The legendary game Zenith: Resurrection had returned, resurrected from its enigmatic slumber—more relentless, more brutal, more untouchable than ever. What was once considered merely "nearly impossible" had now ascended into the realm of the absurd. Victory? A fleeting dream.
The reigning eSports titans, "The Tigers," had taken an exclusive trial run of the revamped challenge. Their verdict? "Impossible," they declared, despite every advantage and buff at their disposal.
"And in just fifteen seconds, the game officially launches," boomed Zhack, the charismatic commentator whose sharp wit and electrifying energy had become a staple of competitive gaming events. His voice carried the weight of both humor and gravity. "Get ready to play, fight, and climb your way to the top!"
The countdown ended. Over half a million players poured into the servers, the digital battlefield alive with anticipation.
"This is incredible!" Zhack exclaimed, his tone brimming with enthusiasm as the chaos unfolded. "Look at this intensity! Gamers, you're absolutely rocking it!"
Then came the moment they had all been waiting for.
"Now, the main event!" Zhack announced with a flourish. The leaderboard lit up, names cascading in real-time as players scrambled to outshine one another. "You see that screen? Your ranking is everything. And the player who claims the top spot? They'll earn the honor of facing The Tigers themselves in combat!"
Excitement rippled through the crowd as competitors adjusted their gear, their determination nearly palpable. Yet, amidst the cacophony of usernames filling the leaderboard, a new name appeared—AutisticAimAssist.
At first, no one paid it much attention. But soon, the lobby became eerily silent. One by one, entire squads were obliterated. The mysterious player moved with the precision of a machine, wielding only a pistol—twelve bullets per clip. Each shot, a headshot. Each reload, a moment of vulnerability no one seemed able to exploit.
"Unbelievable!" gasped Jorge, the co-commentator, his voice thick with disbelief. "AutisticAimAssist just wiped another team with nothing but a pistol. Every single bullet—headshot. Is this even real? Is he hacking?"
"How is this even possible?" Jorge continued, his voice teetering on awe and suspicion. "The insurmountable challenge has just been shattered, effortlessly, by one player."
Zhack, uncharacteristically silent, leaned closer to the screen. His sharp eyes scrutinized every movement. Something about this player gnawed at the edges of his mind.
There was no mistaking it.
'That's him,' Zhack thought, his chest tightening. A chill swept over him, equal parts curiosity and unease. 'But why now? Why return after five years of absolute silence?'
The chat exploded in fury.
"HACKER!"
"REPORT HIM!"
"CHEATER!"
Wave after wave of accusations scrolled across the screen, players and viewers alike consumed by indignation. But Zhack knew better. This wasn't mere hacking. This was something else entirely.
"No, he's not hacking," Zhack said, a low chuckle escaping his lips.
The chat sputtered into a stunned hush, the accusatory roar reduced to scattered murmurs.
"He's... special," Zhack added, his tone cryptic but laced with reverence.
A sharp voice cut through the silence. The leader of The Tigers, dialed into the voice chat, demanded answers. "Who the hell is this guy?"
"For all you newer gamers," Zhack began, leaning into his role as the keeper of legends, "let me take you down memory lane."
His words hung in the air like the opening notes of an anthem.
"Do you remember the enigma who cracked Cicada 3301 in 2012? Or the genius who solved the Zodiac killer's cipher?" Zhack asked, his voice rising, igniting curiosity.
"Wait—no, that's not quite the explanation. Let me put it in terms you can grasp." Zhack's tone shifted, a subtle smirk audible. "Do you recall the player who still holds the world record in Geometry Dash? Or the one who casually crushed the most unforgiving classics—Battletoads, Silver Surfer NES, Lion King NES—games that make grown men weep in frustration?"
The chat erupted in a frenzy of recognition.
"No way."
"Don't tell me—"
"Wasn't that just a legend?"
"He's BACK?"
Zhack grinned. "Looks like I'm ringing a few bells now."
The pause that followed was electric.
"Yes," Zhack finally said, the weight of his words palpable. "That's them."
"Them? Who the hell is them?" Jorge, the co-commentator, asked, baffled.
Zhack turned his gaze to Jorge, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with myth.
"The World's Greatest Mind. Or, as they're better known… God's Gamer."
Jorge froze. "God's Gamer? That's just a myth!"
"A myth?" Zhack's laugh was sharp, almost pitying. "Oh, no, Jorge. They're real. Most active between 2000 and 2015, during the rise of online gaming. Back then, they didn't just play games—they owned them. The best titles of that era fell before them, one after another. Records? Unbroken, even now. Competitors from every corner of the globe tried to take them down—tournaments, head-to-head battles, every conceivable format. And every single one of them failed."
Zhack's voice grew darker, his words deliberate. "They studied them—frame by frame, move by move—desperate to find a flaw. A weakness. Anything. But there was nothing. They were unstoppable. They crushed every challenger, effortlessly, mercilessly."
The chat was alive again, but this time with awe, not rage.
"But here's the thing," Zhack continued, his voice a razor cutting through the noise. "No one knows who or what they are. A person? A group? Something else entirely? No one knows where they're from, what they look like, or if they're even human. Some say they're not. Some believe they're divine punishment—a mind too dangerous for Heaven, cast down to dominate Earth.
"That's why they call them God's Gamer."
The silence that followed was deafening, charged with disbelief and reverence.
Jorge let out a low whistle. "Awesome."
_________________________________________________________
Finally, The Tigers entered the match with confidence, their strategies sharp and execution flawless—until they faced him.
Within moments, their formations crumbled. Precise pistol shots cut through their defenses, each bullet finding its mark with eerie accuracy. Attempts to flank were met with cold efficiency; grenades detonated harmlessly, traps were anticipated, and counterattacks fizzled before they began.
One by one, they fell, their once-dominant presence reduced to silence. The scoreboard told the story: The Tigers—eliminated.
_____________________________________________________________
In the opulence of a lavish hotel room, Kael perched low in his signature crouch, a posture that seemed more suited to a predator stalking its prey than a man at rest. Balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands rested loosely on his knees, fingers twitching as though they were privy to some unseen rhythm. His head tilted forward, purple hair a wild tangle that framed his face—a striking one, were it not for the weariness etched into it. His grey eyes, dull and lifeless, stared at nothing, and a faint frown marred the sharp lines of his jaw. A single red chili, tangled in his hair, caught his attention. Without hesitation, he plucked it free and bit into it.
"Well, you won. Nice," came a voice from behind, dry and familiar.
Kael didn't flinch. He turned his head lazily to find the speaker—a perfect replica of himself, lounging by the window.
Then another emerged from the shadows, identical down to the smallest detail. Three Kaels now filled the room, each one distinct only in demeanor.
"Yeah, those Tigers were disappointing," said the Kael by the window, arms crossed, a faint sneer curling his lips.
"Of course they were. No one can match me," replied the Kael standing near the bar, a chef's apron draped loosely over his shoulders, a hint of arrogance in his tone.
"Sure, sure," muttered the seated Kael, running a hand through his messy hair. His gaze shifted between the others—one, a scholar with an air of calculated detachment; the other, a chef radiating restless energy. They were fragments of his consciousness, manifestations of his thoughts given shape and voice.
"It's all so... boring," he sighed, his words dragging like a slow exhale, as though the very act of speaking was an inconvenience.
"Well, that's the truth, Kael," the scribe said, his voice calm, each word sharp as a blade. "You must've realized it long ago. When everything is handed to you, it's only a matter of time before you're left with nothing. Comfort dulls the edge, and from the peak, there's nowhere left to climb. But starting with nothing? That's when you learn—how to fight, how to claw, how to take it all for yourself."
"You didn't just begin at the top, Kael. You were the top. And when there's no struggle to define you, no ambition to chase, the purpose of it all crumbles, fragile as ash slipping through your fingers. That's why this emptiness gnaws at you, isn't it? It's not the world that's failed you—it's you. A life with nothing left to prove is its own kind of prison."
"But that's the cruel joke, isn't it? The absence of meaning is the only meaning you have left. No matter how far you go, how high you climb, that emptiness is yours and yours alone," the scribe finished, his gaze piercing, like he was looking through Kael rather than at him.
Kael sighed, pulling a small pack of salt from his pocket. He tore it open and downed it in one swift motion. The sharp tang made him grimace slightly, but he said nothing for a moment.
"Mhm. No need to launch into a monologue, Writer Me," he muttered, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, shut it, Writer Me," added the chef Kael from the corner, rolling his eyes as he adjusted his apron.
Kael chuckled softly, his finger idly tapping the edge of his laptop. An email notification flashed on the screen.
"An email? For me?" he murmured, opening it with a flick of curiosity.
The message was short, but its words struck a peculiar chord:
[Kael Sinclair, the man with the mind of a god. Want to play a game? A game that will never bore you? A game to end your endless boredom?]
Kael's lips curled into a faint smirk. 'They know my name? Interesting.'
Without hesitation, he typed a curt reply: "NO."
"Good call. Total scam," chimed Cooking Kael from the kitchen, apron draped lazily over one shoulder.
"Scam?" scoffed Writer Kael, perched by the bookshelf, pen tapping against his temple. "And how exactly do you explain them knowing our name?"
Kael leaned back in his chair, letting the question linger in the air. His thoughts churned, but he dismissed them with a flick of his wrist, dragging the email into the spam folder.
"Whatever," he muttered, standing up and stretching.
The sun hung low in the sky as Kael jogged through his quiet neighborhood, his breaths steady and measured. Stripped of his usual entourage of inner voices, he moved unnoticed, just another face in the crowd.
'No one knows,' he mused, watching a dog chase its shadow across a yard. 'No one recognizes the so-called God's Gamer.'
A dry smile tugged at his lips as his thoughts wandered.
'I'm Kael Sinclair: enigmatic gamer and occasional crime fighter by night. By day? Just a freelance writer and amateur cook.'
His gaze drifted to a child pedaling furiously down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing in the crisp air.
'But who am I, really?'
The question twisted in his mind, heavier than it should've been.
'I don't know what I am, only what I have—a brain my mother once called a gift from God.'
Kael slowed his pace, running a hand through his messy hair.
'I can do what others can't. Rational thought is second nature. Emotions? Muted at best. The last time I cried was when my parents died in that crash. The first time, too.'
The memory surfaced with perfect clarity, as vivid as the present. Every detail from his twenty-five years etched into his mind like carvings in stone.
'Some call me a genius, some a monster, some the perfect human.'
He stopped, watching the wind ripple through a patch of grass.
Perfection.
The word lingered, empty and weightless.
'What does that even mean?'
Perfection.
'It's a word that means something different to everyone. There's no universal truth to it—it's a reflection of what we choose to value.
For me? I've never thought of myself as perfect. Humans are flawed by nature, and that's what makes them human. If I had to define the perfect person, it wouldn't be someone flawless. It'd be someone who's simply better than everyone else at what truly matters.'
'I'm not perfection embodied. I'm just someone who's reached the top. I've beaten the odds, crushed the competition, and surpassed every challenge. But now? There's nothing left—no rival, no struggle, no thrill. Reaching the peak doesn't feel like a triumph. It feels like emptiness.'
'The higher you climb, the lonelier it gets. The things that once mattered—the fight, the growth, the ambition—they dissolve into nothing. And when there's no mountain left to conquer, all that's left is the suffocating weight of it all.'
'Perfection isn't a reward. It's a prison. And once you're inside, the only thing left to face is yourself.'
Kael exhaled heavily, shaking his head.
'I'm talking to myself again. Should've taken my medicine.'
He ran a hand through his unruly purple hair, smirking faintly at his own absurdity. Talking to himself was far from his only strange habit, but it was one of the more persistent ones.
A notification buzzed on his phone, dragging him from his thoughts. He picked it up and saw the same email from the night before.
"Persistent, huh?" he muttered, scanning the words. The smirk widened into a chuckle, and this time, he replied with a simple, "Ok."
Curiosity drove his answer, but there was another reason—he couldn't bear to see the same message every day.
Before he could reflect further, a sharp, stabbing pain tore through his head.
"THUMP."
His legs buckled, and he collapsed, the phone slipping from his hand.
'Damn it,' he thought as his vision blurred. Distant voices swirled around him, panicked and urgent, as strangers rushed to his aid.
Inside a stark, white room, Kael groaned as he forced his eyes open.
"Urgh," he muttered, his head pounding like a drumbeat out of sync. The brightness stung, and he winced as his gaze settled on a woman standing nearby. She smiled, her expression a mix of amusement and relief.
"Finally awake, huh? Took you long enough," she said, her tone light but tinged with authority.
Kael blinked, studying her. She stood with effortless poise, her crisp white blouse neatly tucked into a black skirt that skimmed her knees. Sensible low heels completed the look, but it was the small details that caught his attention. A stray lock of dark hair escaped the neat pinning, softening her otherwise sharp features. Her deep-set eyes, cool and observant, tracked his every movement.
Kael glanced at the clock on the wall—8:37 a.m. Her watch, however, read 9:34 a.m.
'Second time zone,' he noted. 'A subtle nod to hospital shifts. The starch on her blouse and faint scrub fibers near her shoulder confirm it—she's in medicine. The scars on her hands? Precision cuts, likely from surgical tools. Then there's her posture: a slight arch in her back from long hours on her feet. But the giveaway…'
His eyes flicked to the faint, rectangular imprint on her blouse's left pocket.
'The pager. On-call doctor.'
Kael said nothing, just let his eyes drift to the other occupant in the room—a man slouched in a chair.
The man's grey suit was wrinkled, his tie slightly askew as if hastily adjusted. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight of monotony, and the pale blue shirt he wore had a telltale crease at the collar, suggesting a rushed morning. Dark circles clung under his eyes, and his fingers fidgeted with a pen in his pocket—a nervous habit that betrayed his unease.
Kael's gaze sharpened, piecing together fragments of the man's life.
'The suit sleeves creased at the elbows—hours spent leaning over a desk. Not ambition, but obligation. His hair? Tousled, with faint finger marks along his jaw—he's been running his hands through it, likely in frustration. His lock screen shows two dogs, their playful energy a stark contrast to the weary slump of his shoulders.'
Kael's attention returned to the man's restless movements: the bouncing leg, the constant pen-twiddling.
'Mentally drained. Trapped in a job he hates but too resigned to leave. Intelligent, but exhausted—he's been doing this for years, and he knows it's futile. Even the keys bulging in his pocket tell a story. He's not heading home to unwind, just to endure another night.'
Kael's eyes shifted to the other two people in the room: a teenage boy and a composed woman.
'High school senior, just finished 11th grade. Likely stressed from exams,' Kael surmised, his gaze flicking to the boy's backpack, where frayed edges on the straps hinted at overuse.
'And her? A psychologist—successful, probably. Minimal wear on her shoes, immaculate posture. Sharp, calm eyes that seem to measure everyone in the room. Experienced.'
The first woman, Katrina, clapped her hands sharply, pulling everyone's attention. "Alright, now that we're all awake, let's introduce ourselves, shall we?"
Her tone was bright, almost artificially so, as if trying to break through the oppressive tension. She glanced around, met with silence and vacant expressions.
Kael leaned back slightly, his mind already spinning.
'They were brought here, like me. But the circumstances differ. No one trusts anyone. They're strangers to each other—probably first-time encounters. They're uncertain, hesitant. Who would speak freely in a situation like this?'
The teenager exhaled loudly, breaking the silence. "Amir Khan. High school. Just started 12th." His voice carried the forced indifference of someone trying to act unbothered, but the slight tremor betrayed his unease.
The psychologist followed, her tone crisp and detached. "Lexi Woods. I'm a psychologist." Her eyes remained steady, scanning the room without a flicker of emotion.
Next came the man in the crumpled suit, clearly reluctant as all eyes turned to him. He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ayush Sharma. I work at Minosoft Dicks Co." His voice was flat, almost apologetic, as though he were embarrassed by his own introduction.
Finally, the group's attention landed on Kael. He felt the weight of their gazes but met it with a faint smirk.
'No need to provoke anyone. Building hostility here is reckless.'
"Kael Sinclair," he said casually, leaning forward. "Just your average shut-in NEET gamer."
Ayush's brow furrowed slightly, his years of office politics kicking in. 'There's no way that's the full story. That smirk... he's hiding something.'
His lips twitched into a sardonic smile, almost imperceptible. 'Lying to a lie detector. Let's see how long you can keep that up.'
"Now that we've all introduced ourselves, let's figure out how we ended up... here," Katrina said, her voice firm but laced with an undertone of unease.
The room was stark—blindingly white with walls and floors cushioned like a padded cell. A single clock ticked faintly on the wall, its hands frozen. Beneath it, an ominous timer sat dormant. Dominating the back wall was a massive, blank TV screen, lifeless but clearly waiting to spring into action.
"I was on my way home, and then—nothing. The last thing I remember was... people in white suits," Ayush said, his voice tight, eyes darting around the room as though searching for answers in its oppressive emptiness.
"I fainted after drinking water. Next thing I know, I'm here," Katrina added, arms crossed, her brow furrowed.
"I joined some mafia guys," Amir piped up nonchalantly, shrugging. "Then they dragged me here."
Katrina shot him a sharp look. 'Is this kid for real?'
Kael smirked faintly. "I passed out too."
There was a pause, the weight of the room pressing down on them. Then Kael's voice cut through the silence. "Did any of you get an email?"
Everyone, except Lexi, nodded in unison.
"What did it promise?" Kael asked, his tone sharpening.
Katrina frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"He's asking what bait they used to lure you here," Ayush said, leaning forward. "For me, it was a 'long break from work.' Sounded like heaven, honestly."
"Freedom from nagging parents," Kael added casually, his smirk lingering.
Ayush's eyes narrowed. 'Liar. He doesn't have parents.'
"Same here, dude," Amir chimed in, giving Kael a grin.
"I got an email about curing cancer," Katrina said, her voice carrying a mix of skepticism and self-righteousness.
Kael's gaze drifted to Lexi, the only one who hadn't spoken. She sat back, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"All of you are idiots," Lexi said finally, her voice cold and cutting.
The room froze.
"Who actually falls for emails like that? Haven't any of you read a webnovel?" she continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "And do you seriously believe this place can deliver on any of those promises?"
"Well," Kael drawled, his smirk widening, "everyone here seemed to think it was a joke, Mrs. Lexi."
Lexi's eyes narrowed at the deliberate provocation.
"You, though," Kael said, tilting his head. "You seem oddly serious about all this. Almost like you know something we don't."
Lexi opened her mouth, clearly about to retort, but the room plunged into silence as the massive TV screen roared to life with a harsh static buzz.
"Welcome, Players," a distorted voice announced.