It was a humid afternoon in Tokyo, the kind where the air clung like damp cloth. Outside, sirens wailed like wounded beasts, glass shattered in brittle bursts, and deep, unearthly roars shook the streets. Something catastrophic was unfolding, but Shota Ishikawa, a high schooler with zero interest in the world's tantrums, didn't care. Chaos could seep through his windowpane all it liked—he wouldn't flinch. Instead, he sat cross-legged in his chair, eyes glued to his PC, lost in a game called 'Apocalypse Survival'.
The game was a ruthless blend of modern survival and dark fantasy. Imagine a pixelated Tokyo: neon-lit konbini stripped bare, residential lanes choked with toppled scooters and dying vending machines, all twisted by a sinister edge. Goblins with jagged teeth skulked through foggy alleys, wild wolves with ember eyes prowled, and players fought to endure by scavenging, crafting, and grinding their character's strength and skills. Shota had sunk weeks into it, memorizing loot spawns, nailing barricades, and hoarding resources like a digital dragon.
That afternoon, as the city beyond his room dissolved into chaos, Shota was mid-run. His character trudged through a ransacked minimart, inventory sagging with timber and scrap—materials he'd usually haul to his in-game base, a two-story house he'd fortified with boards and wire.
The screen blinked red: "Encumbered." He slumped back, groaning.
"Stupid weight limit," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
He could've ditched the excess, but his gaze snagged on a button he'd ignored forever: 'Transfer'
It had always been there, lurking in the UI, and he'd dismissed it as a multiplayer feature—some way to shift items to another player or character.
However, there was no one else in 'Apocalypse Survival'—no NPCs, no allies, just his lone character against the chaos. Then with curiosity, he hovered his cursor. A tooltip then flickered:
'Relocate excess resources. Please choose the item.'
Sounded like a stash trick. Curiosity nudged him, and with a lazy click, he selected the timber and scrap, then hit confirm.
Then a sharp, electric whine suddenly sliced through the room, like a power strip shorting out. Then—CRASH—a pile of splintered timber and twisted metal erupted onto his bedroom floor, scattering dust and skidding across the carpet. Shota's chair screeched as he shot upright, heart slamming into his throat.
"What the—?!" he yelped, stumbling back until his calves hit the bed.
The pile was real—planks of rough, pine-scented wood, some still studded with bent nails; scraps of rusted steel, edges glinting in the monitor's blue glow. He blinked furiously, waiting for it to vanish like a glitch in his brain, but it stayed, heavy and undeniable.
"No way," he whispered, crouching to touch a plank.
His fingers brushed coarse grain—solid, cool, impossible. He jerked his hand back, eyes darting to the screen. His character stood lighter now, inventory half-empty. But the game had… crossed over. It was in his room. It was real.
His breath came in shallow bursts as the truth clawed its way up his spine.
"This isn't happening," he said, voice cracking. He grabbed a scrap shard, its weight grounding him even as his mind spun.
"The game… it's not just a game?" He lurched to his desk, slamming the mouse to wake the screen. The UI stared back, looking at him with its normalcy. Then it clicked: if loot could materialize, what about his skills? Magic?
"No freaking way," he said, louder, a wild edge creeping in. He had to know.
Standing, fists clenched, he muttered, "Blaze." Heat surged in his chest, and a flame orb sputtered from his palm. "Oh crap!" he yelped, swatting it out as it singed his desk. His hands trembled. "That's real," he panted.
"What else?" He paced, frantic. "Wind Lash!" A gust ripped through, rattling blinds. He laughed—high, shaky.
"I'm a mage!"
Then he tested "Frost," ice prickling his fingers, then "Shadow Step," flickering forward into his chai.
"This is insane," he gasped, grinning.
But the Shota came to another realization. In the earlier, there was chaos outside. Could it be related to his gaining this power?
That's when he also noticed the silence outside—no more sirens, no screams, just a heavy, unnatural stillness. Frowning, he staggered to the window, peeling back the blinds with a trembling hand.
"What in the hell?!"
The evening had swallowed Tokyo, but it wasn't the city he knew. The street below was a graveyard: many corpses scattered around, streetlights flickering weakly, and hulking shapes—clawed, monstrous—stalking through the haze. Above it all, a rift gaped in the sky, a jagged wound of black and crimson, pulsing with energy. The world had been breaking all day, and he'd been too busy gaming to give a damn.
The scene outside hit Shota like a punch to the gut, a visceral shock that sent his hands flying to the window curtains. He yanked them shut with a frantic tug.
He spun around, eyes darting to his desk where his phone lay buried under a clutter of snack wrappers and a tangled headset. He'd always ignored it while gaming. Now, he lunged for it, fingers trembling as he snatched it up. The screen flared to life, and a torrent of notifications flooded in—missed calls, dozens of them, mostly from his parents.
"Damn it," he hissed, the word sharp with self-reproach.
He'd been so lost in his digital world, that he'd let the real one slip through his fingers. His thumb jabbed at the call log, dialing his parents back. The line rang once, twice, then cut to a flat, unyielding silence—no answer. His stomach twisted. He switched to messages, typing a quick "You okay?" with shaky hands.
As he waited, he scrolled back and found a text from his mom, timestamped an hour ago. His breath caught as he read:
'Me and your father are fine. Your father is on his way to meet me in the evacuation center. Shota, just stay at home. I'll try to call some people to take you somewhere safe. I'll call you later again.'
A ragged exhale escaped him, relief washing over the panic. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow just a fraction. Of course, they were okay—his mom was a diplomat, and his dad was on a business trip with her, both of them halfway across the world in some secure bubble. It wasn't surprising they'd dodged whatever hell had broken loose. But the relief didn't erase the weight pressing down on him. He stared at the phone, the screen's glow casting shadows across his face. The question loomed large: what now?
Shota could follow his mom's orders—hunker down, wait for rescue, and play it safe. It made sense; it was the smart move. But deep down, he couldn't deny the itch, the electric hum in his veins begging him to test his newfound powers outside. Yet, as tempting as it was, he had no excuse to leave. No purpose, no pull—just a restless urge and a locked door.
He paced, the phone still clutched tight, debating with himself. Then, almost on impulse, he swiped back to his messages and started scrolling past his mom's text, digging through the list of chats of his contacts. then there it was—a reason, a message he could take as a reason.