old jet fighter, a relic from history, an emblem of human ingenuity and dreams of flight.
"I'm fine," Sky murmurs, his voice barely audible, but resolute. He extends the iron jet toward her, placing it gently in her trembling palm before collapsing back into his wheelchair. "Don't surrender, Fiona," he insists, his eyes burning through the haze of his exhaustion. "Not when you are made of this. Not when the universe flows through your veins."
Tears blur her vision as she gazes down at the small iron plane in her hand. It is more than just metal, more than a relic—it is a testament to her untapped potential, a symbol of everything she could become. The weight of it presses against her skin, a tangible reminder that the same cosmic forces that fuel the stars pulse through her veins. She bites her lip, tasting stardust, and something inside her stirs—a spark, long forgotten, reigniting.
The iron plane in her hand is heavy, not just with the weight of the stars but with the weight of her own dreams, once surrendered, now rekindling. Her heart pounds, each beat echoing with the rhythm of the cosmos.
"Come with me," Sky says, and though his body falters, his spirit is unyielding. The nurse, wide-eyed and still shaken, moves to push his wheelchair, but Sky's gaze never leaves Fiona. The room seems to tremble, as if the very boundaries of reality are dissolving around them. She nods, her pulse quickening, and limps behind them, the weight of the iron plane still warm in her hand.
He will show her—beyond these sterile walls, beyond the confines of the mundane—a universe waiting to be shaped. The power he wields is not just for waging battles against celestials and gods, but for something far greater. It is the power to rekindle dreams, to defy the limits of what it means to be human, to rival the stars themselves. And in that moment, as she follows him, Fiona's heart dares to believe that she, too, can touch the infinite.
The air hums with potential, and the walls—sterile yet oddly inviting—whisper secrets of renewal. Every surface glows with quiet energy, a promise that all things broken can be mended.
Two DRDs stand sentinel, their metallic frames sleek and gleaming beneath the room's gentle light. These aren't just machines; they are more—cocoons of convalescence, designed not merely to heal bodies but to restore fractured spirits. Fiona approaches one—a marvel of ergonomic engineering. The sheets—soft as stardust—mold to her form, embracing her like the arms of the universe itself. The material, unknown to her, radiates warmth, smelling of earth after rain, of life reborn. She sinks into it, and for the first time in ages, the weight of exhaustion begins to lift, whispering promises of rest and renewal.
Above her, a crystalline cover arches gracefully, displaying her heartbeat's rhythm, the cadence of her breath. It's not just monitoring—it's a cosmic conversation, speaking to the deepest layers of her being. The pulse beneath her skin quickens. Fiona—once resigned to defeat—now lies in this miraculous capsule, her dreams flickering back to life like stars reigniting after long dormancy.
Sky, battle-worn yet still burning with untamed cosmic fire, accepts the nurse's gentle aid. His body trembles as he settles into the adjacent cocoon, galaxies swirling behind his half-closed eyes. "We'll talk more in the game," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with meaning. His eyes close, surrendering to the pull of deep rest. The room itself seems to exhale, absorbing his weariness like a comet returning to the stars from whence it came.
Fiona watches him, heart heavy with a strange mixture of awe and longing. Then, silently, she dons the headset. Darkness envelops her as her senses blur and reawaken. In this otherworld—a dream of pixels and memories—she stands at the intersection of time and space, where constellations are woven from the fabric of the past.
The air here smells like nostalgia, like old arcade cabinets and forgotten adventures. Before her, she watches a memory unfurl: her younger self and her late boyfriend, Bairon, racing past her. It's the first day he invited her to that cybercafé, where the dim neon lights cast a surreal glow on their faces, the hum of the computers filling the air with electric possibility. She watches them, hearts racing with anticipation, as if the world was nothing more than a game waiting to be played.
Her younger self, wide-eyed with wonder, clutches Bairon's hand. Together, they dive into the world of pixels and imagination, their laughter echoing through the arcade. And now, in this dream—this haunting vision—they race past her, their hands outstretched, inviting her to join them. She reaches for them, desperation in every fiber of her being, but her fingers grasp only air, and they begin to fade—like stardust slipping through her hands.
She feels herself sinking, her feet trapped in the quicksand of memory and loss. Her older self—scarred by battles fought, dreams surrendered—stands there, tears streaming, paralyzed by the widening gap between the carefree girl she once was and the woman she has become. Her arms ache with the strain of trying to bridge the years, but the distance grows painfully, inexorably, wider.
"Wait!" she cries, her voice raw, breaking with the weight of lost years. "I want it back—the rush, the thrill of impossible victories!"
But the younger versions of herself and Bairon flicker like dying stars, vanishing into the distance. Just as her despair threatens to swallow her whole, a voice—deep, resonant, and everywhere at once—whispers in her ears, in her heart, in the very breath of the universe.
"It's never too late. It will never be too late," the exiled god speaks, his voice like the first note of creation itself. "Reach, Fiona, even if it defies the laws of physics. Defy the world, defy everything that holds you back."
His words crash through her like a tidal wave of boundless love, a love that defies the cold indifference of the gods she had once believed in. It is a love that transcends the mortal world, a love that believes in her potential even when she had lost all hope in herself. It is not just divine—it is cosmic, a force that has always been within her, waiting for this very moment to erupt.
Tears blur her vision, but they are not tears of sorrow—they are of revelation, of power rediscovered. His words are cosmic coordinates, guiding her out of the void. She steps forward, legs trembling but resolute, each step defying the weight of the past. The air vibrates with new possibility as she stretches her fingers once more, straining to reach what once seemed impossible.
The world trembles around her, and in that tremor, Fiona senses it—her own power, untapped and wild. She steps into it, not just as a woman, but as something more. A force. A star on the cusp of ignition.
And then, the fantastical world of Eschenfrau opens up before her, a realm of limitless adventure and boundless potential. The landscape unfolds—a vast island that Sky had created in this dreamlike reality—a place where battles transcended flesh, and where she could finally test the limits of what she was capable of.
Fiona's heart races with a fire she hasn't felt in years. The exiled god's words still echo in her mind, like the hum of distant galaxies. She realizes now, more than ever, that here she is not shackled by age, by biology, by the past. This world is hers to shape.
In the quiet place of his island, Sky—still bearing the echoes of fusion and stardust—extends an invitation. His eyes—like a cosmic compass—hold galaxies of promise. He gestures toward a place beyond the flags, beyond the mundane—a place where dreams take shape, where champions are born.
"There's a place," he says, voice like a comet's tail. "A place where the veil between reality and possibility is thin. A place where dreams ascend, where pixels become legends." He stops and then calls "Daemon, can you take us to the Nexus?" Without a word or introduction, they are taken to the place only champions are allowed. They are an exemption today.
She follows his gaze, squinting against the light. From a distance, she sees it—a shimmering realm. The air there vibrates with cosmic energy. Only champions are allowed here—the ones who dare to defy gravity, who wield pixels like swords. She glimpses them—avatars of fire, of impossible quests—dancing on the precipice of reality.
"But me?" she stammers, heart fluttering like a moth drawn to starlight. "I am 30 years old, can I still become one of them?"
He grins. "Who told you you weren't allowed to dream in your thirties?" he whispers. "If you're willing to unshackle your dreams, to confront the whole world even if alone. Champions and heroes aren't born—they forge themselves in the crucible of pixels, battle and passion. A great musician once said we were born to lose Tenza, but we will surely live to win."
She hesitates, then steps forward. They move toward the shimmering center, where the air tastes of stardust and the ground pulses with forgotten quests. She feels it. In the heart of the Nexus, where reality bends like light through a prism, there lies the cup—the manifestation of the echoes of pixelated victories, it reverberates with untamed power. Here, big flags—vibrant and defiant—wave in the wind, each a standard for champions past and present. They flutter like forgotten constellations, stitched together from the fabric of pixelated quests.
And there they stand—the old and the new—etched in the tapestry of pixels. Their avatars, once mere sprites, now bear the weight of their lives. Despite the years etching lines on their faces, they remain powerful. Their eyes—windows to other realms—hold secrets: high scores, impossible combos, and the glorious taste of victory.
But Fiona sinks in her agony. How could she dare to dream here? She, who carries the weight of thirty years, who knows the ache of surrender. Her footsteps falter, and the wind whispers her insignificance. The champions achieved their legendary status when youth flowed through their veins; she's just old now, a relic of forgotten save points.
Yet Sky—the wounded guide—doesn't care. He walks toward the center. His eyes hold reverence. He knows the Nexus's secrets, its hidden pathways. He beckons, and she follows, trailing behind like a comet's tail.
And there, at the heart of the Nexus, rests the altar—an obsidian plinth where dreams take shape. Upon it, the Cup of the World Championship gleams—a chalice forged from pixelated fire. Its curves hold the reflections of countless avatars, their victories distilled into liquid light.
The air vibrates as they approach the heart of the Nexus. Fiona's breath catches in her throat as her eyes fall upon it. The Cup. A chalice of legend—no, beyond legend—an artifact forged not of mere metal but of pixelated fire, the very essence of champions distilled into its gleaming surface. The Cup isn't just a trophy—it's a dream made manifest, a beacon of every impossible victory that ever was or could be. Its contours, smooth and ethereal, reflect the light of forgotten constellations—like stardust crystallized into form. And within its polished curves, Fiona sees herself—a reflection, distorted, fragile—but there, alive with untapped potential.
Her heart races, pounding against the cage of her chest, as if echoing the Cup's pulse. It calls to her, resonating with every forgotten dream, every sleepless night spent chasing something beyond the horizon. She can feel it—this Cup has seen battles that transcended the boundaries of age, of time, of doubt. It holds not just victories but the blood, sweat, and tears of those who dared to defy their limits. Every champion who ever touched it left a piece of their soul behind.
She stretches out her trembling hand—desperate to grasp it, to make this dream real. But Sky's hand intercepts hers, the Cup just out of reach. His voice, low and reverent, cuts through the air like a sacred vow.
"Only champions can touch it."
The weight of those words crashes into her. She isn't there yet. Her fingers curl into fists, her body trembling with raw emotion, blood trickling from where her nails dig into her palms. The drops fall, splattering onto the sacred floor of the Nexus—each one a testament to her unbroken will, her rekindled desire. Tears blur her vision, but she doesn't falter. She can feel the fire inside her burning hotter than ever. It explodes within her chest like the birth of a new star—an uncontainable force, a supernova of dreams once forgotten now roaring back to life.
The Cup pulses again, as if sensing her struggle, as if waiting.
Her heart pounds—its rhythm no longer that of a woman weighed down by the world, but of a warrior who glimpsed the impossible. Her thirty years, the burdens she carries, the doubts—they all melt away in the face of this singular, crystalline moment.
Fiona, standing mere inches from the Cup, her dreams bleeding into the sacred ground of champions. She is no longer just a spectator, no longer shackled by her past. This is the moment when the embers of her wish flare up with the force of a universe being born.
Her blood, her tears—they are the cost. But they are also the fuel. She steps back, fists clenched, fire in her eyes. Her gaze locks on the Cup, her heart thundering with a promise—one day. Maybe one day she will be worthy. Maybe one day, she will grasp it with both hands and feel its weight as her own.