The prison cell was a shadowed tomb, its air heavy with rot and despair. Darkness covered every corner, broken only by a dim, cold glow. The light poured unevenly over an old man slumped against the wall, his beard matted and stained, barely clinging to life.
The source of the light? A pair of faintly glowing eyes. They burned like dying coals in the sockets of a towering, emaciated creature. Its skeletal frame seemed barely wrapped in pale, wrinkled skin, and it stood perfectly still, watching the old man with a bored stare. Around them, decaying corpses—humanoid, once alive—occupied the floor.
"Why do you still hold on, sorcerer?"
The creature finally asked, its voice as cold and detached as the grave.
"You're still mortal. You can let go whenever you want. Why do you still claw for air when the end is unavoidable?"
The old man did not open his mouth at all. The only sound that could be heard was from his pale nose that was desperately grasping for air.
The creature tilted its head slightly, its glowing eyes narrowing.
"Do you prefer silence?"
It said, its lips curling in disdain.
"Perhaps you find more comfort in those butterflies. LOOK AT THEM—they gather around your blood, feeding on what little you have left."
It gestured toward a cluster of small, fluttering insects, their wings beating gently over the dried pools of blood on the cold stone floor.
Still, the sorcerer remained silent, his chest rising and falling with an uneasy rhythm.
The creature took a step closer, its towering figure casting a long shadow.
"...Is it spite that makes you-"
"Nah,"
The old man said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"It's because you're too gloomy. Maybe that's why you don't have any friends."
For a moment, the creature froze, its expression shifting as if it were unsure what to make of the remark.
The old man's smile widened, his cracked lips stretching painfully.
"It doesn't matter how long I sit here, or how much of this poisoned blood I lose,"
He said.
"I still have a few friend-… a few people I know back home."
The creature's glowing eyes flared slightly, its interest piqued.
"Friends?"
It echoed, its voice quieter now, but sharp as a blade.
"Do you truly believe someone will come for you? That you'll find salvation in the end? From who?"
Then the old man chuckled, the sound dry and rattling in his throat.
"There's always a chance some moron will try to claim my legacy as their own."
"…"
"This is what you don't understand about humans. As long as humanity exists, there will aways be idiot who will step up call me an 'untalented clown'"
The creature frowned, its brows drawing together as if trying to make sense of the sorcerer's confidence.
"You just wait,"
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
'Ding.' 'Ding.' 'Ding.'
The sound of the self-checkout machine echoed in the empty late-night store. Behind it stood a young man, awkwardly scanning groceries, his reflection flickering in the cold fluorescent lights.
Drake, as he was called, was not a man of pleasing features. His nose was small and delicate, almost doll-like. His chin was so underdeveloped it practically blended into his neck. A receding hairline pushed back his greasy hair, and his face was riddled with angry red acne. Standing at a meager 5 feet—or 152 cm—he was short enough to attract stares. But his most striking feature, by far, was his massive frame, a mountain of flesh that he carried with labored breaths.
Drake's purpose here was simple: groceries. His parents had sent him out, as they sometimes did, and he followed their orders without much resistance. Now, with a plastic bag full of essentials in hand, he zipped his oversized jacket against the biting cold and trudged through the sliding doors, stepping into the quiet night.
As he walked home, he felt their eyes. The strangers on the street didn't need to speak. He could feel their gazes like needles on his skin—pity and disdain, the instinctive reaction people had when they saw someone they deemed beneath them.
It wasn't unfamiliar. Drake knew that look. He'd known it all his life.
To distract himself, he pulled out his phone. The bright screen reflected in his tired eyes as he scrolled aimlessly, his ears drowning out the world around him. Then his thumb froze over the clock on the screen.
23:47.
Thirteen minutes left until midnight. In thirteen minutes, he would turn 18.
A surge of thoughts rushed through his mind as the number stared back at him. Only one month until the university pre-entrance exams. For most students, this was a crucial opportunity—a chance to secure a place in their dream universities.
But for Drake?
It was just another meaningless date on the calendar.
"Why should I even study? Why should I follow their path? People should just believe in themselves like I do."
Said Drake as he opened his online report full of Ds and Es.
'F$ck.'
The word echoed silently in his mind as he glanced at the cracked pavement.
"…"
He paused as a flicker of a smile vanished from his face.
"It wasn't always like this."
Drake remembered the past, the days when everything was different.
When he was younger, people called him a genius.
He excelled in both physical and academic pursuits. His bones were dense beyond belief, stronger than those of sports celebrities at his age. He was even expected to grow to a towering 6.6 feet (201 cm). Academically, he had a photographic memory, capable of remembering anything for weeks or months at a time.
But then everything changed.
That day came when his body stopped growing. He also developed a condition that prevented him from absorbing amino acids—no matter how hard he tried, his muscles wouldn't form and the fat of his body could not go away.
"Hum."
Drake snapped out of his thoughts as he finally reached his home.
He tiptoed inside, trying to make as little noise as possible.
"Why should I care about those memories?" he thought, a bitter smile creeping onto his face as he opened the door to his room.
"I AM RICH AS F%CK!"
He shouted with hollow enthusiasm, stepping into his cluttered, chaotic room.
The room was filled with tens of almost-naked anime girl posters plastered on the walls, a bed buried under stacks of dirty clothes, and a massive, well-worn computer glowing faintly in the corner.
You might wonder: Why is he screaming about being rich when he still lives with his parents and neglects everything about himself?
Drake was not the first or the last of his kind. Recently, stories of guys like him were spreading. People called them... Crypto Traders.
He clicked on his virtual wallet and checked his crypto balance:
BopCoin — $27,000
CowCoin — $15,000
ErectoCoin — $63,000
Drake's eyes glinted with a twisted, perverted smile as he stared at the numbers.
Suddenly, the time clicked over to 12:00—the new day had begun.
Without warning, a mystical screen appeared before his eyes.
[Congratulations, you've been graded as the World's Most Unattractive Man Alive!]
[You now have a chance to reverse your fate and become stronger!]
Another window opened.
[Name: Drake
Age: 18
Titles: None
Race: Lower Human
Traits: Elixir Devouring Void Body
Job: None
Affinity: Unknown
Body: Grade 0
>Open
Core: Unawakened
>Can't Open
Mind: Grade 0
>Open
Special Conditions: Critical Metabolism Deviation
Drake stared at the screen, his eyes wide. A chance to change everything, to reclaim his past glory. The words of that mysterious window stirred a flicker of hope—and fear—deep in his chest.