The health bar of Luther, the final boss of Abyss Requiem, flickered at just 3%.
"Three percent…" Riyo muttered under his breath, fingers gliding across the keyboard with mechanical precision. His palms were slick, the faint tack of sweat making every keystroke feel heavier. "You've got more HP than my will to live, old man."
The livestream chat on Bootube.com erupted, neon-colored messages racing across his second monitor like a rave of noise.
[DarkMage420]: "ZENTH DON'T JINX IT!!"[xxLoliDestroyerxx]: "12 YRS AND IT ENDS TONIGHT!"[PixelQueen]: "my hands are SWEATING just watching"
Behind the mask of his streaming name Zenth, Riyo Tanpuri smirked. His pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice stayed calm—cool, detached, even as his body screamed tension. Streaming had trained him well: nerves were hidden currency, and jokes were armor. People came for sarcasm, not silence.
"Relax, chat. If I die now, at least I'll finally know how my ex felt when she got hit by a truck."
The scroll of reactions blurred across his vision.
[NaniTheF]: "TOO SOON WTF"[KappaBoy]: "bro 💀💀💀"
On the glowing screen, Kael Dreheart—the battered hero of Abyss Requiem—swung his spectral blade in a final, desperate arc. The ruined world of Recompiler loomed around him: fractured towers of obsidian code, sparks falling like digital ash. Ghosts shimmered in his wake—Elandor's soft hands once glowing with healing light, Azrael's traitorous grin frozen in its last act of redemption, NyXa's whispered incantations fading into pixel mist, and Snester's broken sword forever raised in loyalty.
Luther's colossal body convulsed, a roar reverberating so deep through Riyo's headset it rattled his skull. Then, with a final glitching shudder, the boss collapsed into a storm of collapsing polygons.
The system text appeared:
[CONGRATULATIONS. ABYSS REQUIEM CLEARED.]
For a second, Riyo just stared. His shoulders sagged against the squeaky chair, the cracked leather biting against his damp shirt. "Twelve years, huh?" His throat felt raw, but he forced the words out. "Thousands tried. Everyone failed. And in the end… it's just me, a half-eaten cup of noodles, and carpal tunnel."
The chat went nuclear, a tsunami of digital hysteria.
[Legend27]: "ZENTH IS IMMORTAL"[PixelQueen]: "crying rn"[MoneyRain99]: donated $200 – "History made."
He muted the mic and leaned back, stretching until his spine popped. The studio light above dimmed to black as the camera switched off. In an instant, the adrenaline dissolved, replaced by a dull, hollow ache in his chest. The money was good. The fame was real. And yet, the silence pressed down heavier than victory.
Just like always.
The clock read 7:46 p.m. when he pulled on his faded gray hoodie and stepped outside.
The city air was damp, the sticky kind of humidity that clung to skin and hinted at rain. Neon signs bled color into the wet pavement: ramen shops, pawn brokers, internet cafés still buzzing with players chasing dreams less impossible than his. The world smelled of street food—grilled skewers, soy, the faint bitterness of exhaust.
Inside Starway Supermart, fluorescent tubes buzzed like dying insects. A child whined at his mother near the candy shelf, his sticky fingers tearing into a wrapper before she smacked his hand. By the counter, a man argued, waving expired coupons as if they were weapons.
Riyo's sneakers squeaked against polished linoleum as he grabbed a basket. The plastic handle dug into his sweaty palm. "Tomatoes… potatoes… cucumber," he muttered, picking them with absent precision. The produce felt cool, firm, alive in a way his apartment never did. "Congratulations, Riyo. You're officially playing Grocery Simulator 2025."
He tossed coriander into the basket, the sharp green scent rising faintly. A bottle of soy sauce. Instant miso sachets. Little comforts. Little lies of survival.
At the counter, the cashier scanned with the apathy of routine. A poster near the register caught his eye:
Community Food Drive – August 22, 10 a.m."No one should go hungry."
The irony tugged at his lips. "Guess they haven't seen my fridge."
The cashier looked up, puzzled. Riyo just offered a faint smile, scooped his bag, and left.
"Riyo! No way, it's you."
The voice froze him mid-step. He turned to find Kenta, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, office fatigue written into the slump of his shoulders. The faint scent of cologne clung to him, mixing with the sourness of city sweat.
"You're still alive, huh?" Kenta grinned, slapping his shoulder with a warmth Riyo hadn't felt in months. "I saw Bootube—Zenth clears Abyss Requiem. That was YOU?!"
"Either me, or some guy deepfaking my ugly face."
They laughed, but Kenta's eyes gleamed with genuine awe. "You're insane. C'mon. Drink's on me. No escape."
The bar two streets down smelled of fried oil and spilled beer. Wood tables sticky with use, neon beer signs humming, a low buzz of chatter and clinking glasses. For once, Riyo allowed himself to sit in it—to let warmth press against the cold inside.
Two mugs in, Kenta leaned close, words softened by alcohol. "But seriously, Riyo… you okay? Like, really?"
The wrong question.
Riyo's chuckle was too quick, too sharp. "Define 'okay.' Physically? Sure. Mentally? That's a subscription plan I can't afford."
Kenta frowned, but Riyo raised his mug high, grin plastered on. "Relax. If I was depressed, I'd be drinking whiskey, not beer."
The laughter came, but inside it cracked. His thoughts bled where no one saw—Airi's smile, her hand in his once, her voice soft in memory. Then the hospital. Cold sheets. The driver who never stopped.
And him—sitting before a glowing monitor, headphones on, telling her: thirty more minutes, just one more raid.
She never came home.
The guilt still gnawed, a parasite that never slept. He buried it under foam and fried snacks, raising his mug again. "To surviving another day."
On his way back, the streets had quieted. Streetlamps hummed, painting halos on slick asphalt. A dog barked faintly from an alley.
The shaggy mongrel appeared, tail wagging, eyes bright in the glow.
"Hey, buddy," Riyo whispered, crouching. He tore open a miso sachet, letting powder scatter on the ground. "Dinner is served, your royal muttness."
The dog licked eagerly, tail thumping the pavement. For a heartbeat, warmth touched Riyo's chest, soft and fleeting. He scratched the dog's ear, coarse fur prickling his fingers.
"Wish I could take you home," he murmured. "But my landlord's allergic to happiness."
The dog barked, sharp and mocking. Riyo chuckled. "Fine, laugh it up. See you tomorrow."
Back in his cramped apartment, groceries thudded on the counter. The hum of the fridge was the only sound. He washed his face, the tap water icy against flushed skin, and collapsed onto his bed. The silence pressed in like a heavy blanket.
For once, it almost felt welcome.
Then—ping.
His monitor, though switched off, flickered to life.
A strange window glowed against the darkness:
[Abyss Requiem – Special Protocol Update]"Congratulations, Zenth. You have completed what no one else could. Access to the True Realm is now unlocked. Enter?"
Riyo blinked, pulse spiking. "…Great. I've officially been hacked by an RPG."
The cursor slid on its own, toward YES.
"Uh, hello? Virus alert? Should I be downloading antivirus or my will right now?"
The screen pulsed, flooding the room in harsh white light. His bag of groceries blurred, the city's hum vanished. The last sound was the bark of the stray dog outside.
Everything dissolved into cascading light.
Riyo had just cleared the unbeatable game.And now—
The game had cleared him.