The gaming pod hissed open, and Lanark stepped in, feeling the familiar metallic chill of the seat beneath him. The door sealed shut behind him, the hum of the machine resonating in his ears. As the console lit up, the screen displayed the words he had seen hundreds of times before:
Welcome to War Zone. Warning: All physical parameters synced. Proceed with caution.
He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the confirmation button. The warning had always been there—a standard reminder that the game was linked to the physical body, every injury, every death, translating back to the real world. For Gamers like Lanark, this was no mere simulation; it was a test of skill, endurance, and survival.
But tonight, Lanark wasn't thinking clearly. His mind was clouded with anger, frustration, and the crushing weight of failure.
He pressed the button.
---
The world loaded in an instant, the barren landscape of War Zone stretching out before him. The air was heavy with smoke and ash, the ground cracked and lifeless. In the distance, the low growls of beasts echoed, sending shivers down his spine.
Lanark gripped his long sword tightly, the weight of the weapon comforting in his hands. He had done this countless times—faced off against Terims, those low-level beasts that should have been no challenge for even an average Gamer.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he wasn't himself.
---
The first Terim emerged from the shadows, its hulking form moving with predatory grace. Its eyes glowed an eerie red, and its claws scraped against the ground, sending sparks flying. Lanark raised his sword, his muscles tensed, but his movements were sluggish.
He swung as the beast lunged, but his timing was off. The blade glanced harmlessly off the Terim's thick hide, and the creature retaliated with a swipe of its claws. Lanark stumbled back, pain flaring in his side where the claws had grazed him.
His breathing was ragged, his grip on the sword unsteady.
"Focus," he muttered to himself. "You've done this before."
But his thoughts betrayed him, pulling him back to Clair and Druwel, to their mocking smiles, to the humiliation that clung to him like a second skin.
---
A second Terim appeared, followed quickly by a third. The three beasts surrounded him, their growls harmonizing into a sinister chorus. Lanark's heart raced as he tried to calculate his next move.
The beasts attacked as one, their claws and teeth a blur of motion. Lanark dodged, barely escaping the first strike, but the second Terim's claws raked across his arm, drawing blood. The pain was sharp, searing, and all too real.
He struck out wildly with his sword, managing to land a hit on one of the Terims. The beast howled in pain but didn't falter.
Lanark's movements grew increasingly frantic, his breathing uneven.
"I can't…" he whispered, his voice trembling.
The beasts closed in, their eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.
---
The first Terim lunged, its claws aiming for his chest. Lanark raised his sword to block, but the force of the impact knocked him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, his vision blurring with panic.
The second Terim struck, its massive form slamming into him. Lanark cried out as he hit the ground hard, his sword skittering out of reach.
Pain shot through his body, and for a moment, he couldn't move. He lay there, staring up at the swirling, smoky sky, his mind a chaotic mess of thoughts.
"I'm not strong enough," he whispered. "Not for this. Not for anything."
---
The beasts loomed over him, their claws poised to strike. Lanark closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek.
In that moment, as the weight of his failures pressed down on him, a single thought echoed in his mind.
I wish I could be better. I wish I could be stronger . I wish I will gave a second chance. Dammit!!!!!!
The Terims pounced, their claws ripping into his body. The pain was overwhelming, consuming him entirely.
Lanark's world went dark.
---
The gaming pod's emergency lights flashed red as alarms blared. Outside the pod, the attendants rushed to his station, their faces pale with panic.
"Vitals dropping!" one of them shouted.
Another frantically pressed buttons on the console, trying to disconnect Lanark from the system. But it was too late.
The gaming pod hissed open, revealing Lanark's lifeless body slumped in the seat, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
---
Lanark's final thoughts lingered in the void, a desperate plea for strength, for redemption, for a life worth living.
And somewhere, in the depths of the game a notification was invisibly seen and written
This is not the end
************************************************
Lanark floated in the endless expanse of darkness, his mind swirling with fragments of memory. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his last battle, but the crushing realization of failure was still fresh in his mind.
"This is it," he thought, his chest tightening with dread. "This is what comes after. Just... nothing."
The void was silent, save for the faint, rhythmic hum that seemed to vibrate through his very being. He felt disoriented, untethered. His body—if it even existed—felt weightless, as though he had been stripped of all physicality.
He tried to piece together what had happened. The Terim's snarling face, its claws slicing through his flesh. The pain. And then—nothing.
"I couldn't even survive against one of the weakest enemies in the game."
Shame burned through him, a deep, gnawing regret. He had always told himself that one day, things would change. That one day, he would prove to the world—and to himself—that he was more than a weak, failed Gamer. But now, that chance had been ripped away.
The darkness began to shift, and a faint glow appeared in the distance.
Lanark squinted, his heart pounding. "What is that? Is this some kind of hallucination?"
The light grew closer, pulsing with an otherworldly energy, until it enveloped him completely. He raised his hands to shield his eyes, but the light seemed to seep into him, filling him with warmth.
When it finally dimmed, he found himself standing—floating?—before a figure unlike anything he had ever seen.
---
The figure shimmered, their form constantly shifting between human and something indescribable.
"Lanark," they said, their voice reverberating like a thousand whispers in perfect harmony.
Lanark stared, his heart racing. "Who... who are you?"
"I am the Wisher," the figure replied, their tone calm yet commanding. "The one who answers the cries of those who dare to dream beyond their reach."
"The Wisher?" Lanark's mind raced. He had heard tales of beings that existed beyond the veil of reality, entities that could grant unimaginable power. But those were just stories... weren't they?
"Why am I here?" he asked, his voice trembling. "What is this place?"
"This is the space between life and death," the Wisher explained. "The crossroads where fate is rewritten."
Lanark's stomach dropped. "So, I am dead."
The Wisher tilted their head. "Not entirely. Your body is gone, but your soul lingers, tethered by the strength of your wish."
Lanark blinked, confusion and dread swirling in his chest. "My wish?"
The Wisher's form shifted, glowing brighter. "In your final moments, your heart cried out—not for salvation, but for strength. For purpose. That wish has brought you here."
Lanark's mind reeled. He remembered the desperation, the ache in his chest as he lay dying. He had begged for another chance, for the power to change his fate.
"But what does it matter?" he said bitterly, his fists clenching. "I'm weak. I couldn't even protect myself, let alone anyone else. I'm a failure."
The Wisher's voice softened, their tone almost gentle. "Failure is not the end, Lanark. It is the beginning of growth. Strength is born from struggle, forged in the fires of adversity. And you have the potential to rise from your ashes."
Lanark's jaw tightened. "Potential? I've heard that before. Everyone's always talking about potential, but what good is it if I can't use it?"
---
The Wisher raised a hand, and the void around them rippled. Images flickered in the darkness—scenes from Lanark's life, his victories, his defeats, his moments of despair.
"I can grant you what you desire," the Wisher said. "A second chance. A new body, stronger and more capable than your previous one. And a system to guide you, to help you unlock the greatness within you."
Lanark stared at the images, his chest tightening. Each failure replayed before his eyes, a painful reminder of everything he had lost. But then, scattered among the failures, were glimmers of something else: the determination in his eyes when he first picked up a sword, the way his heart raced with excitement when he entered a new game.
"Why would you give me this?" he asked, his voice shaking. "What's in it for you?"
The Wisher's form pulsed with light. "I exist to grant the wishes of those whose hearts burn brightest with longing. Your desire for strength, for purpose—it resonates deeply. But know this: power comes with responsibility, and your journey will not be easy."
Lanark hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. "And if I fail again?"
"Then your story will end," the Wisher said simply. "But the question is not whether you will fail. It is whether you will rise again if you do."
Lanark closed his eyes, the memories of his past failures flashing through his mind. He thought of Clair, of the life he had lost, of the man he had been.
"I've spent my whole life running from my weaknesses. Maybe... maybe this is my chance to finally face them."
"I don't want to give up," he said finally, his voice steady. "If there's even a chance I can make things right, I'll take it."
---
Scene 4: The Transformation
The void began to shimmer with vibrant colors, and Lanark felt a strange energy coursing through him. It was warm and comforting, yet it also carried an intensity that made his heart race.
The Wisher raised their hand, and a beam of light engulfed Lanark.
"Your body will be remade," they said. "Stronger, faster, more resilient. A true Gamer in every sense of the word. And you will be granted the Gamer System—a tool to guide you, to help you grow."
Lanark cried out as the light intensified, his body shifting and changing. He could feel his muscles tightening, his senses sharpening, his mind clearing. It was as though every part of him was being rewritten, forged into something new.
As the transformation continued, Lanark's thoughts raced. "This power... it feels incredible. But what if it's not enough? What if I can't live up to this second chance?"
When the light finally faded, Lanark stood transformed. He looked down at his hands, now larger and more powerful, and saw his reflection in the shimmering void—a man reborn.
---
A holographic screen appeared before Lanark, filled with glowing text and symbols.
> Welcome, Lanark. You have been granted the Gamer System.
Lanark reached out, the screen responding to his touch. He opened the Stats Panel, marveling at the detailed breakdown of his abilities.
> Name: Lanark
Level: 1
Strength: 15
Agility: 12
Intelligence: 14
Charisma: 10
For the first time in years, Lanark felt a flicker of hope. "Maybe... maybe I can do this "