Maurice blinked as sunlight sliced through the blinds, the sting forcing his eyes open. He groaned, rolled once, then let his body drop to the floorboards. The wood was cold. Perfect. Palms flat, he sank into push-ups, breath steady.
"Strength isn't inherited," he murmured, voice low with effort. "It's carved into you… one rep at a time. Your weaknesses live at the roots of your labor."
By the thirtieth rep, sweat ticked the floor. He ground through 5×30—arms trembling but relentless. He shifted, balancing on one leg and easing into pistol squats.
"The only rival worth fearing," he exhaled, thighs burning, "is the self you refuse to become."
2×20. Sit-ups followed. Each twist set fire through his core, but he didn't stop. He held a hollow position until his arms and abs shook.
"A day built on discipline," he whispered, "can't be taken apart by chance."
The ground work took twenty-five minutes total. After a quick water break, he moved to the doorway bar to finish: 3×15 strict pull-ups, no swing, clean lockouts.
"Fuel your body, honor your work… and the world will have to honor it too." He squinted, fishing for a half-remembered line. "Those who swing their blade carve their own paths to glory, while those who cower behind a shield—" he frowned—"not knowing what's hitting them? Coming for them? Ugh… don't remember."
When he dropped back to the floor, sweat ran down his jaw. He smirked at nothing in particular. "Damn," he muttered, chest still heaving. "Those old Steel Saga quotes always hit the spot."
By the time his shake was blended, he was lacing his running shoes. He stepped out for a short loop around the neighborhood. His father would already be a few districts away in a high-viz vest—boots clean even in mud—walking the perimeter of a waterworks site with a stack of schedules under his arm. His mother would be in her studio, correcting someone's heel angle with two fingers while hearing complaints about their bodies.
Back home, he fried leftover rice until it crackled and slid an egg across the top. The yolk broke and ran gold through everything. He ate at the counter with his phone propped against the breadbox, steam fogging the bottom of the screen.
A notification apeard on his thread.
Kenji Arakawa — The Developer behind ArenaX
The photo of a mid-forties, lean, a standard black suit man with Dark hair combed back. Rimless glasses. just your average joe but this average joe has accumelated immense status within the gaming world.
The Resume traced a line through a decade: systems designer on a VR shooter with recoil timed to breath; live-ops on a survival sim that made people log in every day for two years because scarcity had rules and the rules felt fair; combat director on a grounded medieval title that never truly left the bloodstream of the players who cared about it. Now ArenaX was his the very first time that he could direct and create a game of his vision and not just be part of something.
The article said the quiet part out loud—Kenji believed that the love he had created for creating fighting games. Made him believe that the more freedom you have to invent yourself inside the game, will make you feel more seen and confident when results are being booked by sheer creativity and effort.
In the fourth paragraph a name slid out of the text and caught Maurice in a nostalgic sense.
Steel Saga.
He didn't tap the embedded trailer. He didn't need to. He could still see the bronze-polished shield that served as the login mirror, see the version of himself the game returned.
-- Author pov--
While not explained yet but in this Vr games you can create one avatar per account and that avatar that you created will look about 70% of the time the same over multiple games. So for example in Arenax where the race already known as elfs are being shown. While your character may look like and elf there, your appearance in a racing sim would probably look the same but just human. And ofcourse there are exceptions.
--End Author pov--
A full-dive medieval melee sim—no magic, no ranged, just steel and footwork. You feel weapon weight and balance; guard isn't "high/mid/low," it's wherever you place your blade, with clashes decided by timing, angle, and momentum. Stamina, footing, and bind-friction matter; clean parries ring, bad swings open you up. Modes ran 1v1 to 5v5, with Breach as the signature: invaders escort a ram through gates and choke points toward a throne while defenders burn their timer and banners. Depth comes from feints, shoulder tells, pressure, and space control more than long combos.
Maurice marveled at the thought of Steel Saga ever coming back to the spotlight. Maybe it could return, maybe even break back into the big leagues.
For a second, the idea sparked something warm in him—but it faded just as quickly.
He let out a low sigh.
"…But that won't happen."
Buzz. Buzz.
His phone lit up. Bigforehead.
Maurice swiped lazily and held it to his ear.
"Yo, why're you calling me when you're still in the subway? I can hear the trains screaming behind you."
The voice came chopped by static and screeching brakes.
"Wh—… co… bro—"
Maurice pinched the bridge of his nose. "Couldn't you wait, like, one minute? I can't hear a damn thing."
There was a shuffle, then Diego's voice came through clearer, still loud with energy.
"Yo, sorry. Maurice! Listen—new food spot opened near your mom's studio. Ramen joint. Let's hit it."
Maurice glanced at the clock. Almost noon. His stomach already had an opinion.
"…Fine. Give me fifteen. Since it's ramen, just order ahead. You know my go-tos. Surprise me."
"Bet. I'll hold off a little till you're close. Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
"See you then."
He hung up, tossed his phone into his pocket, and went to grab his jacket.
---
The shop wasn't hard to find. A glowing paper lantern swung lazily in the breeze outside, the smell of broth already seeping onto the street. Maurice spotted Diego through the window—impossible to miss.
Diego always stood out. An albino Puerto Rican with a neat blond beard framing sharp cheekbones, his skin pale enough that it almost glowed under the shop's warm lights. Light blue eyes caught the reflection of the counter glass as he leaned back in his chair, already halfway into conversation with the waiter. Even bald, Diego had a presence—confident, clean, like he'd walked in and decided the whole place was his.
Maurice pushed open the door. "Diego."
His friend turned, that grin breaking across his face. "Took you long enough, bro. I was about to slurp both bowls myself."
Maurice snorted, dropping into the seat across from him. "Wouldn't be the first time you stole my lunch."
"Hey, it's called quality control." Diego smirked, waving the waiter over. "Already ordered for you. Tonkotsu with extra egg. Don't say I don't know your soul."
The bowls landed steaming between them, broth rich and curling into the air. Diego had already cracked his chopsticks before Maurice even sat down.
He slurped a mouthful, leaned back, and pointed at Maurice with his chopsticks. "So. Saw your elf in that highlight reel."
Maurice blinked, feigning confusion. "…What elf?"
Diego's eyes narrowed like he was interrogating him across the table. "Don't play dumb. Violet skin, satchel of bombs, pillars falling like dominoes? Bro, the devs literally looped you three times. You turned Fatty Guapo into confetti and half of South America cried."
Maurice poked at the yolk in his bowl, letting it spill into the broth. "Just some ranked match. Lucky bombs. Doesn't mean anything."
"Ranked?" Diego sat up straight. "Hold on. Ranked ranked?"
Maurice shrugged. "Yeah."
Diego froze, his chopsticks hovering. "…Alright, stop. You gotta tell me what rank."
Maurice leaned back, almost smiling. "Diamond."
The ramen nearly slipped out of Diego's hands. He put the bowl down slowly, staring like Maurice had just admitted to murder. "Wait—Diamond? You mean, above Ruby Diamond?"
Maurice tilted his head. "That's what comes after Ruby, right?"
Diego slammed a palm on the table, the sound rattling the glasses. "Bro. BRO. Do you even understand what that means?"
Maurice lifted a brow. "…Enlighten me."
Diego leaned forward, ticking off fingers like a teacher breaking down scripture. "Okay. Bronze, Silver, Gold—those don't count. That's tutorial land. You play a few weeks, you can climb out with your eyes closed. Then you hit Sapphire, right? That's when people start to get sweaty. Emerald after that, where the grinders live. Then Ruby—Ruby is where the streamers hang out. People who could already build a channel, get clout, maybe even attract scouts if they're flashy enough."
He pointed his chopsticks straight at Maurice. "And you. You're not just in Ruby. You're above Ruby. Diamond. That's where the sharks live, man. That's where you're fighting on par with league players. Some of them don't even touch Diamond outside of scrims!"
Maurice sipped his broth like it was the most boring lecture he'd ever heard. "…Sounds important."
Diego slapped his forehead. "Sounds important, he says. You're ridiculous. Do you know how many kids would sell a kidney to hit Emerald, let alone Ruby? Diamond is—you could go pro off that alone."
Maurice chuckled, setting his chopsticks down. "Guess I'll let them keep dreaming, then."
Diego groaned, loud enough that the waiter gave them a side-eye. "One day, Maurice. One day you're gonna wake up and realize you've been sitting on a golden ticket this whole time. Until then—" he stabbed at his noodles dramatically, "—I'm telling everyone I know that my best friend is secretly Diamond."
Maurice smirked into his bowl. "And I'm telling everyone you've got ramen stains in your beard."
Diego wiped at his chin automatically, then scowled. "Asshole."