The automated doors of NAIA Terminal 3 slid open with a low pneumatic hiss, followed by a rush of warm, conditioned air tinged with the faint scent of ozone and artificial citrus. The interior glowed beneath rows of floating holo-lamps, their light rippling like gentle waves across the terminal's polished titanium floors.
The place thrummed with energy. Avatars of every class and faction moved in coordinated chaos—mercenaries in sleek combat rigs, merchants carrying glowing crates of digital goods, explorers with armor lined in light. Cargo drones zipped overhead, their anti-grav thrusters humming softly as they ferried containers stamped with clan insignias and item brands.
Overhead, a synthesized voice pulsed through the PA system, clear and metallic:
"Flight to Neo Singapore departing in forty-five minutes. Please proceed to Gate 21-B."
The sound echoed across the high glass walls, bouncing between banners that displayed tournament ads and real-time VR economy rates.
TraceZero and I weaved through the crowd, stepping aside as a pair of bulky freight bots rolled by, their exteriors reflecting the terminal's neon hues. His cybernetic lens flickered every few seconds, processing data, scanning pathways. I followed him toward the far end of the concourse, where a sleek gate shimmered like a doorway made of liquid glass—Gate 21-B. AR indicators floated in front of it, displaying flight times, connection routes, and neural sync instructions for long-distance travel.
We stopped before the kiosk. A pair of glowing panels extended automatically, scanning our visors and class stats.
"Verification complete."
"Boarding confirmed — Enjoy your flight."
The holo-text faded with a pleasant chime. Trace gave me a quick nod, and for a brief moment, we both stood there, watching other players flicker in and out of sync as they entered the departure field.
But neither of us was in a rush.
A nearby stretch of the terminal was lined with food stalls, their warm lighting a sharp contrast to the sterile glow of the gates. I could hear sizzling from a digital grill, the hiss of simulated oil, and the chatter of NPC vendors coded with surprisingly human enthusiasm.
The smells—roasted meats, garlic noodles, and sugar-glazed pastries—filled the air so vividly that my senses almost forgot it wasn't real. I stopped at a bao stand and bought a steaming bun, its warmth diffusing through my gloves. Trace, ever the pragmatist, ordered a noodle bowl that floated weightlessly in a glowing AR container, each strand shifting as though caught by real steam.
We sat at one of the nearby benches, the kind that adjusted automatically to your posture. Around us, avatars came and went—some chatting in clanspeak, others lost in mission briefings or trade negotiations.
I took a slow bite, the flavor registering perfectly in my neural sensors. "You know," I said, "they really outdid themselves this season. Even the fake food feels real."
Trace slurped his noodles with a grin. "Yeah. The devs figured out how to monetize hunger too. It's genius, in a depressing kind of way."
I chuckled, pulling a small credit chip from my inventory—a faintly glowing hexagon pulsing between my fingers. "Here," I said, handing it over. "For your help."
He waved it away lazily. "Just add me as a friend in-game. You don't owe me anything else."
"Come on, Trace," I insisted. "You earned it. Don't make me feel cheap. I availed your service as Cipher"
He rolled his eyes, his smirk returning. "Fine," he said, finally accepting it and slipping it into his data slot with a flick. "But you better not regret making me your friend. My list's full of people who tried to scam me first."
"Guess I'll be your first exception."
The terminal's bustle faded behind us as we made our way deeper into the facility, down a corridor most players ignored—its signs half-flickering, the lighting dimmer than the main halls. The air grew heavier, thick with the faint hum of old servers buried somewhere in the walls.
Trace walked a few steps behind me, scanning every corner with his lens. "You sure this is the place?" he asked, his tone somewhere between doubt and awe.
"I'm sure," I said quietly. My voice felt tight in my throat. "I found the terminal right here… years ago."
We stopped before a section of wall that looked out of place—sleek and clean compared to the aging panels around it. My heart thudded harder with each step. The spot should've been glowing with faint amber light, a familiar access prompt waiting to pull me in again.
But it was gone.
In its place stood a massive steel barrier, plates interlocked with industrial rivets and framed by flickering holographic panels that cycled endlessly through "RESTRICTED ZONE" warnings. The low hum of its power field filled the air like a growling machine.
I took a step closer, scanning every inch of it—hoping for a seam, a glitch, a clue. Nothing. The amber glow I remembered was erased, replaced by cold, unyielding alloy.
A dull ache settled in my chest, followed by something sharper—frustration twisting into anger.
I clenched my fists.
"Why would they lock it away…?" I muttered.
Trace shrugged, half-joking, half-serious. "Maybe the devs patched it. Hidden events don't stay hidden forever."
His words only made it worse. My pulse spiked. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.
Before I realized it, I'd already swung my fist.
The impact echoed through the hallway like a gunshot. The steel wall shuddered, and a cascade of sparks rained down where my gauntlet struck. A second later, the entire panel began to tremble—its holographic surface flickering, glitching.
"Uh… dude?" Trace stepped back. "What did you—"
A metallic groan split the air. Then, with a deafening crack, the wall fractured, splitting open in a burst of white light. Shards of metal and data fragments scattered across the floor like broken glass.
Behind the wreckage, a faint amber glow pulsed again—weak, but unmistakable.
There it was. The hidden entrance.
It looked almost alive, its outline breathing softly, like a wound reopening after years of silence.
Adrenaline flooded my veins. I took a cautious step forward, the floor crunching beneath my boots. The faint hum of the portal vibrated through my hands as I reached out—only for a massive notification to slam into my vision:
ACCESS DENIED — LEGACY OPERATORS NOT ALLOWED.
The glowing text hovered inches from my face, pulsing in bold crimson.
My stomach dropped.
Trace whistled, low and unimpressed. "Well… that's new."
The system prompt lingered, then expanded, revealing another message:
"Class Requirement: Tier 3 or Higher. Class"
I stood there, frozen, the reflection of the red warning light painting my visor. Part of me wanted to scream. Another part wanted to laugh.
The world moved on, and I was still the old build.
Trace leaned beside me, arms crossed. "Guess the devs don't like old-timers. You'll need to pick a class."
"I know," I muttered, pulling up my interface. The selection screen unfolded in front of me—a cascade of symbols scrolling like an ancient scripture.
My thumb hovered over the confirm button. My legacy tag still flickered faintly at the top corner of the HUD: Legacy Operator.
"I wanted to stay as I am," I said softly. "Old meta, old rules."
Trace chuckled. "Yeah, well… the dungeon doesn't care about nostalgia."
I smirked, shaking my head. "Tsk. I prefer the old meta."
"Then pick fast, old man," Trace replied, his lens gleaming red as he scanned the reactivated doorway. "Because whatever's behind that wall—doesn't look patient."
I didn't hesitate.
I chose Vanguard.
A deep hum rippled through the air. The environment around us shimmered—reality itself bending to acknowledge my choice. Lines of gold light traced across my armor, crawling upward like living circuitry. A halo of holographic sigils spun into existence above my head, casting runic reflections across the metallic floor.
Then came the chime—a clean, powerful tone that echoed through the empty corridor, followed by a cascade of holographic notifications bursting across my vision:
CLASS REGISTERED — LEGENDARY VANGUARD ACHIEVED.
Pacifica Region: Legendary Vanguard #12
Neo Philippines: Legendary Vanguard #2
The numbers pulsed once, then locked into place—etched permanently into my player record.
Trace's cybernetic lens flickered, scanning the data. "Whoa," he breathed. "Told you so, if you choose Vanguard… you'll become a Legendary rank on the spot. The system actually remembers your Legacy old timer."
For the first time in a long while, I exhaled. Not out of relief—more like release.Years of weight, of frustration and unfinished business, finally lifted off my shoulders. The faint hum of the wall shifted pitch, as if the world itself was responding to the change.
Before us, the sealed gateway came alive.
Amber glyphs ignited across its surface, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. The steel plates dissolved into motes of red and gold light, peeling back layer by layer until the corridor beyond revealed itself—a long, dim tunnel of flickering data, half-rendered walls stretching into digital fog.
The air carried that same static scent I remembered—the faint crackle of corrupted code, the whisper of danger stitched into the silence.
There it was. The same path where I'd once fallen.
The same dungeon that had eaten my progress—and the DLQ Flame Lotus I'd never recovered.
I flexed my gauntlet, feeling the faint surge of new power thrumming beneath the armor. My pulse synced with the rhythm of the system.
"Trace," I said, my voice steady now, all hesitation gone, "let's be the first players to clear this hidden dungeon!"
He adjusted his jacket with a half-smile, flicking the lens on his temple until it pulsed crimson. "First-time Legendary Vanguard? Don't worry, old man. Ciphers don't miss details—I've got your six."
I smirked. "Just keep up."
The corridor ahead pulsed once more, glowing like a heartbeat—red, then gold, then red again. The air grew colder as the gate widened, drawing us in.
Beneath the hum of the system, I could almost hear something faint—like a memory whispering from inside the code.
The past calling me back.
Together, we stepped forward—into the digital veins of a forgotten dungeon, where ghosts of an old season still waited.
I thought to myself, "Erica, I'll retrieve the weapon you were longing for back then."