The glow from the monitor was the only light in the room.
Leo slumped into his chair, the weariness of a ten-hour data entry shift clinging to him like a second skin. His apartment was quiet, dark, and messy. Takeout containers littered the desk beside a state-of-the-art VR rig—his one splurge in a life of monotonous routine.
Just one more quest, he thought, the familiar mantra of every tired gamer. Then sleep.
He pulled the sleek headset on. The world of his cramped bedroom dissolved into a starfield of booting sequences. Luminescent text materialized in the center of his vision:
[WORLD OF ASCENT - FINAL BETA]
[SOUL RESONANCE PROTOCOL INITIATED]
"Here we go," Leo muttered, his voice the only sound in the real world he was leaving behind.
The character creation suite was breathtaking. Panoramic vistas of floating islands, deep dwarven mines, and sun-drenched elven forests cycled around him. He'd read the hype. World of Ascent wasn't just another VRMMO; it was supposed to be a revolution in immersive experience. The "Soul Resonance System" promised unique skill paths based on player choices.
A calm, androgynous voice filled his ears. "Welcome, Traveler. To shape your journey, we must first listen to the echo of your soul. Please answer freely."
Text prompts appeared, one by one.
A vast treasure lies before you. Do you:
A) Share it with all.
B) Hoard it for yourself.
C) Use it to build something eternal.
Leo smirked. Building something sounds like work. But hoarding? Classic villain move. He had no idea. He clicked C on a whim.
When faced with a mighty foe, is your strength drawn from:
A) The warmth of allies at your back.
B) Righteous fury in your heart.
C) The cold, quiet certainty of victory.
Warmth? Righteousness? Please. He clicked C.
What endures when all else fades?
A) Love.
B) Memory.
C) Hunger.
The options gave him pause. They were oddly philosophical for a game. Love is cheesy. Memory… fades. A dark, playful thought crossed his mind. Hunger never stops. It's the most honest thing there is. He selected C.
The questions continued. A dozen in total. He chose answers that spoke of legacy, of order imposed on chaos, of a will that consumed to grow stronger. He wasn't thinking about his soul. He was thinking about building a cool, powerful character. The final prompt appeared.
SELECT YOUR MANIFEST FORM.
The glorious races appeared. Human, with bonuses to adaptability. Elf, attuned to nature. Dwarf, resilient and sturdy. Then, the exotic options. Beastkin. Draconian. And finally, at the bottom, a category marked with a subtle, dark border: Revenant.
He expanded it. Sub-races flickered: Ghoul, Specter, Lich, Skeleton Lord.
"Skeleton Lord," Leo read aloud, a grin spreading on his face. The image was iconic—a skeletal warrior in shattered plate armor, wreathed in faint, dark energy. The flavor text read: A being of pure will, unbound by flesh. Masters of necrotic energy. Hated by the living. Feared by the dead.
It was the edgiest, most metal option available. Perfect for a stress-relief playthrough. He could be a hero in his main game. Here, he would be a cool, spooky overlord.
His finger hovered over the selection. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the virtual space. He didn't notice.
"Let's do it."
He clicked Skeleton Lord Variant.
A final confirmation box materialized, pulsating gently.
MANIFEST FORM: SKELETON LORD (UNDEAD)
SOUL RESONANCE: CATACLYSMIC-GRADE SYNCHRONIZATION
PROCEED? [YES] / [NO]
Cataclysmic-grade? Awesome bonus stats, he thought, his tired mind glossing over the strange wording. This was just flavor text. Cool flavor text.
He moved the cursor.
And clicked [YES].
The world didn't fade to a loading screen.
It shattered.
The panoramic vistas, the soft music, the calm voice—all of it cracked like broken glass and fell away into an infinite, silent white. Leo wasn't in his chair anymore. He wasn't anywhere. He was a point of awareness adrift in a void of pure, blinding nothing.
What… what is this? A bug?
Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at his mind. He tried to move his arms, to reach for the headset. He had no arms to move. He tried to scream. He had no mouth.
ERROR.
CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL BREACH.
SOUL VESSEL IDENTIFIED. COMPATIBILITY WITH SEALED MYTHIC HEIRLOOM «AHAMKARA»: 99.7%.
The words weren't read. They were branded directly onto his consciousness. The font was wrong—jagged, stark, and bleeding at the edges. It wasn't game UI. It was a verdict.
NO. NO, NO, NO! His thoughts screamed in the silent prison. Log out! Disconnect! CANCEL!
BONDING PROTOCOL INITIATED. IRREVERSIBLE.
A sensation began. It started as a chill, then deepened into a cold so absolute it burned. It wasn't the cold of ice or wind. It was the cold of absence. The absence of heat, of life, of light. It poured into the core of his being, filling spaces he never knew he had.
He felt something awaken inside him. Something vast, ancient, and endlessly, terribly hungry. It uncoiled in the void where his heart should be.
A whisper echoed, not in his ears, but in the very fabric of his soul. It was the sound of a billion teeth grinding against stone, of a bottomless void sighing.
"The feast begins…"
Then, the white void collapsed in on itself.
Sensation.
It returned in a violent, discordant rush. But it was all wrong.
He felt pressure against his back. Hard, unyielding, and damp. He felt vibration through that pressure—a subtle, distant thrum in the stone.
He tried to gasp for air. His chest hitched. Nothing happened. No breath rushed in. No lungs expanded. A silent, frantic spasm echoed through a body that no longer obeyed the laws of life.
Breathe! BREATHE!
He couldn't.
He forced his eyes open. He had no eyes.
Vision sparked into being—a stark, monochrome field of grays. No color. Just shades of darkness and pale light. He saw through two fixed points on his face. The world was flat, depth perceived by some alien, instinctual calculation.
He was staring up at a cracked, vaulted ceiling. Moss hung in thick, dark clumps. Water dripped somewhere in the distance. Plink. Plink. Plink.
Move. You have to move.
He willed his head to turn. A loud, grating CREAK echoed in the silent chamber. The sound came from him. His vision swiveled, janky and stiff, to look down the length of his body.
A skeleton.
A human skeleton, bleached white, lay sprawled on the cold stone. It wore the tattered remains of a dark linen tunic and trousers. No flesh. No muscle. No skin. Just bone, joint, and the empty space between.
He saw the bony cage of a ribcown. He saw the twin columns of his femur lying against the stone. He saw the complex, terrifying architecture of his own skeletal hands.
This isn't real. This is a dream. A nightmare. The headset is stuck. I'm in my chair. I'm in my chair!
He commanded his right hand to rise. To pinch himself awake.
With a series of brittle clicks and pops, the skeletal fingers twitched. Then, the whole arm lifted, jerking into the air. He watched it, a puppet operated by a terrified mind. He rotated the wrist. Five skeletal digits clattered softly against each other.
Horror, pure and undiluted, flooded him. It had no chemical rush of adrenaline, no pounding heart. It was a silent, screaming ice that locked his every thought.
A new text etched itself into the gray world, superimposed over his vision. It was simple. Clean. A statement of fact.
[Mythic Skill: Ahamkara - The Soul-Eater's Mantle - Online.]
[Welcome, Sovereign.]
Before he could process the words, before the true weight of 'Sovereign' could land, a new sensation cut through the paralyzing terror.
Sound.
A soft, skittering noise. Like claws on stone.
It came from the darkness to his left, beyond a collapsed pillar. His new vision, sharp and contrast-heavy, picked out movement in the deep shadows.
One pair of pinprick red lights ignited.
Then a second.
Then a third.
Low, chittering growls filled the chamber. The sounds were hungry.
From the shadows, three creatures emerged. They were the size of large cats, but built like rats from a nightmare. Their fur was matted and black, their tails long and whip-like. Their mouths were full of needle-sharp teeth that gleamed in the dim light. Their eyes burned with a faint, malevolent red glow.
Gloom Rats.
[Level 2 - Dungeon Vermin]
The information floated into his mind unbidden, a function of the Mantle he now bore.
The lead rat sniffed the air, its nose twitching. It looked directly at him—at the bright, potent, and vulnerable soul-energy shining within the new skeleton on the floor.
It hissed.
All three lowered their bodies, muscles coiling.
Leo's mind, frozen solid, shattered into one crystalline, driving command.
MOVE.
He tried to scramble back, to get his feet under him. His limbs were unfamiliar, uncoordinated. His leg bones scraped against the stone, pushing him back an inch.
It was too slow.
The lead rat let out a final, high-pitched shriek of hunger.
And all three charged.
Their claws scrabbled against the stone floor, a rapid tik-tik-tik-tik that echoed through the tomb-like chamber. The red pinpricks of their eyes became streaks of light as they closed the distance in seconds.
The last thing Leo saw was the gaping, needle-filled maw of the first rat, leaping through the air toward his exposed skull.
The sound of skittering claws was all around him.