In a familiar city, a dive bar hummed with tension, its dim lights casting long Shadows flickering across the walls, dancing to the erratic glow of the massive television above the bar. Every patron's gaze was fixed on the screen, where two giants of world soccer, Spain and Brazil, were locked in a battle for glory in the World Cup final.
The tension in the air was palpable, almost suffocating. Cries of jubilation clashed with groans of despair, creating a chaotic symphony of emotion. Drinks sloshed in raised glasses as Spain's supporters celebrated every goal with thunderous cheers, while Brazil's fans cursed under their breath, the anxiety etched onto their faces growing heavier with each passing second.
But amidst the chaos, one figure sat apart.
Jayson Sylvestri hunched over in a corner, his body curled inward as if bracing against an invisible storm. The paper in his hand was crumpled from how tightly he gripped it, his knuckles white from the strain. His dark eyes flickered between the betting slip and the screen, his lips pressed into a tight line.
On the screen, the scoreboard read 7–5 in Spain's favor. Those two numbers felt heavier than anything else in Jayson's life at that moment.
The noise of the bar receded into a dull roar in his ears as his thoughts spiraled. He wasn't just watching a game—this was his entire future riding on the outcome. He'd bet everything he had, every last cent, on Brazil winning. It wasn't a gamble born of recklessness or greed. It was desperation.
A few miles away, his mother was lying in a hospital bed, her frail body hooked up to machines that kept her alive. The debt from her treatments had piled up faster than he could handle, and there was no one else to turn to for help. His father had walked out on them when Jayson was just 11 years old, leaving behind only broken promises and an empty bank account.
The hospital bills had become a mountain, one that Jayson was certain would crush him. His bet on this match was a last, desperate bid to dig himself out. If Brazil lost, it wasn't just his money he'd lose—it was his mother's life.
His chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as if trying to claw its way out. He clenched the betting slip tighter, his nails biting into his palm.
And then, something changed.
The atmosphere in the bar shifted, subtle at first, like the way the air feels before a storm. The cheers and jeers faded into uneasy murmurs. On the screen, the players on the field had stopped moving. They weren't frozen in action—they had turned, all of them, to look up at the sky.
Jayson blinked, confusion cutting through his panic. The commentators, who had been animatedly narrating every move just moments ago, had gone silent. Even the crowd in the stadium was eerily still, tens of thousands of heads craned upward.
"What's going on?" someone muttered nearby.
The unease in the room spread like wildfire. Heads turned, necks craning to see what was happening on the screen. The murmurs grew louder, tinged with confusion and a hint of fear.
And then, the screen went black.
The sudden darkness was like a punch to the gut, leaving everyone in stunned silence. It lasted only a moment before the room erupted into chaos.
"What the hell?" someone shouted.
"This is bullshit!"
A few of the drunker patrons began yelling at the bar staff, demanding answers. The tension in the room turned volatile, threatening to boil over.
And then the lights began to pop.
One by one, the bulbs burst with sharp, crackling sounds, sending shards of glass raining down onto the tables and floor. Phones winked out, their screens going dark. Within moments, the entire bar was plunged into a suffocating blackness.
The noise of the crowd shifted again, from angry shouts to murmurs of unease. People shuffled in the dark, bumping into tables and chairs as they tried to make sense of what was happening.
The giant screen flickered back to life, but the World Cup match was gone. In its place were strange, cryptic symbols glowing faintly, their meanings impossible to decipher.
"What the…?" someone whispered, their voice trembling.
Jayson's unease grew, a cold weight settling in his stomach. The symbols on the screen were mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, but there was something deeply unsettling about them. The tension in the bar reached its breaking point as the distant rumble of explosions filled the air.
The sound came from outside, deep and resonant, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. The walls of the bar trembled, dust sifting down from the ceiling. Panic surged through the room as screams erupted, not just from the bar but from the streets outside. Jayson sat frozen, his breath hitching. His heart, which had been hammering with the anxiety of the game, now thudded with something far worse. He felt like a spectator in some apocalyptic nightmare, his body too rigid to move.
Then, something flickered in his vision.
Bright blue letters appeared before his eyes, glowing faintly against the darkness. The words seemed to hover in the air, though he could somehow tell they were projected directly in his left eye.
[System Message]
Name: Jayson Sylvestri
Race: Human
Title: None
Level: 0
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Health: 9
Stamina: 8
Speed: 7
Mana: 5
Class: None
"What... the hell is this?" Jayson whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos. It looked like a status window from an MMORPG—something he'd seen countless times in the games he used to play. But this wasn't a game. This was real, wasn't it? He slapped himself, the sharp sting breaking through his daze. But the message remained, glowing faintly as though mocking him, but then quickly faded
"Shit," he cursed, his thoughts flickering to his mother. She was alone, hooked up to machines in the neighboring city. If this was really happening, was she safe? Was she even alive? His panic began to twist into something colder—determination. He had to get to her. Jayson stood, his movements shaky but purposeful. He turned his head, scanning the room. His senses felt heightened, every sound sharper, every movement more distinct.
That's when he saw it.
In the flickering light of the screen, a hulking human like figure moving through the shadows, its pale green skin glistening like wet leather. It moved with a jerky, unnatural gait. The creature's hollow eyes locked onto Jayson, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from its throat.
"Is that... a ghoul?" Jayson whispered, the words barely audible.
As if in response, another message appeared:
[System Message]
An unknown force has awakened from the earth. This force, known as MANA, is the foundation for Magic Practitioners to grow stronger. Those, who cannot absorb MANA, may mutate into mindless Beasts.
"Magic Practitioners?" Jayson blinked, his thoughts racing. "What the fuck is this?", since when is "Magic" real?
The ghoul let out a snarl and began closing the distance between them, its movements gaining speed. Jayson's heart leapt into his throat as he backed away, his eyes darting around the room.
Panic surged in Jayson's veins, but instinct guided his eyes to the bar counter. There, within reach, was the bartender's trusty wooden bat—the kind used to knock sense into unruly customers. Without thinking, Jayson lunged for it, his fingers curling around the worn handle. The ghoul was close now, its fetid breath assaulting his nose.
The ghoul lunged, and He swung wildly, the bat colliding with the creature's torso. The impact reverberated up his arms, but the ghoul barely flinched. "Shit!" Jayson hissed, his grip tightening on the bat. Fear clawed at his throat, but beneath it, something stronger stirred.
Resolve.
"I'm not dying here," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The ghoul snarled again, and Jayson dropped into a fighting stance, his movements deliberate. Left foot forward, knees bent, hands raised to protect his head. He knew it wasn't the perfect form—not against something like this—but it was all he had.
The ghoul lunged again, and this time, Jayson was ready.