I let out a sigh so heavy it probably lowered the property value of the entire hallway as I fumbled with my keys like a drunk squirrel. Finally, I managed to unlock the door to my "sanctuary"—and by sanctuary, I mean this glorified cardboard box I call an apartment.
I stepped inside, and it was pitch black. Not just "oh, the lights are off" dark, but "I've accidentally entered a void where time and space cease to exist" dark.
"I'm home!" I chirped into the abyss.
Silence.
Which, honestly, shouldn't have been a surprise considering the only thing waiting for me in there was probably a family of dust bunnies planning a coup. I live alone. My social life is about as populated as a ghost town during a plague.
I slapped the light switch, and the room flickered to life, revealing my "decorating style," which is best described as "Hurricane Chic." It's a simple place, sure, but it's messy enough that a forensic team would probably just give up and go home.
I had just crawled back from an eSports tournament, and let's be real: calling me a "pro" is a massive insult to people who actually win things. My team managed to snag 8th place. Out of eight teams. Yeah, we're essentially the participation trophy kings. If losing were an Olympic sport, I'd be draped in gold right now.
But hey, as far as "jobs" go, it's not the worst way to slowly lose your mind. I'm flying solo, and surviving on a diet of 90% instant ramen hasn't killed me yet. My stomach lining is basically made of dried noodles and sodium at this point, but I've gotten used to the lifestyle. It's not much, but it's mine.
My parents basically look at me like I'm a human personification of a "404 Error" page because, apparently, being "chronically lazy" isn't an aspirational career path.
Meanwhile, my siblings treat me like I'm some sort of cryptid they found in the woods—I'm "too weird" for them, which is rich coming from people who find TikTok dances "intellectually stimulating."
And friends? Yeah, right. My social skills are about as functional as a screen door on a submarine. I'm antisocial by choice—mostly because the "outside world" has terrible graphics and the NPCs are way too aggressive.
I shuffled over to my desk, my true throne of solitude, and slapped the power button on my PC. The hum of the fans sounded like a choir of angels—if those angels were slightly dusty and prone to overheating.
I fired up my favorite RPG, the ultimate psychological band-aid for the absolute FPS nightmare I just crawled out of.
Seriously, after getting my head clicked on by seventeen-year-olds with the reflexes of a caffeinated mongoose for twelve hours, I needed something slow.
This is the cycle. This is the "Main Quest" of my pathetic existence: I play games to forget that I'm a functional failure, then I occasionally drag my sunlight-deprived carcass outside to "compete" in tournaments.
Let's be honest, the event managers probably only let our team in because they have a legal requirement to provide comedy relief.
They see us coming and think, "Aw, look at these losers, let's give 'em the participation fee so they can afford another week of sodium poisoning." It's charity disguised as competition.
The second the loading screen vanished, I was gone. Brain: off. Immersion: 100%. I stared at my character—a Gunslinger, decked out in a long coat and custom iron at his hips that looked cooler than my entire real-life wardrobe.
Gunslingers don't need parties. They don't need constant babysitting from healers or tanks screaming about aggro. They live on the edge of the fight, lining up clean shots from a distance, surviving off precision, timing, and nerves of steel.
While everyone else huddles in a five-man squad arguing about strategy, I'm already three moves ahead—alone, steady, efficient.
No guild drama. No "wait up." No "can you share loot?" Just me, the open field, and whatever unlucky enemy steps into my sights.
"Man, if only real life rewarded staying out of group chats," I muttered to the glowing monitor.
If solitude were a stat, I'd have it maxed out.
I was knee-deep in some high-level existential dread, basically spiraling into a black hole of my own making, when suddenly this notification popped up on my monitor. It didn't just "appear"; it slapped me across the face. It was huge, hogging my screen like an uninvited guest at a party who eats all the chips and refuses to leave.
The thing was a total minimalist's dream—just a plain, boring box of text with a font so basic it looked like it was written by a robot with zero personality. In all my years of being a professional screen-starer, I'd never seen a pop-up like this. It didn't look like a virus, but it definitely felt like my computer was trying to tell me a secret.
The box read: "One of the administrator of Eteria: The Land of Endless Dungeon, has heard your voice and decided to invite you to participate."
I blinked. Then I blinked again. "Is this a prank? Or am I finally losing my marbles because my blood is currently 70% MSG and I haven't eaten a vegetable since the Bush administration?" I asked the empty room.
"Eteria?" I repeated, the word tasting like a weird mix of hype and confusion.
As soon as the sound left my mouth, the box reacted. The font shifted, turning all fancy and dramatic, like it was suddenly trying to sell me a luxury car. "The land of glory and power," it boasted. "Where everything is for you to achieve, as long as you are strong enough to get it."
Suddenly, my brain decided to do a "Greatest Hits" compilation of every single time life has kicked me in the teeth.
It was like a mental slideshow from hell. I'm talking about that one girl from second grade—the one I had a massive crush on—who found out and decided her life mission was to bully me into a state of permanent social hibernation.
I wonder if she's out there somewhere, still ruining people's vibes for sport.
Then came the memories of my parents, whose favorite hobby was reminding me that my GPA was lower than their expectations, calling me "useless" like it was my middle name.
And don't even get me started on the judgmental stares from randoms who think "professional gamer" is just code for "unemployed basement dweller."
But the cherry on top? The streamer I used to simp for. I beat her in a one-on-one Tekken set—legitimately, no cheese—and she responded by roasting me in front of her entire chat, making me the laughingstock of the internet for a solid week.
Honestly, if the world were a restaurant, I'd be demanding a refund because my service has been absolutely garbage.
The text box on the screen flickered again, sounding like a narrator who's way too into his job. "Are you ready to claim your glory in another world, Arthur Gray?"
I froze. It knew my name. That's either some top-tier stalker energy or I'm actually the protagonist of some weird digital prophecy.
I looked at the "Accept" button. It was sitting there, glowing with the confidence of a winning lottery ticket.
"Eteria, huh?" I muttered, my hand trembling just a little on the mouse. "Alright, let's see if you're actually the real deal or just a very elaborate virus that's about to brick my PC. Show me what you've got."
I slammed that left-click like I was hitting the 'skip' button on a triple-unskippable YouTube ad.
The moment the click registered, I felt it. This wasn't just a game update; this was a total system reboot of my entire existence.