Prologue
Sanctuary of Erosion
The zone looked like nothing recognizable.
No ruins, no cathedral, no dungeon. Just a vast, dark expanse, carved into a substance the system couldn’t define—as if the environment itself had collapsed to reveal something older than the game.
The ground was neither stone, nor metal, nor void. It barely breathed, pulsing in places, like dead skin still twitching with faint, nervous spasms.
At the center of the vast, perfectly drawn circle stood the thing.
Massive. Silent. Improbable.
A figure composed of black shards, fractured white light, and shifting edges.
No fixed form. No face.
Just presence. Density.
A visual paradox—impossible to stare at for more than a few seconds without feeling a dizzying vertigo.
Space bent around it.
Sound struggled to exist here.
Even identification spells returned blank lines, as if the system itself refused to name what it had placed there.
[FINAL BOSS – ???]
[Difficulty: Unknown]
[Status: Inactive]
Six players stood in silence, watching.
Six high-level players—armed, prepared, coordinated.
Their usernames hovered faintly above their heads, flickering in the thick, data-saturated haze.
— “We’re sure that’s the boss?” the tank asked, his voice tight.
— “It’s at the center. Not moving. No HP bar. Not a bug—this is intentional,” an archer replied, pulling down her hood.
— “One of those things that stares at you without eyes and evaluates you without an interface,” muttered a third, visibly nervous.
They stepped forward cautiously, as if crossing a sanctified, forbidden zone.
No battle music. No ambient sound. Not even the wind.
Just silence… oppressive silence.
Something was off.
The boss wasn’t attacking.
It wasn’t activating.
It didn’t even react to their presence.
And yet, the farther they moved in, the more they felt an invisible tension tightening around them, like a thread tied to a blade.
The ground vibrated beneath their boots, pulsing intermittently.
Their interfaces briefly flashed incoherent messages—vanishing just as quickly:
“he is here”
“core. Core. Core.”
“you’re not supposed to…”
Then everything returned to normal.
— “Okay, stop,” the tank said. “Do we engage, or wait for a trigger?”
— “I don’t know… it feels like it’s waiting.”
— “For what?”
— “I don’t know… something. Someone. A signal?”
They fell silent.
A shared shiver rippled through them.
The kind you don’t explain.
The kind you feel… right before everything breaks.
Then a low hum.
The central circle lit up.
The boss’s figure straightened slightly.
Nothing brutal. Nothing dramatic.
Just movement.
Tiny.
But enough.
[CORE] : Activation sequence — Phase 1.
Loading anomalies.
Behavioral analysis in progress.
The tank gripped his weapon.
The DPS shifted into position.
The healer stepped back.
Their instincts screamed. Logic faltered.
But the mechanism had already begun.
The boss still hadn’t moved.
But the arena…
The arena had started to breathe.
Chapter 1
Logging in was nothing. Until it became everything.
The face of a smiling man plastered every screen in the city.
A smile too white, too smooth—like it was generated by a badly tuned AI.
Behind him, in bold capital letters:
CTRL:CORE
“Don’t just play. Become.”
The ads played on a loop.
In the subways, on bus stops, even on the toilet walls of a downtown fast-food joint—the same message:
The game that was going to change everything. Again.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Originally, it was called Project Ascension.
A classic MMO. Ambitious. Decent. Fast-paced combat and a loyal player base.
Eli remembered.
He had played it.
He had even liked it.
But now, it was no longer that game.
Now, the name had changed. The logo too. Even the air felt different.
CTRL:CORE.
A promise that said almost nothing—yet was flooding social media for two straight weeks.
Paid influencers crying tears of joy.
“Leaked” videos of headsets, visors, reactions that looked like orgasms on acid.
Entire threads from ex-players claiming “the system watches you”, “this isn’t a game”, “it’s a trap.”
And still, despite the rumors, the warnings, the unsettling vibe…
Everyone wanted in.
Eli sat on his couch, alone in an apartment too big for a single soul, a bowl of cold noodles between his legs, eyes fixed on a muted TV screen.
The official trailer was still playing.
“New version. New world. New awareness.”
“CTRL:CORE – Control is no longer in your hands.”
— “What a shitty tagline,” he muttered.
He shrugged, shoved in another mouthful, and turned the volume down.
It had become routine.
Every day, a new teaser, a new promise of digital transcendence.
But that morning, something felt… off.
Something in the air.
A silence behind the noise.
Like the whole world was holding its breath before diving in.
He grabbed his phone and reread the message he’d received the night before:
[PRIORITY INVITATION]
“Subject identified: Eli Warren. Potential detected. Update approved. Connection required.”
He hadn’t signed up.
Hadn’t entered any contests.
And yet—the invitation was there.
With a 3-gigabyte file attached, labeled “initial integration.”
He’d hesitated.
Then opened it.
Just to see.
And since then… nothing.
No follow-up.
Just silence. And the eerie sense that someone, somewhere, was waiting for him to say yes.
He got up, tossed the empty bowl into a dry sink, crossed the apartment like a robot, and opened the back closet.
The headset was there.
The old Project Ascension model. Dusty. Still bearing the smudges from his last run.
He picked it up. Turned it over.
Same ports.
But one light blinked.
Green.
Steady.
The update had already installed.
He frowned.
— “I didn’t ask for this, asshole.”
The headset didn’t respond. Of course.
He sat back down, placed it on his lap, stared at it the way you stare at a weapon—or an ex texting you at 3 a.m.
Something dangerous.
Something you’re not supposed to want.
But plug in anyway.
He hesitated.
For real.
Not to look dramatic. Not to convince himself.
But because deep down, something inside him already knew.
Not “suspected.”
Knew.
That this wasn’t just a game.
Not this time.
He put the headset on.
Tight fit.
A tingling at the temples.
A brief vibration at the base of his skull.
Then the screen went black.
Not normal black.
Absolute black.
Like even light had left the room.
A voice echoed in the void—clear, flat, almost human:
“Welcome to CTRL:CORE. Preparing cognitive layers.”
“Connecting…”
“This process is irreversible.”
He tried to take the headset off.
His hands moved—too slowly.
“Stabilizing…”
“Initiating sensory injection… now.”
A sharp pressure at the nape of his neck.
Then—nothing.
No sound.
No vision.
No body.
Only darkness.
Perfect. Cold. Infinite.
And far away, barely a whisper:
“Thank you for accepting.”
He opened his eyes.
