Kael Thompson was thirty-five, and his life was a monotonous grind that sucked the soul out of him like a cheap vacuum cleaner. He slaved away as a data entry drone in a faceless corporate hellhole called Apex Solutions, a mid-tier tech firm that peddled software to even bigger assholes. Day in, day out, he hunched over a flickering monitor in a cubicle that smelled like stale coffee and despair, inputting endless spreadsheets while the higher-ups golfed their way to bonuses.
No promotions. No raises. Just the slow, grinding death of routine that left him hollow-eyed and broke.
His apartment was a one-room coffin stuffed with ramen cups, empty beer cans, and the faint smell of regret. He was the kind of man you could pass on the street a thousand times and never remember. No friends, no girlfriend, no one to text "good night." Thirty-five and still a virgin—untouched, unwanted, unnoticed.
His only escape was fiction. Late nights were spent reading web novels on his cracked phone, losing himself in worlds where losers became lords, where effort meant reward. Recently, he'd been hooked on a kingdom-building sim called RealmForge. You started with a barren wasteland and slowly turned it into a thriving empire, micromanaging everything from crop yields to peasant morale.
In that game, Kael wasn't a pushover. He was a ruler. Someone whose choices mattered.
"If only real life had a system like that," he'd mutter to his empty room.
But real life didn't give a damn about systems. It just kept kicking him when he was down.
*****
Tonight was no different—or so it started. The office lights buzzed like angry hornets as Kael clocked in for another twelve-hour shift. His boss, Mr. Hargrove, a pot-bellied tyrant with a comb-over and a voice like gravel, had been riding his ass all week. And why? Because of Mia, the bubbly intern with tits that strained her blouse and a smile that could melt steel. She'd fucked up a major client report—transposed numbers, delayed a deadline, the works. Instead of owning it, she'd batted her lashes at Kael during lunch, her hand brushing his thigh under the table as she leaned in close, her perfume invading his space like a promise.
"Come on, Kael," she'd purred, fingers lingering on his knee, tracing lazy circles that sent his virgin cock twitching in his pants. He was a mess—heart pounding, face flushing, his mind screaming don't be a simp, you idiot. But how could he say no? No one had ever touched him like that, not with intent. "It was just a little mistake. If you fix it for me, I'll make it worth your while. Maybe grab coffee after? Or... something more?" Her foot nudged his under the table, and he could swear she winked, her lips parting just enough to show a glimpse of tongue. Kael's resolve crumbled like wet paper. He nodded, stammering some bullshit about "teamwork," while his dick throbbed and his brain short-circuited. Pathetic, he thought later, but in the moment, it felt like a lifeline.
Now, hours later, Hargrove loomed over Kael's desk, red-faced and spitting. "Thompson! What the hell is this garbage? The client's breathing down my neck because of your screw-up!" The report—Mia's report—sat open on the screen, errors glaring like neon signs. Kael's fingers ached from retyping it all afternoon, but Hargrove didn't care. He never did.
"S-sir, it wasn't—" Kael started, but Hargrove cut him off with a meaty finger jabbed in his face.
"Don't give me excuses! You're the one who submitted it. Fix it, or you're out on your ass. And don't think I don't know you're covering for that slut intern. Grow a spine, Thompson!" Hargrove stormed off, muttering about "useless virgins" under his breath. Kael's cheeks burned. He glanced at Mia across the floor; she blew him a kiss, her hand trailing down her neck suggestively, as if to say thanks, big boy. He turned away, humiliated, his erection from earlier now a sad, deflated reminder of his weakness. Why do I let them walk all over me? But he knew why. He was a pushover, always had been. Easier to take the blame than fight back.
By midnight, the office was a ghost town. Kael saved the corrected file, his eyes gritty, back screaming from the ergonomic nightmare of a chair. He trudged out into the rainy night, the city lights blurring into a smear of neon regret. Too tired to cook—if you could call microwaving his sad excuse for a kitchen "cooking"—he stopped at the corner convenience store. The fluorescent hum matched his mood as he grabbed a steaming cup of instant noodles, the kind with artificial beef flavor that tasted like regret. He slurped it down on a plastic stool outside, rain pattering on the awning, washing away the salt from his tears.
He trudged into the rainy night, neon lights blurring his vision, Mia's touch still burning his thigh. At the corner store, he grabbed a cheap beer, brooding over her whispered promises, her fingers on his cock.
The beer was half gone by the time he reached his apartment—a crumbling building that smelled like damp socks and cigarette ash. Inside, the glow from his paused RealmForge screen illuminated the chaos: messy bed, half-open drawers, dust-coated trophies of neglect.
He kicked off his shoes, not bothering to undress. He drained the last of the beer, the can still half-full from his distracted sips on the walk. Fuck it, he thought, setting it carelessly on the rickety bedside table, right next to the overloaded switchboard with its tangle of cords and a flickering lamp. His head hit the pillow, exhaustion pulling him under like a riptide. In his dreams, he was a lord again—commanding peasants, forging alliances, watching his territory bloom from barren dirt. No bosses, no Mias, just power. Pure, unfiltered power.
He never heard the can tip over. In his sleep, Kael shifted, his arm flailing like a drunk puppet. The aluminum clattered, spilling the remaining beer in a sticky arc. It pooled across the table, seeping into the switchboard's exposed outlets. A spark—tiny at first, then a crackle. The short circuit ignited the alcohol-soaked mess, flames licking up the cords like hungry tongues. Smoke filled the room, acrid and choking, but Kael didn't stir. His virgin lungs, his lonely heart, his pathetic dreams—all consumed in a pathetic blaze of his own making.
Kael Thompson died that night, not in glory or battle, but in the quiet idiocy of carelessness. The fire department called it an accident. The world moved on without him.
But in the void between worlds, something stirred. A soul, untethered, hurtling toward a new dawn—or perhaps a deeper hell. Astraea awaited, with its barren baronies and circling vultures. And for Kael, the game was about to change.