Lucas Rowan's fingers danced across his mechanical keyboard in a symphony of practiced clicks. The glow of his triple monitors was the only light in his apartment, the only sun he recognized. On screen, the final boss of the new *Eternal Dominion* expansion, a great obsidian scorpion named 'Vorax the Endless Hunger,' shuddered with its last pixel of health.
"And... there!" Lucas announced to the empty room, a half-eaten protein bar clamped in his teeth. "Solo clear. No micro-transactions, no party, just pure, optimized gameplay. The forums said it was impossible. Who's impossible now, huh?"
The victory fanfare blared. He leaned back in his ergonomic throne, a wave of tired satisfaction washing over him. He'd done it. A perfect, 72-hour run. His celebration would be glorious: a fresh pot of cheap coffee and maybe a change of sweatpants.
Then, the world ended.
Not with a bang, but with a **blip**.
Every light, every screen, every hum of electronics in his apartment died at once, plunging him into a silence so deep it felt like physical pressure. The constant, distant murmur of the city outside vanished.
"You have GOT to be kidding me!" Lucas yelled into the sudden dark, his voice too loud. "The loot! I didn't even open the legendary chest! This is the worst server crash in history! I'm filing a complaint so detailed they'll—"
The sky *screamed*.
It wasn't a sound he heard with his ears. It was a vibration in his teeth, a wrongness in his bones. He stumbled to the window, his heart hammering, and peeled back a slat of his blackout blind.
The world outside was a broken game asset. The sky was a swirling, bruise-colored vortex. From its depths, jagged, geometric shapes—things that looked like shattered stained-glass windows and twisted rebar—were falling, crashing into the downtown skyline with silent, distant flashes.
"Okay," he breathed, his knuckles white on the windowsill. "Okay. Mass hallucination. Contaminated tap water. Maybe I finally cracked from the caffeine. This is just a very creative, very stressful mental breakdown. Noted, brain. Can we reboot now?"
Agony, sharp and cold and utterly *digital*, lanced through his skull.
`[WORLD-SYSTEM] Integration of [Earth: Designation-Sanctuary-7] commencing.`
`[ERROR] Cataclysmic Protocol Engaged.`
`Designating viable bio-mass as [Players].`
`Scanning User… Lucas Rowan. Neural architecture compatible. Assigning Class…`
"No! Cancel! Alt-F4! Task manager!" Lucas shouted, pressing his palms to his temples as if he could physically stop the install. "I do not accept your terms and conditions! Where is the privacy policy?!"
`Class Assigned: [CHAINLORD] (Unique Variant)`
`Analysis: User exhibits profound aptitude for systemic exploitation, high tolerance for social isolation, and a deeply ingrained preference for controlling unpredictable variables. An optimal fit.`
"A preference for controlling—I just like it when my game follows the rules I read on the wiki!" he protested, outraged. "This is a slanderous personality quiz!"
`Unique Sovereign Skill Granted: [ABSOLUTE SUBJUGATION]`
`Description: Upon reducing a monstrous or sapient entity's will or health to a critical threshold, you may forge a [Soul Chain], binding it as your [Thrall]. Binding is permanent. Capacity is limited by your mental fortitude. With each Thrall forged, you steal a fragment of their nature, gaining a weakened version of one of their abilities. The Thrall retains the original skill at full strength.`
`Current Capacity: [0/3].`
`Primary Objective: Survive the 24-Hour Tutorial Phase.`
`Secondary Objective: Forge your first Chain. Rewards: Increased Capacity, System Credits.`
Lucas stared, slack-jawed. The text hovered, partially obscuring his very nice, tasteful poster of a forest elf warrior.
"A... a slave skill?" he whispered, horrified. "With... skill theft? That's not just unethical, that's copyright infringement! The legal precedent is a nightmare! Do you understand the class-action lawsuit you're setting me up for? Not to mention the social anxiety of—"
His panic manifesto was cut short by a new sound. Not from the sky. From his door.
*Scratch-scratch-scuffle.*
A wet, snuffling noise. Something was in the hallway. And it sounded... curious.
"Oh, come on," Lucas moaned, sinking lower in his chair. "Can't a guy have a quiet, existential crisis in peace?"
***THUD.***
His apartment door—a solid, steel-reinforced slab he'd installed for "maximum privacy"—shuddered in its frame. A dent the size of a dinner plate appeared in the metal from the outside.
"My security deposit!" Lucas wailed, genuine financial pain cutting through the apocalyptic dread.
***THUD-CRUNCH.***
The deadbolt shrieked. The metal around the lock twisted. With a final, metallic groan, the door was wrenched inward, hanging crookedly on its hinges.
In the doorway stood... a mound. A shuffling, damp collection of what looked like discarded fast-food bags, sodden newspapers, and moldy carpet scraps, vaguely shaped like a large, clumsy dog. Two pinpricks of sickly green light glowed from within its trash-heap face. It dripped a suspicious brown fluid onto his welcome mat.
`[Entity: Detritus Lurker (Lesser)]`
`Level: 1`
`Health: 30/30`
`Disposition: Hungry, Confused.`
`Skills: [Trash Camouflage] - Can blend in with urban debris. [Minor Corrosion] - Attacks degrade low-quality materials.`
`Note: Highly susceptible to fire. Its core is a compacted ball of flammable grease and paper near its center.`
Lucas's mind, trained by thousands of hours of identifying boss weak points, latched onto the information. *Weak to fire. Core in center. Skills... huh.*
The Lurker gurgled and took a lurching step inside, its trash-body rustling.
"Stay back!" Lucas yelped, scrambling to his feet and holding up his hands. "I'm armed with... with poor life choices and student debt! I'm not worth the trouble!"
The monster lurched again, faster now. Lucas stumbled backward, his heel catching on a stray USB cable. He fell hard on his backside, the breath knocked out of him. The Lurker loomed over him, its maw of wet cardboard and crushed aluminum cans opening wide.
*Fire. Fire!* His eyes, wide with terror, darted around his apartment—his cluttered sanctuary. They landed on his desk. His USB-powered cup warmer, its little orange 'on' light still glowing from a built-in battery. Next to it, a half-empty bottle of cheap, high-proof hand sanitizer.
A plan formed. It wasn't a hero's plan. It was a desperate, lazy man's plan—the kind born from trying to toast a bagel without getting out of your chair.
As the Lurker leaned down, he grabbed the only thing within reach: a heavy, hardcover strategy guide from his desk. He hurled it. The book thudded against the creature's side, doing no damage but making it pause, its glowing eyes shifting toward the new object.
In that second of distraction, Lucas scrambled crablike across the floor, grabbed the hand sanitizer, and squeezed. A gout of clear gel splattered over the Lurker's central mass. The creature gurgled, confused by the smell.
His heart pounding in his throat, Lucas lunged for the wall, yanking the cup warmer's cord from its socket. The glowing orange coil was hot to the touch. Holding it like a bizarre offering, he looked at the gelatinous mess on the monster, then at the coil.
"Please work," he whimpered. "Please be the cheap, flammable kind."
He jammed the hot coil into the sanitizer-soaked trash.
There was a **POP**, a flash of sparks, and then a soft, definitive *WHOOSH* as the alcohol ignited.
`CRITICAL WEAKNESS EXPLOITED!`
`[Detritus Lurker Health: 3/30]`
`Status: Burning, Terrified, Will Broken.`
The Lurker wasn't a threat anymore. It was a small, pathetic, and very smelly campfire, flailing silently in the middle of his living room, making a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion.
`<< Target Vulnerable. Activate [ABSOLUTE SUBJUGATION]? Y/N >>`
Lucas stared at the burning pile of garbage. It was Level 1. It had a skill called `[Trash Camouflage]`. What would that even do for him? Let him hide in a dumpster? Still, the prompt said *Rewards*. And his door was gone.
"Look," he said to the whimpering fire. "This is a terrible partnership. I have trust issues and a questionable diet. But the blue box says I get a bonus, and frankly, I need a win today."
He took a smoke-tainted breath. With a feeling of profound foolishness, he mentally whispered, **"...Yes."**
A sensation, cold and heavy, unspooled from the center of his chest. A single link of shimmering, golden chain—so thin it was almost a thread—shot out and *tapped* the core of the burning Lurker.
The fire snuffed out instantly. The charred, dripping mess of trash collapsed in on itself, shimmered, and reformed. It was now a neat, foot-tall stack of three thick, leather-bound books, covered in faint, glowing runes. Two green, gentle lights peered out from between the pages like eyes. It sat obediently by his foot.
`[ABSOLUTE SUBJUGATION] Successful!`
`Thrall Acquired: [Detritus Lurker] -> Designation Updated: [Tome-Hound 'Scribbles'].`
`Bond Established. Capacity: 1/3 Thralls.`
`Soul-Theft Initiated... Scanning Thrall's Abilities...`
`Ability [Trash Camouflage] detected.`
`Extracting Skill-Shard... Integrating at [Level 1]...`
`New Passive Skill Acquired: [Ambient Meld - Lvl 1] - When motionless amidst clutter or debris, you become slightly harder to notice. Effect scales with Perception of observer and your own focus.`
`Tutorial Objective Updated: Survive until dawn. Your Thrall will assist.`
`Reward: 50 System Credits.`
A tingling warmth spread through Lucas's body, followed by a strange, instinctual *knowing*. It was like a muscle he never knew he had. He looked at his cluttered apartment and had a sudden, clear sense that if he stood very still by that pile of laundry, someone might just glance right over him.
"Whoa," he breathed, flexing his mental grip on the new skill. It was weak, barely there, but it was *his*. He'd stolen it. Or... borrowed it permanently without a return policy.
He looked at Scribbles. Scribbles stared back (he assumed).
"...Can you fetch me a soda from the fridge?" Lucas asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.
The stack of books waddled on its spine to the kitchen. A moment later, it returned, carefully nudging a cold can of citrus soda across the floor with its... cover? Lucas picked it up. It was cold, beaded with condensation. Real.
He popped the tab and took a long, slow drink, sitting on the floor amid the ruins of his door and his old life. He had a magical slave made of sentient literature. The sky was a broken video file. He could now... hide near garbage a little better.
But he had a cold drink. And he'd just beaten the first "boss" of the apocalypse with office supplies and stolen its power.
He looked at the prompt. `Capacity: 1/3.` One slot filled. Two empty. One weak, weird skill gained.
"Okay, System," he mumbled, a flicker of something other than pure terror in his eyes—a spark of Lloyd-esque, pragmatic scheming. "So that's the game. Beat something, chain it, take its stuff. I can work with that. But we're doing this *my way*. Which means no fighting anything that looks like it goes to the gym."
He eyed the apocalyptic vista through his broken doorway, then looked down at Scribbles, who gave a hopeful little page-rustle.
"Right. Priorities," Lucas sighed, hauling himself to his feet with a groan. "Step one: barricade. Step two: inventory. Step three..." He looked at his new `[Ambient Meld]` skill, then at the monstrous sky. "Test if this garbage-hiding skill works on things that aren't garbage. And hope to God my next Thrall knows how to cook."