The bar was called The Broken Lantern, a dimly lit den with warm lights and flickering lanterns that blinked as if exhausted. The walls were clad in aged wood and posters for concerts that likely never happened.

  The air reeked of stale beer, rancid grease, and the ghosts of unrecorded conversations. A forgotten jukebox in the corner crooned static-laced 80s ballads, as though tuning into the past.

  Thirteen sat at a back table under a trembling lamp. He looked older. Much older. Even more than me.

  At twenty-five, the shadows under my eyes and pallid, unkempt skin aged me to thirty, but Thirteen… he looked fifty. Or maybe it was the contrast with how I remembered him in Regulus Online.

  There, he’d been a hulking warrior clad in black plate armor with crimson accents, his cloak billowing in digital winds, his sword as long as a bike.

  In real life, he was gaunt, his face etched with small scars like memories carved into flesh. His hair, once long and tied back, was now cropped short and slicked. A patchy beard poorly hid a jawline that’d clearly taken too many hits.

  We greeted each other with a long, firm handshake, as if verifying the other’s existence.

  His breath, heavy and laced with alcohol, assured me he was indeed real enough.

  We talked about our lives. Filling gaps.

  His had been far wilder than mine.

  “After Regulus, I got recruited,” he said, drinking like the words scorched his throat. “Saw combat in the Sidonia Wars. Didn’t last long. Dishonorable discharge.”

  The Sidonia Wars—a brutal resource conflict in the southern deserts. Politics, forgotten soldiers, and blood.

  “After that? Private security, bounty hunting across Eurasia. The usual. Bullets, babes, booze.”

  His stories were as entertaining as they were implausible. But his delivery sold them: broad gestures, shifting voices, pauses that let imagination fill the blanks.

  “Dated cosmetics models and what you’d call ‘cat ladies’—” He barked a laugh, and I joined in. “Each wilder than the last.”

  I didn’t talk much. My story fit in five minutes: a decade chained to a desk, coding useless algorithms, chugging coffee like medicine.

  A waitress approached—her hair tied in a sleek ponytail, lips painted a violent red. She smiled at Thirteen as though they were old friends, resting a hand on his shoulder while offering another round.

  “Always the charmer?” I asked as she left.

  Thirteen smirked, raising his glass. “And that’s my whole story.”

  “Well… it’s something,” I said, finishing my fourth beer. My vision blurred. I would need to leave my car behind and call an Uber.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “Nothing like the old Regulus days. Miss that shit, even if it was brief.”

  “Me too,” I muttered, drowning in memory tides.

  “What about the others?” I asked. “PlotTwist. Raven. OldSpices. Buster. Clockwork. Octagun. Zeroh. Diva. Munchi… Nova.”

  Each name resurrected ghosts:

  PlotTwist – Our elusive rogue, cloaked in black smoke. A master spy. IRL: Rick, a soft-spoken lit student with a nervous laugh who always knew more than he said.

  Raven – The silver-haired archer, lethal from afar. IRL: Val, a high schooler who spoke volumes with a raised eyebrow.

  OldSpices – Our white-robed healer, endlessly patient. In real life, a retired pharmacist who always called us “pals,” despite being more than four times our age.

  Buster – The hammer-wielding berserker, all brute force and movie quotes. IRL: Allan, a basketball player/streamer chef.

  Clockwork – The gnomish engineer, chaos incarnate. IRL: A German teen with Asperger’s who programmed like the game was his code.

  Octagun – Our unshakable tank, a human wall. IRL: Kenji, calm, deep-voiced, solid as bedrock.

  Zeroh – The arcane mage who spoke in Shakespearean third person. IRL: Victor, a JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure otaku lost in his own lore.

  Diva – The bard who boosted stats and morale. IRL: Jess, a radiant New Yorker who called raids “therapy.”

  Munchi – The beast tamer with ever-changing pets. IRL: Patrick, a diplomat’s son, gaming from airports before it was cool.

  And Nova—

  The name hit harder than expected.

  Our fire-slinging sorceress. Devastating spells, fiercer laughter. IRL: Blair Holloway. The girl I’d met in voice chat, then pixels, then flesh. Still had a crumpled photo of us in a trunk. She’d been… something. Something that left scars.

  I sighed. Was I smiling? Hurting? Hard to tell through the alcohol haze.

  Thirteen watched me closely. “Nova, huh?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, drowning the thought in beer.

  “Well, about the gang…” Thirteen’s tone darkened. “Octagun’s dead.”

  He said it plainly, his matter-of-fact tone thickening the air.

  My grip tightened around the glass. “What? For real?”

  “Yeah. Went missing. Two months radio silent. His wife finally contacted me—and the cops.”

  “I looked for you, but you… you had changed your email, your number.” He looked at me with a hint of reproach, but without harshness.

  “By the time I tracked you down… too late. They found him under a bridge.”

  “Murdered?”

  “That’s the kicker. No wounds. Autopsy inconclusive. Like he just… shut down.”

  My gut twisted.

  “That’s why I called. Funeral’s this weekend. Spent three days rallying Oblivion’s founders.”

  My heart lurched—excitement? Dread?

  “You found them all?”

  “Most. Some overseas.” He gave me an odd look. “But Nova’s coming. Confirmed.”

  My heart stuttered again.

  “Cool,” I said, too casually. Too rushed.

  Thirteen laughed loud enough to draw stares.

  “Octagun was married?” I deflected. “Sly bastard.”

  “To a sweet homemaker type. The non-stabby kind.” Another laugh, weighted with stories untold.

  I checked my phone. “Late. Gotta go.”

  Back to my office hell tomorrow. Back to Elena. Back to Jonas.

  I reached for my wallet, but Thirteen stopped me.

  “I’ve got it, Commander,” he said, winking.

  Commander. My raid title.

  “Where’s the funeral going to be?”

  He looked at me for a moment, then said,

  “Don’t worry. Give me your address. I’ll pick you up.”

  The Uber dropped me off at my building, but my mind remained at the bar. With the ghosts. With the names. With Regulus.

  I felt my head ache, my eyes misting with something unspoken. The cold acid rain of [Lake Bloom] pierced my skin as if it were real—as if I had returned to the world that had shaped my life forever and then shattered it when it disappeared.

  After that, I was pulled back to reality, just another kid from a dysfunctional family.

  The memory dissolved, leaving me as Dorian Fairmont—not Ark23, but a solitary programmer with unresolved mommy issues and a cramped studio apartment.

  Yet even in this hollow reality, I remained tethered to another existence.

  Severed from a world I had longed for more than anything.

  A world I had worked tirelessly to forget…

  A world that no longer existed—yet stubbornly refused to stay dead…

  Then, a notification flickered briefly in the corner of my vision:

  [Octagun had left Oblivion… Remaining clan members: 132.]