[Timeline: 50 Years Before the End. The Real World.]
The notification on his wrist terminal blinked red.
[Account Balance: 4,950 Credits]
[Price of Neural-Link Headset: 5,000 Credits]
Elian stared at the number. He was fifty credits short.
Fifty credits was five meals. It was two weeks of electricity in his coffin apartment.
In the year 2145, fifty credits was the difference between living and dying.
"One more shift," Elian whispered, his voice raspy from breathing recycled smog.
He didn't log into the game when it launched. He couldn't.
When Aetheria Online opened its servers on Day 1, four billion people logged in. They were the lucky ones. The ones with families, or jobs, or savings.
Elian was a "Zero-Class Citizen". He spent the first six months of the game's launch in the real world, scrubbing bio-waste filters in the under-city, saving every cent while the rest of humanity began their adventure.
He watched the news feeds on the street corners.
"Guild 'Dynasty' captures Floor 1!"
"Player 'Zeus' earns 1 Million Gold!"
He saw people becoming kings while he was still a rat.
It took him eight months.
Eight months of double shifts. Eight months of eating half-rations of nutrient paste that tasted like wet cardboard.
Finally, he bought it. A second-hand, scratched headset from a pawn shop.
He laid down on his stained mattress. He was hungry. He was exhausted. But he smiled.
"Goodbye, hell," Elian whispered.
He pulled the visor down.
[System Start.]
[Location: Floor 1 - Starter Town. 8 Months Post-Launch.]
Elian opened his eyes, expecting paradise.
He expected green fields, blue skies, and the freedom the ads promised.
Instead, he smelled sewage.
He was standing in the Starter Town square, but it wasn't the bustling hub of adventure shown on TV.
It was a slum.
Tents crowded every inch of the cobblestones. Thousands of players who couldn't afford to buy gear or rent rooms were sleeping in the streets.
Elian checked his status.
[Name: Elian]
[Level: 1]
[Gold: 0]
He walked toward the town gates. He needed to hunt. He needed to earn.
"Halt."
A spear blocked his path.
A player in shining steel armor stood by the gate. Above his head floated a guild tag: [Iron Fists].
"Entry tax," the guard grunted, bored. "10 Silver to enter the hunting grounds."
Elian blinked. "Tax? But... this is the Starter Zone."
"Starter Zone belongs to the Guilds now, trash," the guard spat. "You think you can just walk out and kill our monsters? Pay up or get lost."
"I... I just logged in," Elian stammered, shrinking back. "I don't have money."
The guard laughed. It was a cruel, metallic sound.
"Then go beg. Or sell your starter clothes. I don't care."
Elian turned back.
He realized then that the game wasn't an escape. It was just a reflection.
The rich had already bought the land. The strong had already monopolized the resources.
He was late. And in Aetheria, being late was a death sentence.
[One Week Later]
Elian sat in a muddy alleyway behind a tavern.
He was Level 1. Still.
He had tried to sneak out at night to hunt rats, but a group of high-level PKers (Player Killers) had camped the exit, killing newbies for sport.
They had taken his starter dagger. They had taken his boots.
He was barefoot, shivering in the digital rain.
His HP was flashing red. [Hunger Status: Starving].
If he died here, he would respawn, but the hunger wouldn't go away. It was a loop of suffering.
"I spent everything," Elian whispered, clutching his knees. "I sold my life for this."
A group of players walked past the alley. They were loud, drunk on victory.
"Did you see that drop?" one boasted.
"Yeah, 50 Gold easy!"
One of them, a man in red armor, noticed Elian shivering in the mud.
It was Vargas.
"Look at this," Vargas sneered, kicking mud onto Elian's leg. "A beggar in a video game. Pathetic."
"Leave him, Vargas," his friend laughed. "He's probably an NPC. Waste of space."
They walked away, laughing.
Elian didn't look up. He didn't have the energy to be angry.
He closed his eyes.
Log out, he thought. Just log out and never come back.
But he had nothing to go back to. No job. No home.
He was going to die in a virtual alleyway, alone.
"Hey."
A voice. Soft. Warm.
Elian flinched, expecting a kick.
"You look like you're freezing."
Elian slowly looked up.
Standing at the mouth of the alley was a trio.
In the center was a swordsman with golden hair that seemed to catch the little light available in the gloomy street. He wasn't wearing the intimidating, spiked armor of the big guilds. He wore simple, well-maintained leather.
To his left was a woman in white robes, holding a wooden staff. Her eyes were filled with a concern Elian hadn't seen in years.
To the right, a rogue spun a dagger idly, looking bored but not malicious.
"Get lost," Elian croaked. "I don't have any loot."
The swordsman didn't leave. He stepped into the mud.
He knelt down—ruining his clean pants—so he was eye-level with Elian.
"I don't want your loot," the swordsman said.
He reached into his inventory and pulled out a steaming skewer of roasted meat and a red potion.
"I'm Valen," he smiled. It was a stupid, bright smile. "This is Seraphina and Jax."
Elian stared at the food. His stomach roared.
"Why?" Elian asked suspiciously. "What's the catch? You want me to carry your bags? Be bait?"
Valen laughed. "No catch. We're just... looking for a fourth member. Our party balance is off."
"I'm Level 1," Elian argued, tears stinging his eyes. "I have no weapon. I'm trash."
"We were all Level 1 once," Seraphina said softly, stepping forward.
She raised her staff. A warm golden light enveloped Elian.
[System: High-Heal Received.]
[Pain Suppressed. Warmth Restored.]
The cold vanished. The shivering stopped.
For the first time in his life—both real and virtual—Elian felt warm.
"Besides," Jax added, smirking. "You got a look in your eye, kid. You look like a survivor. We like survivors."
Valen extended a hand.
"Come on, Elian. Let's go get you a sword."
Elian looked at the hand.
It wasn't the hand of a guild recruiter looking for a slave. It wasn't the hand of a thug looking for a victim.
It was just a hand.
Elian reached out. His dirty, trembling fingers grasped Valen's.
Valen pulled him up.
"Welcome to the party," Valen beamed.
[Flashback Ends]
In the darkness of the 100th Floor, fifty years later, Elian stood over the shattered mirror.
He remembered that hand.
He remembered how Valen died screaming to save him from a dragon.
He remembered how Seraphina used her last bit of mana to heal him instead of herself.
He remembered that he was the only one left because they had spent their lives pushing him forward.
"I was late," Elian whispered to the empty room. "I was weak. So you carried me."
He looked at the "New Game Plus" notification.
"This time," Elian vowed, his eyes cold and ancient. "I won't be late."
This time, he would be the one reaching down into the mud.