The clanking of the extremely old keyboard was the only sound that pierced the eerily quiet night on the island. It was very uncommon for it to be this quiet. But because it was a political holiday, people were forced to pause the nightly hustle and bustle. All the better for Viktor, as he could calmly play his almost hundred-thousand-hour game in peace.

  His small apartment sat on the fourth floor of a concrete block that had seen better days—decades ago. The industrial island of Volkov's Reach had been named after some distant ancestor he'd never met, though the irony wasn't lost on him that his family had fallen so far from whatever prominence once earned them that honor. Now the island was just another forgotten speck in the Euroasian industrial belt, churning out machine parts for corporations headquartered in cities Viktor had only seen in photographs.

  The blue glow of his monitor illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows across his gaunt features. Twenty-eight years old and he looked forty. The factory work did that to people here: twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, breathing in metal dust and chemical fumes.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight was Liberation Day, a political holiday celebrating some revolution or another. Viktor didn't care about the politics. He only cared that the factories were silent, the bars were closed by government mandate, and for once the constant mechanical grinding that formed the island's heartbeat had ceased.

  He cracked his knuckles and leaned closer to the screen. His character stood at the edge of a chasm that seemed to breathe with dark, pulsing energy: the Infinite Abyss. It had taken him three months of real-time to find it, following obscure hints scattered across Urylia's vast continents, deciphering cryptic texts in forgotten libraries, bribing NPCs who most players didn't even know could be bribed.

  His character, Notch—a name he'd chosen ironically for a game about building a legacy, stood at exactly one hundred years old. The first player to ever reach that milestone. The aging system was what made the game special, what the critics raved about. Your character grew old, gained wisdom, lost physical prowess. It forced you to think long-term, to build legacy rather than just chase power.

  But Viktor had done both.

  Notch's weathered face, rendered in stunning detail by the game's revolutionary graphics engine, stared into the abyss. White hair, deep wrinkles, a body bent by a century of virtual adventures. And in his inventory: the Infinite Abyss Mana Amplifier—a legendary artifact the developers had hidden so well that the forums still debated whether it even existed.

  Viktor had found it.

  Now came the dangerous part.

  He pulled up the item description one more time, reading the warning he'd already memorized:

  “Power without limit. Life without guarantee. The Abyss gives, but demands everything in return.”

  His hand hovered over the mouse. Three months of searching. One hundred in-game years of preparation. This was it—the ultimate build, the perfect character. No one else had achieved this. No one else had even come close.

  The apartment's heating had died two weeks ago, and his breath misted in the cold air. Outside, the chemical refineries stood like silent sentinels, their smokestacks dark for the first time in months. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent. Viktor clicked.

  The screen erupted in black and purple light.

  After a second or two of glitching—probably the computer's old GPU trying to keep up, Viktor thought, a pop-up message appeared.

  “Seeker of wisdom and power, to what end shall thee be satisfied? Obviously till you can venture no more.”

  The text read in fancy, ornate fonts that seemed to pulse with the same dark energy as the abyss itself. The monitor died, plunging the room into darkness. Then it glowed up again, brighter than before, harsh and clinical.

  “You have been permanently banned from this gaming experience.”

  This time the text was simple, sterile. Corporate. Final.

  Viktor could only slump back in his chair and think how funny it would be if it were true—some elaborate troll message the developers had planted for whoever found the amplifier first. A joke at his expense after months of searching.

  “I didn't break a rule though.” His voice came out hoarse, unused to speaking aloud in the empty apartment. “It must be a troll message.”

  The screen refreshed.

  “Notch has died from exhaustion. Use of Essence-level ornament detected... Permaban in effect.”

  Viktor's breath caught. His hands trembled as they gripped the armrests of his chair, the cheap plastic creaking under the pressure. Almost one hundred thousand hours. One hundred in-game years. Three months hunting for the amplifier. All of it—gone. Deleted. Erased because he'd dared to use the item the game itself had hidden for players to find.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “This can't be real.” The words barely made it past his lips. “Right?”

  He looked out the small window—the only window in the entire concrete block. The refineries stared back at him, dark and indifferent. Beyond them, the gray sea stretched endlessly into the night. His chest tightened. When had breathing become difficult?

  The monitor remained frozen on the ban message for what felt like an eternity. Time stretched, became something slippery and strange. His vision blurred at the edges. The cold air burned his lungs with each shallow breath.

  Then the screen changed again; the fancy fonts returned, elegant and otherworldly:

  “Uncaused Essence has blessed thee due to the unfortunate circumstance.”

  Viktor blinked hard, trying to focus through the tears and the pressure building behind his eyes. “Blessed?” he muttered. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  The pain in his chest spread down his left arm. The screen began to pulse in rhythm with his increasingly erratic heartbeat.

  The text shifted once more:

  “Do you accept the blessing?”

  “The hell? What's this blessing thing?” Frustration bled into his voice, sharp and bitter. His vision swam. The room felt too hot and too cold at the same time.

  The screen prompted two options in stark white boxes: Yes and No. Beneath them, in tiny print barely visible at the bottom of the screen, it read: “All actions have consequences.”

  Viktor stared at the options. What did he have to lose now? His character was already gone. The game was already over. And something was very wrong with his body, the pain had spread to his jaw, his shoulder. He could barely think straight.

  He clicked Yes.

  Maybe this blessing would restore his account. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe—blank. That's what it felt like after hitting Yes.

  In a fraction of a second, he was floating in an open... abyss? Not falling. Not standing. Just existing in a space that shouldn't exist, where darkness had texture and depth without form. There was no up or down, no sense of his own body, yet he was aware. Conscious. Present.

  “Greetings, Viktor.”

  The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once—an omnidirectional thunder that didn't hurt because he had no ears to hurt. It resonated through whatever he had become, deep and ancient and utterly inhuman.

  “Your dedication is truly remarkable.” The words rolled through the void like waves. “Since you enjoyed the world you played in, why not live in it?”

  Viktor tried to speak, tried to ask what was happening, tried to scream. But he had no mouth. No lungs. No breath. He was just consciousness suspended in infinite dark.

  “The Infinite Abyss cares not for the rules of lesser beings,” the voice continued, unhurried and absolute. “You sought power at the edge of exhaustion. You found what was hidden. You dared when caution would have saved you.”

  A pause. The darkness seemed to pulse, contracting around him like a heartbeat. “Now you shall live the consequence of your choice.”

  “You've done well.” There was something almost like amusement in the flat tone now. “The Infinite Abyss Mana Amplifier should be a good enough reward. For this reason, I cannot give you a conducive life.”

  The words hung in the void.

  “Not like you know anything better.”

  The mockery in that last statement cut deeper than any insult Viktor had ever received. Before he could form a response—whatever that would even look like in this formless space, the darkness erupted.

  Heavy flashes of light, one after another. White. Blinding. Overwhelming. Each one searing through his consciousness like lightning through storm clouds.

  ---

  Viktor opened his eyes to a new kind of new. He was eating. Lunch? With his family. But they weren't his.

  The thought came automatically, instinctively. Yet he felt connected to them somehow—the weathered woman across the wooden table with tired eyes and flour-dusted hands, the broad-shouldered man to his left with calloused fingers wrapped around a clay cup, the small girl beside him who kept stealing glances at his plate.

  His plate. Half-eaten. Some kind of grain porridge with bits of... vegetables? Meat? It was hard to tell. The food was brown and lumpy, nothing like the instant meals and protein bars he survived on back on the island.

  Viktor raised his hand to continue eating, more out of confusion than hunger, and froze.

  His hand was at least three times smaller than before. Small. Soft. Child-sized. Where were the scars from the factory equipment? Where were the chemical burns? Where was the muscle built from inhuman factory hours?

  “Notch?”

  A meek voice. To him. At him.

  “What?” He jolted, head snapping up. His voice came out wrong—higher pitched, younger, not his own.

  The woman, mother?—looked at him with concern creasing her already lined face. “I know the dish isn't the best today, but you have to eat, my dear.” Her voice was soft, patient. “You'll get sick if you don't.”

  Questions flooded his mind. How is he Notch? That's a fictional character. A game avatar. A collection of pixels and code that he'd spent one hundred in-game years developing. And why is he being told to manage a meal that seems similar to what he takes regularly?

  The porridge tasted familiar somehow, reminded him of the cheap grain the factory workers got as rations. But different. More... real.

  He opened his mouth to speak, to ask, to demand answers—a flash, bang-like effect hit him hard. Memories that weren't his, and were his at the same time, started pouring in like water through a broken dam.

  Running through muddy streets between ramshackle houses. The village of Draymoor. Population: maybe two hundred. Father, Garen Dryk—works the fields. Back problems. Drinks too much on rest days. Mother, Elara Dryk—takes in washing. Hands always red and raw. Sister, Mira Dryk—seven years old. Wants to learn to read but there's no school here.

  And him. Notch Dryk. Twelve years old. Helps father in the fields. Dreams of adventure. Dreams of magic. Dreams of being more than just another poor village boy.

  The memories kept coming, faster now, overwhelming. Learning to walk. Scraping his knee on a rock. The taste of stolen honey. The fear when bandits came through last winter. The shame of wearing patched clothes. The anger at being poor. The hope that maybe, just maybe, life could be different.

  Viktor—no, Notch? Both?—gasped, his small hands gripping the edge of the table.

  “Notch, are you alright?” His mother leaned forward, worry deepening the lines around her eyes.

  He stared at her. At this woman who was and wasn't his mother. At this life that was and wasn't his life. “Uh...” He swallowed hard. “It's delicious?”

  Elara's eyes widened slightly. She stared at him for a long moment, her hands stilling over the bowls she'd been gathering. It was uncanny for Notch to be grateful for a meal of poor quality—everyone knew how he'd whine about it even after finishing his plate.

  “Is that so?” Her tone was careful, probing, like she was testing water for temperature.

  Notch nodded, uncertain what else to say. The memories told him he should be complaining right now, but Viktor—the part of him that was still Viktor—had eaten far worse during long gaming sessions. This porridge was actually warm, at least.

  Elara's expression softened. “Well, there isn't a lot of meat these days. They're all so expensive to get.” She sighed, returning to her task. “The hunters seem to have sighted a predator.”

  Garen scoffed, setting down his clay cup with more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the small room.

  “They'll have to wait for the nobles to send soldiers to kill it or chase it off.” His voice carried years of resentment, of watching powerful people solve problems from a distance. “Till then, the hunters won't have much business.”

  He paused, his jaw tightening. When he spoke again, his tone was darker. “Hopefully nothing will happen to the farmland where I work. Unless it's forced and unpaid leave.”

  The way he said “forced and unpaid leave” spoke of too many past experiences, too many months of uncertainty.

  Notch took in all the new information, his mind racing. He'd already realized what this was—he'd been thrown into a cliché isekai of sorts, matching his game's world. Urylia. The continent of Draymoor sat in the western territories, far from the capital cities and major quest hubs. A starting area for low-level players. A place most people left as soon as they could.

  And now it was real.

  The worn wooden table beneath his small hands was real. The worried creases on his mother's face were real. The bitterness in his father's voice was real. These weren't NPCs with limited dialogue trees. These were people with lives and problems and fears that existed whether he was there to witness them or not.

  So that thing, whatever it is—caused all this. Whatever this is.

  He let out an audible sigh.

  Mira, his little sister, looked up from her nearly empty bowl. “Are you sick, Notch?” Her voice was small, genuinely concerned.

  “No.” He met her innocent eyes. “Just... tired.”

  That, at least, was the truth. Viktor was tired. Tired from almost a hundred thousand hours of playing. Tired from twelve-hour factory shifts. Tired from dying.

  And now Notch would have to figure out how to live.