"State your departure," a hollow voice commanded from the darkness. The words were aimed at the bowed face of a young man with eyes just as vacant.
The voice Mexan Reign once knew as warm and protective was now detached and cruel. This was no stranger. It was his father. To the average citizen working an honest living, Mexan appeared ordinary, but to one of the world's most prestigious clans, he was an abomination. A curse upon their lineage.
Ninety-seven years ago, the first monster was born. Risen from the ashes of malice and sin, the creature went on a rampage, spawning legions of its own kind. That same day, the Awakened appeared. They became humanity's shield, and as the dust settled, the world stabilized, saturated with supernatural energy.
Monsters grew in strength and variety, but the Awakened kept pace. The Reign clan was among the first powerhouses to lead the charge. They were a small elite with incredible talent, cemented over decades as renowned heroes. But with that title came crushing expectations. The clan had birthed generations of legends until Mexan. Born with no connection to the aether system, he never awakened a single skill.
The clan held onto him for eighteen years, deeming him a late bloomer. He tried to force a spark. Even when no one was watching, he swung his sword until his hands were a map of bloody calluses. He bathed in enhancement potions and strained to open his pathways, yet his aura remained stagnant. After years of shortcomings, the Reign clan chose to protect their reputation by stripping him of his name.
Prostrate on the floor, Mexan felt the presence of the elders waiting in the dim light. They were hardly old; in fact, they were his own siblings, standing alongside his parents. He choked back his emotions, knowing his only sin was weakness. In this world, that was the greatest crime of all.
"I... I wish you all well. Thank you for serving me."
The apology was empty, a mere formality expected by the spectators. He was apologizing for existing, for bringing no value, and for staining the image of a noble house.
A masked butler stepped forward and ripped the engraved sigil from Mexan's clothing.
"From this moment, Mexan Reign is severed from the clan. See yourself out. Your bags are packed. Our final charity is a small apartment on the outskirts. Do not return."
Those were his father's final words. No affection, no regret, only a command to vanish.
Mexan dragged himself up and strode away, a storm of grief and fury swirling in his gut. As he pushed open the double doors, he passed two rows of clan members. Among them were his two younger siblings, who wore mocking grins. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet their eyes, but a voice halted him like a knife in the ribs.
"Finally, some breathing room. Don't worry, big bro, I'll put your room to good use."
A cruel chuckle followed. Leon? Even you? Mexan thought, his spirit finally breaking.
Realizing he was utterly alone, he stumbled out with his head low. He didn't know whether to scream or give up, but a tiny, stubborn flame of determination resisted the wind. He harbored a fading hope of becoming one of the chosen few, of returning one day to make them regret their choice.
-
-
That was three years ago.
Today, Mexan is just another face in the crowd. To the Awakened, he is mere fodder. He lives in a cramped apartment defined by the wails of neighbors' babies, midday traffic, and the rhythmic pounding of the landlady on the doors of delinquent tenants.
"Wake up, you swine! I need my money! You're already overdrawn!"
Mexan rose from a thin mattress, brushed his teeth, and donned his daily uniform: track pants, slides, and a hoodie. He navigated the minefield of instant ramen cups and sticky floor patches.
"Ugh. This place is a dump," he muttered.
Outside, a digital billboard atop a skyscraper showcased a rising star. The prodigy was barely eighteen and already an industry icon. Mexan looked away, biting his cheek until it bled. Envy was eating him alive.
Near an alleyway, he stopped. An old man, looking equal parts sage and lunatic, sat on a pile of newspapers next to a rusted, run-down gaming capsule.
"A JS3000! Old man, what are you doing with that? I didn't know the streets were into gaming."
The JS3000 was the first-generation capsule. It was ancient by modern standards, but in its prime, it was revolutionary. It offered graphics and sensory feedback that blurred the line with reality. It was VR perfected.
"Interested, lad? I've had the old thing since my son passed. It's worn, but you look like you have steady hands. Buy it, fix it, and it's yours. Hehahaha!"
The man looked untrustworthy, his eyes darting as he rubbed his hands together. But Mexan was desperate. He had been hunting for a capsule for months, but the market prices were astronomical.
"How much? Don't try to swindle me."
The man chuckled. "Seven thousand five hundred, and it's yours."
Mexan nearly buckled. "Seven thousand five hundred? Look at the state of it! The wires are exposed. I'm better off saving for a new one."
"Go ahead then. But prices are climbing, and resellers will gut you. Buy this now, spend a few bucks on parts, and you'll have a premium rig for a fraction of the cost."
The logic hit home. Mexan glanced from the man to the machine and back again. With an exhausted sigh, he gave in.
"Deal. But if this thing doesn't even boot up, I'm coming back for a refund. Personally."
-
In the corner of his apartment, Mexan collapsed, wiping sweat from his face after hauling the heavy machine home. He stood, smirking as he hit the power toggle and popped the hatch.
It was choked with dust. He grimaced, sweeping the grime away before climbing inside. He sealed the hatch and donned the headset, gloves, and haptic vest. He was ready to escape. He was ready for a different life.
"Huh?"
The darkness remained absolute. Silence filled the pod.
"I... I was scammed!?"