Maurice blinked as sunlight sliced through the blinds, the sting forcing his eyes open. He groaned as he rolled once, then let his body drop to the floorboards. He sank into a push-ups position, took a deep breath in and out before starting his morning routine.
"Strength isn't inherited," he murmured, voice low with effort. "It's carved into you… one rep at a time. Your weaknesses live at the roots of your labor."
Finishing his set, sweat started trickling on the laminate. His arms began to tremble so he shifted towards his next exercise. Balancing on one leg and easing into pistol squats.
"The only rival worth fearing," he exhaled, thighs burning, "is the self you refuse to become."
Sit-ups followed. Each twist set fire through his core, but he didn't stop. He held a hollow position until his arms and abs shook.
"A day built on discipline," he whispered, "can't be taken apart by chance."
After a quick water break, he moved to the doorway bar to finish his work out with strict pull-ups, no swaying, clean lockouts.
"Fuel your body, honor your work… and the world will have to honor it too." He squinted, fishing for a half-remembered line. "Those who swing their blade carve their own paths to glory, while those who cower behind a shield—" he frowned—"not knowing what's hitting them? Coming for them? Ugh… don't remember."
When he dropped back to the floor, sweat ran down his jaw. He smirked at nothing in particular. "Damn," he muttered, chest still heaving. "Those old Steel Saga quotes always hit the spot."
By the time his protein shake was blended, he was lacing his running shoes for a run around the neighborhood. His father would already be a few districts away in a high-viz vest, walking the perimeter of a waterworks site with a stack of schedules under his arm. While his mother would be in her owned Pilates studio, correcting someone's posture in their group sessions.
Back home, he fried some leftover rice until it crackled and slid an egg across the top. The yolk broke and ran gold through everything. He ate at the counter with his phone propped against the breadbox, steam fogging the bottom of the screen.
A notification apeard on his thread.
Kenji Arakawa, The Developer behind ArenaX
The photo of a mid-forties, black suit man with Dark hair combed back. Rimless glasses. just your average joe but this average joe has accumelated immense status within the gaming world.
The Resume traced a line through the last decade: from systems designer on a VR shooter and live-ops on a survival sim that made people log in every day for two years because scarcity had rules based on the time you where active. Combat director on a grounded medieval title that never truly left the bloodstream of the players who cared about it. Now ArenaX was his the very first time that he could direct and create a game of his vision and not just be part of something.
The article said that Kenji believed that the love he had for creating fighting games. Made him believe that the more freedom you have to invent yourself inside the game, could make you feel more seen and confident when results are being booked by sheer creativity and effort.
In the fourth paragraph a name slid out of the text and caught Maurice in a nostalgic sense.
Steel Saga.
He didn't tap the embedded trailer. He didn't need to. He could still see the bronze-polished shield that served as the login mirror, see the version of himself the game returned.
-- Author pov--
While not explained yet but in this Vr games you can create one avatar per account and that avatar that you created will look about 70% of the time the same over multiple games. So for example in Arenax where the race already known as elfs are being shown. While your character may look like and elf there, your appearance in a racing sim would probably look the same but just human. And ofcourse there are exceptions.
--End Author pov--
A full-dive medieval melee sim—no magic, no ranged, just steel and footwork. You feel weapon weight and balance; guard isn't "high/mid/low," it's wherever you place your blade, with clashes decided by timing, angle, and momentum. Stamina, footing, and bind-friction matter; clean parries ring, bad swings open you up. Modes ran 1v1 to 5v5, with Breach as the signature: invaders escort a ram through gates and choke points toward a throne while defenders burn their timer and banners. Depth comes from feints, shoulder tells, pressure, and space control more than long combos.
Maurice marveled at the thought of Steel Saga ever coming back to the spotlight. Maybe it could return, maybe even break back into the big leagues.
For a second, the idea sparked something warm in him—but it faded just as quickly.
He let out a low sigh.
"…But that won't happen."
Buzz. Buzz.
His phone lit up displaying the name: Bigforehead.
The subway roared in the background, metal grinding against metal.
Maurice dragged his phone up to his ear, barely interested.
"Why're you calling me from the subway?" he said. "I can hear the trains screaming behind you."
The voice came chopped by static and screeching brakes.
"Wh—… co… bro—"
Maurice pinched the bridge of his nose. "Couldn't you wait, like, one minute? I can't hear a damn thing.
Maurice flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall. A few minutes to noon. His stomach tightened, empty enough to make the decision for him.
"…You always do this," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. "Call me out of nowhere like I've got nothing going on."
A low chuckle came through the line. "You don't."
Maurice exhaled through his nose, but there was no real bite behind it. He glanced back at the time, then toward the door, already calculating the walk.
"…Fine. Give me fifteen," he said. "But only because it's ramen."
"That's what I thought."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Maurice added, pushing himself up from his seat. "Just order ahead when I'm close. You know what I get." He paused for a moment."Or don't. Surprise me. Just don't mess it up."
"Relax," the voice shot back. "I've been ordering for you longer than you've been ordering for yourself."
Maurice huffed, grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, and you still get it wrong sometimes." The voiced echoed a shocked sound in a playful manner.
"Don't lie to me and yourself now." Maurice countered with snappy voice.
"Last time you forgot the egg."
"That was one time."
Maurice pulled the door open, already stepping out. "It was a big time."
Another laugh, louder this time. "Aight, whatever. I'll hold off till you're close. Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
Maurice adjusted the phone against his ear, locking the door behind him. "…I won't."
---
The shop wasn't hard to find.
A paper lantern hung outside, swaying gently in the breeze. Warm light spilled onto the street, carrying the rich smell of broth with it. Maurice felt it as he approached, his stomach tightening in response.
"Yeah… good call," he muttered.
He slowed near the window and glanced inside.
You could spot him immediately.
Leaning back in his chair, already mid-conversation with the waiter, one hand moving as he spoke like they'd known each other longer than a few minutes. He sat like he belonged there—like he'd decided it first.
Up close, the details settled in.
Albino. His skin caught the warm light and held it. Short white hair, faintly tinted red under the glow, sat clean against his scalp. A neatly kept beard framed his jaw, pale with the same subtle reddish tone, sharpening his features instead of softening them. Light blue eyes shifted as he talked, catching reflections off the counter glass.
Maurice pushed the door open.
The bell above it chimed.
The voice inside carried on for another second.
"—I'm telling you, if the broth's not rich, I'm sending it back—"
Maurice stepped in, letting the door fall shut behind him.
"Diego."
The man turned.
His eyes landed on Maurice, and a grin pulled across his face.
"Took you long enough."
Maurice snorted, dropping into the seat across from him. Diego smirked, waving the waiter over. "Already ordered for you. Tonkotsu with extra egg. Don't say I don't know your soul."
The bowls landed steaming between them, broth rich and curling into the air. Diego had already cracked his chopsticks before Maurice even sat down.
He slurped a mouthful, leaned back, and pointed at Maurice with his chopsticks. "So. Saw your elf in that highlight reel."
Maurice blinked, feigning confusion. "…What elf?"
Diego's eyes narrowed like he was interrogating him across the table. "Don't play dumb. Violet skin, satchel of bombs, pillars falling like dominoes? Bro, the devs literally looped you three times. You turned Fatty Guapo into confetti and half of South America cried."
Maurice poked at the yolk in his bowl, letting it spill into the broth. "Just some ranked match. Lucky bombs. Doesn't mean anything."
"Ranked?" Diego sat up straight. "Hold on. Ranked ranked?"
Maurice shrugged. "Yeah."
Diego froze, his chopsticks hovering. "…Alright, stop. You gotta tell me what rank."
Maurice leaned back, almost smiling. "Diamond."
The ramen nearly slipped out of Diego's hands. He put the bowl down slowly, staring like Maurice had just admitted to murder. "Wait—Diamond? You mean, above Ruby Diamond?"
Maurice tilted his head. "That's what comes after Ruby, right?"
Diego slammed a palm on the table, the sound rattling the glasses. "Bro. BRO. Do you even understand what that means?"
Maurice lifted a brow. "…Enlighten me."
Diego leaned forward, ticking off fingers like a teacher breaking down scripture. "Okay. Bronze, Silver, Gold—those don't count. That's tutorial land. You play a few weeks, you can climb out with your eyes closed. Then you hit Sapphire, right? That's when people start to get sweaty. Emerald after that, where the grinders live. Then Ruby—Ruby is where the streamers hang out. People who could already build a channel, get clout, maybe even attract scouts if they're flashy enough."
He pointed his chopsticks straight at Maurice. "And you. You're not just in Ruby. You're above Ruby. Diamond. That's where the sharks live, man. That's where you're fighting on par with league players. Some of them don't even touch Diamond outside of scrims!"
Maurice sipped his broth like it was the most boring lecture he'd ever heard. "…Sounds important."
Diego slapped his forehead. "Sounds important, he says. You're ridiculous. Do you know how many kids would sell a kidney to hit Emerald, let alone Ruby? Diamond is—you could go pro off that alone."
Maurice chuckled, setting his chopsticks down. "Guess I'll let them keep dreaming, then."
Diego groaned, loud enough that the waiter gave them a side-eye. "One day, Maurice. One day you're gonna wake up and realize you've been sitting on a golden ticket this whole time. Until then—" he stabbed at his noodles dramatically, "—I'm telling everyone I know that my best friend is secretly Diamond."
Maurice smirked into his bowl. "And I'm telling everyone you've got ramen stains in your beard."
Diego wiped at his chin automatically, then scowled. "Asshole."