The morning came too soon, the pale light of dawn seeping through the apartment's cracked window. The boy woke on his mattress, the manual for Ancient Bane still clutched in his hand, its pages creased from where he'd fallen asleep reading.
His body ached from yesterday's bruises, a dull reminder of the rooftop ritual, and his stomach growled, empty as always. He sat up, the cold floor biting at his bare feet, and carefully tucked the game into a corner of his bag, hidden beneath his notebook.
There was no way he'd bring it to school—too risky, too precious. The bullies would spot it, snatch it, break it just to see him flinch. He couldn't let that happen.
School was the same grind, a blur of noise and invisibility. He shuffled through the hallways, keeping his head down, his bag clutched tight against his side.
The bruises on his arms throbbed under his sleeves, and every loud voice made him tense, expecting Derek or Kyle to appear. In class, he slid into his usual seat at the back, the desk's graffiti a familiar map of someone else's defiance.
Mrs. Callahan was at the front again, her voice droning about history now—dates and wars that felt as distant as the moon. He tried to focus, his pencil scratching half-hearted notes, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in the pages of Ancient Bane's manual, the promise of its world pulling at him.
The classroom was a cage, its walls closing in as the minutes ticked by. He glanced at the clock, willing it to move faster, though he dreaded the bell as much as he craved it.
The other students chatted, their voices a wall of sound that excluded him. He felt like a ghost again, unseen, unheard, his existence reduced to the ache in his ribs and the weight of his bag.
He thought about the game, hidden safely at home, and it was the only thing keeping him grounded. It was his secret, his light, a world where he could be more than this.
When the teacher called on him, he mumbled an answer, his voice barely carrying to the front. A few kids snickered, but Mrs. Callahan just nodded and moved on, her eyes already on someone else. He sank lower in his seat, relief mixing with shame.
He wasn't stupid—he knew that—but the constant fear, the hunger, the bruises, they made it hard to care about battles fought centuries ago. His battles were here, now, and they left marks no one could see. He doodled in his notebook, a rough sketch of the knight from Ancient Bane's cover, his armor gleaming in a way the boy's life never did.
The bell rang, and he moved quickly, slipping through the crowd before the bullies could spot him. Lunch was a hurried affair, a dry sandwich from the school's free program, eaten alone in a corner of the cafeteria.
He kept his eyes on his tray, avoiding the groups of kids who laughed and jostled each other. Derek's voice carried from across the room, loud and sharp, and the boy's stomach twisted.
He finished eating and left, his steps quick, his bag bouncing against his hip. The hallways were safer during class, but he still felt exposed, like prey waiting to be spotted.
Back in class, the afternoon dragged. The teacher switched to science, something about chemical reactions, but the boy's mind wandered again. He thought about the game, about the world it promised—ancient ruins, magic, a hero who wasn't afraid.
He imagined himself in that world, strong and sure, not the scrawny kid who flinched at shadows. The thought was a lifeline, pulling him through the monotony, the fear, the endless waiting for the day to end. He kept his head down, his pencil moving in meaningless patterns, counting the minutes until he could escape.
The final bell was both a relief and a threat. He moved fast, weaving through the crowded halls, his eyes scanning for Derek or his crew. He made it to the exit without incident, his breath hitching as he stepped into the cold air.
The streets were busy, kids shouting and running, their freedom a stark contrast to his caution. He took the long way to the library, avoiding the usual spots where trouble found him. The game was still at home, safe, but he needed a console, a way to play it.
The library had computers, sometimes a borrowed console, but he wasn't sure it would work with Ancient Bane's old disc.
The library was quiet, its fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. He roamed the aisles, his bag heavy on his shoulder, hoping to find the old console some kids used in the back room.
But the corner where it usually sat was empty, the table bare except for a few scratched DVDs. Disappointment sank into him, heavy as the bruises on his arms.
He stood there, staring at the empty space, his fingers tightening around his bag's strap. The library was his refuge, but today it felt hollow, useless without the means to play his game.
He lingered for a while, flipping through a fantasy novel he'd read before, but his heart wasn't in it. The words blurred, his thoughts fixed on Ancient Bane, on the world waiting for him.
He couldn't go home yet—the apartment was too empty, too quiet, and the game was calling him. Skipping the rest of his classes felt reckless, but the pull was stronger than his fear of getting caught.
He left the library, his steps quickening as he headed toward the alley shop, the only place that felt alive to him now. The streets were gray, the sky heavy with clouds, but the thought of the shop, of Sam, of the game, kept him moving.
The alley was as he remembered it, narrow and tucked away, the shop's soft light spilling onto the pavement. He pushed open the door, the bell jingling, and Sam looked up from behind the counter, his face breaking into a grin.
"Back already?"
Sam said, his voice warm, like they were old friends. The boy nodded, his cheeks flushing, and set his bag down.
"I… I got the game, but I don't have a console," he admitted, his voice low.
Sam's eyes lit up, and he gestured toward a back room.
"No problem. You can play here, but you gotta stay in the shop. Deal?"
The boy's relief was instant, a weight lifting from his chest.
"Deal," he said, his voice stronger than it had been all day.
Sam led him to a small room at the back, its walls lined with shelves of old games and cables. A dusty TV sat on a table, hooked up to an ancient console, its controllers worn but functional. Sam handed him the controller, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Take your time, kid. Just don't break anything."
The boy nodded, his heart racing as he pulled Ancient Bane from his bag, the disc glinting in the dim light. Sam left, closing the door, and the boy was alone with the game.
He slid the disc into the console, his hands trembling with anticipation. The TV flickered, the screen coming to life, but it wasn't the usual start menu he expected. No title screen, no character selection, just a black void with words appearing one by one, glowing white against the darkness.
[Welcome to the world of Ancient Bane]
they read, the letters pulsing faintly. The boy frowned, leaning closer, waiting for the game to load properly. But the words kept coming, slow and deliberate, forming sentences he didn't understand.
[The world is broken. The bane stirs. Only one can stand against it.]
The screen flashed, a sudden burst of light that made him wince, and the words shifted, chaotic now, scrolling faster than he could read. Images flickered—shadowed forests, crumbling towers, a figure in dark armor holding a sword that burned with crimson light.
The boy's breath caught, his fingers tightening on the controller. This wasn't like any game he'd played before. There was no menu, no options, just this strange, urgent narrative unfolding before him. The screen pulsed again, and the words stopped, replaced by a single question:
[Will you be a part of this world and save it?]
He stared, his heart pounding. The question felt too real, too personal, like the game was speaking directly to him. He'd played RPGs before, chosen characters, customized stats, but this was different.
There was no list of heroes, no classes to pick. Just the question, hanging there, waiting. He thought about his life—the bullies, the hunger, the endless fear—and something in him stirred, a longing to be more, to matter.
He pressed the button, selecting [Yes], and the screen flashed again, brighter this time, the light swallowing the room.
The world went dark, a sudden, disorienting void. He blinked, expecting the shop's dim light, the hum of the TV, but there was nothing. Then, sensation returned—he was lying on something soft, a bed, the air cool against his skin. He opened his eyes, staring at a ceiling of carved stone, intricate patterns swirling above him.
The room was vast, its walls draped in rich tapestries, the furniture gleaming with polished wood and gold accents. This wasn't his apartment, wasn't the shop, wasn't anywhere he knew. His heart raced, confusion mixing with a strange thrill.
He lay still, trying to make sense of it. The bed was soft, the sheets smooth against his skin, nothing like the thin blanket on his mattress at home.
A chandelier hung above, its crystals catching light from a window he couldn't see. The air smelled of wax and flowers, not mildew or dust. He tried to move, to sit up, but his body felt heavy, different.
He raised his arm, staring at it, and froze. The scrawny limb he knew was gone, replaced by one that was strong, muscled, the skin smooth and rosy, like the rich kids he saw at school, the ones who never went hungry.
He touched his arm, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours, then moved to his chest, his legs, his face. Everything was different—healthy, whole, no bruises, no ribs poking through. He rubbed his hands over his skin, disbelieving, his breath coming faster.
His body wasn't weak anymore, wasn't the fragile thing he'd carried through years of abuse. He felt strong, alive, like he'd stepped into someone else's life. He pressed his palms to his face, feeling the smooth jawline, the absence of scars or soreness, and a laugh escaped him, shaky and raw.
Still lying on the bed, he stared at his hands, turning them over, marveling at the strength in them. His skin was pale but vibrant, not the sickly pallor of hunger but the glow of someone cared for, fed, rested.
He touched his stomach, expecting the familiar ache, but there was nothing—just a solid warmth, a body that felt capable. He thought of the game, of the question on the screen, and a chill ran through him.
Was this Ancient Bane? Had he somehow… entered it? The idea was impossible, but here he was, in a body that wasn't his, in a room that belonged to a world he'd only read about.
He stayed there, his mind racing, trying to piece it together. The manual had described a world of magic and danger, of heroes and sacrifice, but it hadn't said anything about this—about becoming part of it.
He felt a surge of fear, but it was drowned out by something stronger: excitement. This body, this place, it was a chance to be someone else, someone who didn't flinch or hide.
He ran his hands over his arms again, testing their strength, and a smile crept onto his face. Whatever this was, he'd said yes, and now he was here, in a world where he could be more than a ghost.
The room was silent except for the faint rustle of the tapestries in a breeze he couldn't feel. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a whirlwind. The game had called to him, and he'd answered.
Now, he was part of it, not just playing but living it. His old life—the bullies, the hunger, the fear—felt distant, like a dream fading in the morning light. He didn't know what came next, but for the first time, he wasn't afraid to find out. He was ready, or at least, he wanted to be.