The pounding on the door started at 7:03 a.m., sharp and merciless, like a hammer against cheap particle board.
Alex groaned, face buried in the thin pillow that smelled of old sweat and instant ramen. The knocks grew louder, rattling the frame. Each thud sent a fresh spike of dread through his skull.
"Alex! Open this goddamn door right now!"
He knew that voice. Jonathan. His landlord. The same man who had already screamed through the door once this morning before Alex had even crawled out of bed.
With a curse under his breath, Alex rolled off the mattress that lay directly on the floor and stumbled toward the entrance in nothing but a pair of gray boxer shorts. His bare feet stuck slightly to the linoleum. The studio apartment was a cramped box: peeling beige paint, a single flickering bulb overhead, a rusty sink piled with dirty dishes, and a cracked window that looked out onto endless gray high-rises. Twenty-two years old, and this was what he called home.
The banging intensified.
"Alex, you little shit, open this goddamn door! I already told you this morning—rent was due yesterday! Two thousand credits or I change the locks next week and you're on the street with your sad little backpack!"
Alex's hand paused on the doorknob. His stomach twisted. He took a breath, turned the knob, and cracked the door open.
Jonathan filled the hallway like an angry bull. Mid-forties, burly, with a thick mustache and a beer belly that strained against his stained gray shirt. His face was flushed red, veins bulging at his temples. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne rolled off him in waves.
"Mr. Jonathan," Alex said, voice still groggy with sleep, "I swear I'll have it by Friday—"
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "Friday? Boy, you said that last month. Your dead-end warehouse job barely covers noodles. Next week you're out. Don't make me call the enforcers."
Before Alex could respond, Jonathan shoved a crumpled sheet of paper against his chest. The eviction notice. Bold red letters screamed **FINAL NOTICE – EVICTION IN 7 DAYS**. Two thousand credits plus late fees. Jonathan's signature was scrawled at the bottom like a death warrant.
The older man glared one last time, then slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Heavy boots stomped away down the hallway, leaving nothing but echoing silence.
Alex stood there for a long moment, chest tight, the paper clutched in his fist. Then his legs gave out. He slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor, knees drawn up, staring at the notice like it might disappear if he looked hard enough.
Forty-seven credits.
That was all he had in the world.
He let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. Two years ago he had come to the city chasing opportunity. Now he was broke, exhausted, and one week away from sleeping on the street with everything he owned stuffed into a single sad backpack. The warehouse job paid peanuts after taxes and transport. Rent kept rising. Food kept costing more. Every month was a tighter noose.
"Fuck…" he whispered.
His cracked phone lay on the mattress. He reached over and dragged it toward him, the screen flickering to life with a weak glow. Bank balance: **47 credits**. No new deposits. No miracle transfers.
He opened the job listings out of habit, scrolling through the same depressing options he'd seen for months: night-shift warehouse loader, food delivery on a bike with no suspension, cleaning crews that paid under the table. Nothing that could scratch two thousand credits in seven days. Nothing that could actually change anything.
Alex's thumb kept scrolling, almost on autopilot, when a bright advertisement suddenly expanded across the entire screen. Holographic particles shimmered even on his cheap device, gold and blue light dancing across his tired eyes.
**National Adventurers Party**
**No Experience Required**
**Lucrative Treasure Shares**
**Join Today and Change Your Fate.**
The words pulsed like a promise.
Beneath the headline, a short video played on loop. Young men and women stepping through shimmering portals into a vibrant, alien world. Towering forests glowing with magic. Massive monsters roaring in the distance. Then the same adventurers returning, laughing, covered in dust and blood but hauling chests overflowing with glowing crystals, ancient artifacts, and stacks of credits. One clip showed a woman in sleek armor tossing a heavy pouch onto a table—coins spilling everywhere while guild officials clapped her on the back.
Alex sat up straighter, heart suddenly beating faster.
He knew the rumors. Everyone did. There were seven major adventurer parties in the state. Six were private mega-corporations, each worth trillions, run like empires. The seventh belonged to the government: the National Adventurers Party. It was the only one that accepted almost anyone, no powerful connections required. They teleported ordinary people into the "Otherworld"—a strange land of real magic, deadly monsters, and treasures that could make someone rich overnight.
Most who went never came back. But the ones who survived… they returned changed. Stronger. Wealthier. Sometimes surrounded by beautiful high-ranking women who looked at them like gods.
Alex scrolled further. The ad showed the National headquarters: an eighty-story obsidian spire that dominated the skyline, floating holographic dragons circling its peak, light reflecting off mirrored windows like liquid fire. It looked like something from another planet.
He tapped the "Learn More" button. A calm female voice narrated:
"Adventurers are teleported to the Otherworld, where they battle fearsome monsters and claim priceless treasures. Successful parties earn massive shares. The National Adventurers Party provides training, gear, and medical support. No prior experience necessary. Your new life begins today."
Alex stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
It sounded insane. Dangerous. Probably a death sentence for most.
But what was his alternative? Another week of scraping by on noodles, dodging Jonathan, and eventually getting dragged out by enforcers? Forty-seven credits wouldn't even buy him a decent meal for the next seven days.
He stood up slowly, legs shaky. For the first time that morning, something other than despair stirred in his chest.
"Fuck it," he muttered, voice low but gaining strength. "I've got nothing left to lose."
Alex moved quickly. He splashed cold water on his face in the rusty sink, ran wet fingers through his messy brown hair, and pulled on his least-worn clothes—a pair of faded jeans and a dark hoodie that didn't have too many holes. He stuffed a spare shirt, his phone charger, and the little cash he had into his small backpack. The eviction notice he left on the floor. He wouldn't need it where he was going.
Before stepping out, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Average height, average build, brown eyes that looked too tired for twenty-two. Nothing special. Definitely not hero material.
But maybe… just maybe… the Otherworld didn't care about that.
He locked the door behind him—one last pointless click—and headed down the narrow stairwell. Outside, the city streets were already busy with morning traffic. Towering buildings pressed in from every side, but far ahead, rising above them all, he could see it.
The National Adventurers Party headquarters.
The massive black spire gleamed under the morning sun, its peak wrapped in swirling holographic dragons that shimmered with impossible colors. Even from blocks away, the building looked magnificent—grand, powerful, alive with promise.
Alex stopped on the sidewalk, neck craned upward, mouth slightly open in pure awe. His heart hammered against his ribs. Fear and excitement twisted together in his stomach.
This was it.
One way in, no way out except as a winner… or not at all.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and started walking toward the towering spire.
His old life was already behind him.
A new one—dangerous, magical, and possibly deadly—waited just ahead.