Chapter 1
Welcome to the War Zone, the most prestigious online tournament in the world for the popular video game, *The Immortal War*. On a war-torn grass battlefield, we have a tense 1v2 situation. Sartimus the Warrior is the last man standing among his teammates, controlled by none other than the greatest *Immortal War* player of all time, Dragon77. He's racked up thousands of hours playing this game, and a clutch comeback here could earn him even more. His teammates cheer him on through his headset, but he tunes them out and locks in on the game.
The battlefield is littered with the remnants of previous skirmishes—burnt grass, scattered weapons, and the eerie silence of anticipation. Sartimus crouches behind a crumbling stone wall, his breathing steady, eyes scanning the area for any sign of movement. His enemies, a half-dragon warrior named Drylock and the fire-breathing serpent Nyor, are searching for him.
Drylock, the weaker link of the opposing team, passes by a dense thicket. Sartimus sees his chance. With a quick dash, he silently moves into position, his unbreakable sword gleaming in the dim light. As Drylock steps closer, Sartimus leaps out, his sword cutting through the air with a deadly precision. The blade slices through Drylock, the dragon warrior's body collapsing in a heap, reduced to a pile of loot and digital dust.
Now it's a 1v1. Sartimus barely has time to catch his breath before a searing blast of fire erupts from across the battlefield. Nyor, the humanoid snake, charges forward, fire streaming from his mouth. Sartimus raises his shield just in time, the flames crashing against it in a shower of sparks.
Sartimus knows he can't withstand the fire forever. Using his quick dash ability, he sprints to a nearby boulder, Nyor's fiery breath trailing him. Each blast of fire chips away at his health bar, the edges of his vision blurring red. He can feel the heat even through the screen, his controller vibrating with each hit.
"Think, think!" Dragon77 mutters, fingers flying over the buttons. He spots a narrow path leading to higher ground and makes a snap decision. Sartimus dashes towards it, weaving between cover as Nyor's fire scorches the earth behind him. He reaches the incline and scrambles up, Nyor in relentless pursuit.
Reaching the top, Sartimus turns to face his foe. Nyor is a fearsome sight, scales glistening, eyes glowing with malice. Sartimus grips his sword and shield, ready for the final showdown. As Nyor closes in, Dragon77 times his moves perfectly. He sidesteps a fiery blast, then charges forward, shield raised.
With a roar, Sartimus slams into Nyor, the force of the impact knocking the serpent off balance. Wasting no time, Sartimus swings his sword in a wide arc, the blade catching the light as it descends. The cut is swift and clean, Nyor's head severing from his body in one powerful strike.
Dragon77 has done it. He's won the War Zone. The screen explodes with victory graphics as his teammates' cheers flood his headset. Overwhelmed with relief and adrenaline, he yells in excitement, "LET'S GOOOO BABY, C'MON!" His teammates start chanting his real name, "Brandon, Brandon, Brandon!"
Wait, that isn't his teammates. It's his chemistry teacher, Mr. Sanders. Brandon has spent the entire period daydreaming about his tournament win last night while sitting at the back of the room. "Brandon!" Finally, Brandon snaps out of his daydream. "Uh, yes, sir?" he responds nervously.
"Jesus, son, are you deaf? You can't hear me calling you?" Mr. Sanders says. Brandon feels a nervous pit in his stomach as the entire class stares at him. "N-no, sir," he murmurs.
"What? Don't tell me you have a speech impediment too," Mr. Sanders says, and the class bursts into laughter. Brandon's anxiety grows as he watches his classmates poke fun at him, all except one: April Meyers, Brandon's crush since eighth grade. She has always been kind to him.
"No, sir!" Brandon says louder over the laughter, gripping his jeans tightly to fight off a potential panic attack. "Please answer our question," Mr. Sanders says. Realizing he was supposed to be working on the equation on the board, Brandon stammers, feeling the weight of dozens of eyeballs on him, some laughing. The usual suspects, Aaron Wiley and Mack Davis, the star football players, find everything Brandon does hilarious.
"Anytime today, please," Mr. Sanders prompts, causing more laughter. In the nick of time, April mouths the answer to Brandon: "6.05." Brandon repeats it out loud, "6.05?"
"Final answer?" Mr. Sanders asks.
Brandon looks at April again, and she nods reassuringly. "Yes," Brandon says.
"That is correct," Mr. Sanders confirms. "Let's give him a round of applause, class." The class gives a scattered, awkward applause. Brandon stares at April, unsure of how to respond. Should he smile, mouth 'thank you,' or play it cool? Luckily, April saves him again by turning around and smiling at him. He smiles back.
If there was one thing about life he would miss, it'd be her. He figured before he left, he ought to tell her how he felt, so he spent the rest of the period brainstorming what to say. Soon enough, the bell rang, and it was time for lunch.
In the hallway, Brandon approached April, but he couldn't decide on what to say. He was just a few steps behind her, close enough to tap her on the shoulder, but he chickened out. The anxious feeling returned, and he decided to abort the mission. I guess she'll never know, he thought.
At lunchtime, Brandon played with his spaghetti, sitting by himself, kicking himself for not having the courage to tell April how he felt. Why did he have to be this way? At least it'd all be over soon. His introspection was interrupted by Paige Marxby, captain of the cheer team and basically the queen of the school, walking up to him.
"Excuse me, everyone, I have an announcement!" Paige yelled, causing the cafeteria to go quiet. "I'd like to ask a very special boy a very special question…" Paige hadn't said a word to Brandon in his entire life. She pulled out a sign with candy canes taped onto it. The sign read, "It would be sweet if you would go to prom with me." The cafeteria erupted with cheers, laughter, and even some applause.
"Will you go to prom with me?" Paige asked.
Brandon looked around the cafeteria, particularly at the football table, where Aaron Wiley and his friends were laughing hysterically. This was obviously a stunt by Paige to make fun of him. Brandon figured he'd throw her a bone since he'd never have to see her again. "Yes," he said.
"He said yes!" Paige cheered, giving Brandon a hug and posing for a picture with him. "Hold this," Paige instructed, handing him the sign. After the picture, Paige walked back to her real boyfriend, Aaron Wiley. Brandon saw them snickering and giving him looks.
Later that day, school ended. Brandon knew not to count on his dad picking him up and walked home. His dad was probably already passed out on the couch with a beer in his hand. Since his mom died, his dad hadn't been the same. Luckily, it wasn't a long walk, and even more luckily, it was the last time he'd ever have to be disappointed by his father.
When he got home, he went to his room, passing his dad in the living room in the exact position he expected. "Don't slam my doors!" his dad yelled with slurred speech as Brandon slammed his bedroom door. Seeing his dad that way was always tough. Brandon sat at his desk, opened a composition journal, ripped out a page, and began to write:
"I guess this is goodbye. It's not really your fault, at least not entirely. I just can't be here anymore."
He took the page and quietly laid it next to his dad, who was back asleep. He then made his way to his dad's bedroom, found a 12-gauge shotgun hidden behind some clothes, took it, and left the house. He walked towards the woods, a few minutes away, and sat on a nearby log. He broke down in tears, his mind racing about how much this was going to hurt, about his mom, and about how badly this would mess up his dad even more.
After a good cry, Brandon was ready. He picked up the shotgun, took a deep breath, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. BANG.
Everything went dark. It was all over.
Until it wasn't.
Seconds later, Brandon found himself standing in the exact same position, with the gun in his mouth. He could've sworn he pulled the trigger...