"Welcome back to the qualification finals of the International Tournament for the MOBA game, Legends of Heroes. Today, millions of players are competing for a fifty-million-dollar prize. I'm your host—"
Landen tapped her face on the screen. "The lovely Melinda StarFrost—the most beautiful girl in the world." Tiny hearts flashed in his eyes for half a second before he snapped his attention back to the game.
Inside his small studio apartment, Landen Thorne sat alone. The cold blue glow of his monitor painted shadows across his face, and the steady, rhythmic clicking of his mouse echoed through the room—slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat.
One monitor displayed Legends of Heroes, while the other streamed the International Tournament qualification finals—the very match he was playing in. Watching the official broadcast during a match was grounds for immediate disqualification.
Landen didn't care. Not because he wanted to gain an unfair advantage, but because he wanted to hear Melinda's voice and pretend she was there with him. It was a strange obsession he had developed over the years.
"We got this…" a voice spoke through his headphones. "Everyone, get the Red Dragon. Landen, rotate over. We need you."
He didn't respond. His full attention was on his favorite hero, Zephyr Knight—a versatile swordsman capable of filling nearly any role: jungle assassin, roaming support tank, farming lane ADC, or solo-lane frontline fighter. Right now, Zephyr was in the bottom lane, pushing into the opponent's base.
"Uh, Landen, are you there?"
"Quiet!" He snapped. The word came out sharp, sharper than he meant it to. "I can't hear Melinda over your yapping."
A long pause on the line.
"Are you serious right now—"
"Landen, are you going to rotate over or not?"
The silence stretched. They waited. He let them wait.
"So the rumors are true," someone muttered, "he really is cursed by the International Champions."
Landen clicked his teeth.
"First of all, don't question the best player in the world. You're lucky to have me as your captain. Just follow my lead, stay quiet, and don't feed. If you want to win, go back to the base and wait for me."
A thud was heard, and the line went silent. Finally, he could play and listen to the broadcast in peace.
At the top of the leaderboard was a single name — Landen Thorne.
Every season, the rankings reset, but Landen Thorne always held the top spot. He had held that position for years, and no one had ever come close to surpassing him. Known as the Lone Knight for his solo-queue spam of Zephyr Knight, his identity remained a mystery—no one knew what he looked like or where he came from. But everyone knew his name. To the community, he was a legend, widely regarded as the greatest player ever to play the game.
But there was one thing that he had never done, and that was to play in the International Tournament. It wasn't that he didn't try, because oh, did he try.
At one point, every top-tier team had invited him to play for them, but no matter which roster he joined, the team always fell short of qualifying. The community couldn't understand how a player of his caliber kept losing, and eventually rumors spread that he was cursed by the International Champions.
However, the truth was far simpler: Landen was a terrible team player. Whether it was ego or pride, he refused to follow orders. He played however he wanted, regardless of what the team captain said. And with that, no team wanted to play with him.
But this year was going to be different. This time, Landen built the team himself- Team Thorne—a roster of random pub players, and for the first time, he was the captain.
"I'm taking the tower," said Landen. "Someone push top, then push mid after you guys finish the dragon."
There was no response.
The only voice he heard now was Melinda and her co-host, Puppey.
"Team Thorne has taken the dragon," Melinda said, "and Landen is almost done destroying the bottom tower. It sure seems like they are pulling farther and farther away. Another easy win for them."
"I wouldn't go so far as to call it over yet," Puppey said. "One kill on Landen and they could easily turn it around."
Landen smiled at her words all the same. She was always rooting for him. She didn't know him, had never met him, but still—she believed. And that meant something.
However, his smile didn't last long.
He glanced at the minimap. His team had pushed deep into the enemy jungle—the exact opposite of what he'd told them to do.
"Fall back." His voice was calm.
Nothing.
"Hey. Listen to me. Fall back. Now."
Still nothing.
"Can they not hear me?"
He tapped his mic. Clicked through his settings. Spoke again.
Silence.
He ducked underneath his desk, crouching in the tangle of cables and power strips, running his fingers along each connection until he found the one that felt loose.
"Something is wrong," Melinda said on stream, her brow furrowing as she leaned toward her monitor.
"What is it?" Puppey asked.
"Landen's character isn't moving. Did Landen disconnect?"
"Maybe it's one of his taunts. You know how he gets when he's feeling himself."
But it wasn't a taunt.
Landen was on his knees, flashlight clamped between his teeth, squinting at the back of his PC tower. He pulled out his jack and shoved it back in — then looked back at the monitor.
His stomach dropped.
DG was gone. Their entire team was missing from the map, which meant only one thing: they were already in position. Already moving.
He lunged from under the desk, half-falling back into his chair, and reached across his keyboard to activate his teleport.
"He's trying to recall home?" Melinda said, leaning forward. "What is he thinking?"
Puppey shook his head. "Teleportation has a seven-second animation time. He's not going to make it."
They were right. He didn't even make it halfway through the animation before DG collapsed on him from four directions simultaneously. One second of existence. Then death.
Landen stared at the death recap.
Then he noticed it—a small red slash cutting through his microphone icon in the corner of his screen. His team had muted him.
"It's going to be fifty seconds before he respawns," Melinda said. "But fortunately for him, his team has the dragon. We'll see if it's enough to end it. Without Landen, it's going to be tough."
The dragon barreled towards DG's base, Team Thorne's four remaining players jogging behind it like they were following a plan. They weren't. Landen could see it—no formation, no positioning, no coordination. They were just chasing.
"RETREAT!" He slammed his fist on the desk, rattling his keyboard. "YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! RETREAT NOW!"
The mute icon stared back at him.
"Team Thorne's minions are now attacking DG's mid tower," Melinda narrated. "And here comes the dragon."
"Wow—DG took down that dragon faster than expected."
Team Thorne's four players froze. Fight or fall back? The hesitation lasted less than two seconds, but in a professional match, two seconds was a lifetime. Three of them started retreating. One didn't. One—their support tank, a player who had been in the scene for eight years and should have known better—leapt into the center of DG's clustered formation and activated his ultimate into empty space.
"Oh no! Team Thorne's support tank jumped into the middle of Team DG and completely missed his ultimate! Melinda's voice pitched upward, disbelief cracking through her professional composure. "What a mistake! He just threw away his life, and now—one by one—they're getting picked off! It's a disaster! A complete team wipe in favor of Team DG!"
Landen had his hands pressed flat against his desk to stop himself from putting them through the monitor.
"I don't think they recover from this," Puppey said quietly.
"It sure doesn't look good for Team Thorne," Melinda agreed, forcing herself back into broadcaster mode. "And now, they're rushing mid to try to end it. What happened back there, Puppey?"
"Team Thorne thought they were in the lead—but really only Landen was. The rest of the team was under-farmed, under-leveled. With it being four versus five, Thorne never had a chance. This is what happens when you put a bunch of random pub players against professionals. And now it's going to cost them."
He paused.
"I believe DG will end it here."
"But look at Landen's respawn timer," Melinda said. "He's coming back in ten seconds."
"Do you really think Landen can hold his own against five?"
Melinda pressed her lips together. Then, quietly—almost to herself:
"I believe… he can."
Landen's expression shifted from despair to joy.
"Thanks for believing in me, love."
Four seconds.
"Here is the last wave of minions," Melinda said.
Three…
"They're in Thorne's base at the edge of the last tower."
Two…
"It's gonna be close."
One…
The world outside the screen didn't exist. Not the apartment, not the failed team, not the fifty-million-dollar prize or the twenty million viewers or the career that hinged on the next two minutes of his life.
Only the game.
"Here comes Landen!"
He processed the battlefield in the span of a breath: DG's tank and fighter side by side, pushing forward too aggressively. Their mage and marksman are hanging back, unprotected. The assassin — fifth member, nowhere visible.
Flanking. Has to be.
He positioned himself at the exact edge of tower range and stood still.
"What is he doing?" Puppey said.
DG's frontline stepped in. They committed. They lunged.
Too predictable.
He blinked away. Their stuns hit nothing but air.
Landen blinked — a short-range teleport, perfectly timed — and both stuns tore through empty air where he'd been standing a tenth of a second before. He reappeared behind their backline like a ghost stepping out of fog, and before the mage or marksman could react, they were dead.
"DOUBLE KILL!"
He was already scanning. Still no assassin.
There.
He lashed out blindly behind him, his blade catching the assassin mid-stride.
"TRIPLE KILL!"
The tank and fighter, both hurt, both furious, charged at him with everything they had left.
But this time, Landen didn't move.
He just stood there, taunting them.
"Landen is absorbing all of their attacks!" Melinda yelled. "They don't have enough damage!"
He waited until the exact moment both their cooldowns expired, and both their resources were dry. Then his character raised its head and roared—and golden light erupted from his skin like a second sun, blinding and enormous.
He leapt into the air and came crushing down like a meteor.
"THEY CAN'T BEAT HIM!"
QUADRAKILL!
"THEY CAN'T BEAT HIM!"
PENTAKILL!
"A PENTAKILL FOR LANDEN! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! HE DID IT! ONE VERSUS FIVE AND HE WIPED THEM ALL!"
The studio erupted. Puppey had both hands over his head. Melinda was on her feet.
"That's why he's number one," Puppey said. "That's why they call him the Legend."
Landen leaned back in his chair and looked at the viewer count in the corner of his stream tab.
Twenty-one million, three hundred thousand, and climbing.
"Twenty million viewers just witnessed the greatest solo comeback in history," he said, smiling.
Then he looked back at the screen, and his smile died.
He'd forgotten to clear the minion wave.
A line of enemy minions was already marching toward his base, uncontested, ticking down toward his tower like a slow fuse.
He calculated instantly. Could he turn back in time? No. Could he clear and then push? No. Could he end it before they hit?
Maybe.
He had to try.
"I think he's okay," Melinda said, reading his movements.
"I don't know." Puppey's voice was tight. "One hit to Thorne's tower from those minions, and it's GG. He might have cost himself the match."
"Landen is dashing forward — straight into DG's base — and he's on their crystal now—"
"But the minions have entered Thorne's base. They're approaching the tower—"
"It's going to be close!"
"Come on Landen!" Melinda yelled.
Landen was leaning forward now, nearly touching the monitor, his mouse moving in short, efficient bursts.
"I'm coming, Melinda."
"AAAAHHHH—"
The crystal exploded.
White light swallowed the screen.
VICTORY.
He won. He actually won.
Landen launched himself onto his bed, arms thrown wide, voice cracking as he yelled at the ceiling. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving.
Then the lights went out.
Not just the monitor. Everything.
Total darkness. Total silence.
A strange weightlessness passed through him, there and gone in a single heartbeat, like the drop at the top of a roller coaster.
Before his vision returned, he felt it—a cool breeze where there definitely shouldn't have been one.
Cold air hit him from every direction, and he felt, with sudden and terrible clarity, that he was standing up — and that the floor beneath him was not his floor.
His vision returned. He blinked.
Above him stretched a sky the color of a bruise: deep violet threaded with indigo, no sun, no moon, no stars he recognized. Buildings rose around him in shapes that made no architectural sense — towers of glass that twisted as they climbed, suspended walkways crossing between them at impossible angles, neon signs written in alphabets he'd never seen. The street he stood on was wide and pale, some kind of material that wasn't asphalt or concrete, and vehicles were moving through it at speed — sleek, silent things that hovered an inch above the surface and banked around corners like fish.
One of them screamed past him and laid on its horn.
He was standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by strange buildings unlike anything he had ever seen before.
This wasn't his room.
This was an unfamiliar city.
A different world.
"What the hell? Where am I?"