CHAPTER 1:   THE FIRST SYNC

  It’s summer again. The kind that makes your shirt stick to your back and your thighs sweat against the floor. Your table fan’s trying its best, bless its cheap plastic heart, but the real noise in the room? That award goes to your laptop fan—whining like a jet engine, louder than any boss battle soundtrack could ever be.

  And yeah, speaking of which...

  Clang.

  Whoosh.

  Shing.

  Oh, that's Sekiro. And, yeah, that idiot on screen just tried to parry on 1 HP again.

  Guess who?

  This is Marshal. The guy who graduated college at 18. Eighteen. While the rest of us were still figuring out which anime waifu to simp for, this guy was out there speedrunning life.

  And now?

  He's hunched over a scuffed-up 2021-gen laptop—second hand, but it used to be top 4 in its class. Still kicking. It howls every time he launches a game, like it’s screaming: “This wasn’t what I was built for!” But it still holds up, barely.

  While others saw just another teenager wasting hours on “pointless” games, Marshal’s family had long given up that illusion. Because they knew. Marshal was different.

  A gamer with sniper reflexes. The kind who could sit for hours in a game, precision in every shot, pulling off moves like they were second nature. But don't get it twisted—this wasn't some casual gaming grind. He was immersed in it, learning the nuances of every game he played. Like in Sekiro, where every move mattered.

  His family saw him as a quiet force. His father, always out working long hours to keep food on the table. His mother, quietly concerned, but with that unwavering trust that her son was doing something bigger. They saw his late-night gaming sessions and the occasional mumble about "perfecting my aim" or "I’ll get this next round," and they understood. It wasn’t just about the games. He was shaping himself.

  That laptop?

  It had been a stretch. A loan from the neighbors. Marshal’s dad had to borrow money just to get it. It was a 2021-gen machine—once a top-tier beast in its prime, now it squeaked under the weight of his ambition. But Marshal didn’t mind. He'd found ways to make it work. The 16GB RAM upgrade? That was on him. His part-time job as a gym trainer funded it, and every time he’d launch a game or tweak some settings, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud. He wasn’t just a gamer, after all. Sure, he spent most of his free time hunched over the laptop, but he also spent hours at the gym, teaching classes, spotting clients, and making sure his body was in shape to match his mind. A balance of strength and precision. His muscles were the result of his hard work, just like his skills in the game.

  Being a gym trainer wasn’t the dream, but it gave him the space and flexibility to keep grinding on both fronts—his body and his mind. Every hour spent helping someone hit their fitness goals was just another hour of discipline, another hour of self-improvement. Every rep, every client’s success, was another victory to add to his growing list. It was about balance. Just as he pushed his body in the gym, he pushed his mind in the digital world, levelling up both in tandem. After all, a sharp mind and a fit body could take him far—further than he’d ever get by just watching the world go by.

  But still, his parents worried. They didn’t fully get it. They didn’t understand how playing games could shape his future. They just saw their son hunched over the laptop, eyes glued to the screen, while the world outside moved on, oblivious to the fact that this digital grind was building something bigger than they could see.

  And then came that familiar sound—the tap of bare feet slapping the floor. The sound of his sister sneaking in.

  “Oi, laptop goblin,” her voice chirped, cutting through his focus. “Want some ice?”

  Marshal didn’t need to look up. He knew exactly who it was.

  Lily. His little sister. The one who ruled the house when his parents weren't around.

  “Seriously, you’re still here?” she said, her voice dripping with that mockingly sweet tone she used when she knew she was annoying him. “Go outside, take a break. You know… be human for once.”

  Still, no answer. Just a click of the mouse as he executed another parry in Sekiro. This time, he'd nailed it. One less death, one more step closer to perfection.

  Lily wasn’t having it though. She sidled up beside him, close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath. Then—without warning—she pressed a handful of ice to the back of his neck.

  He freaked out.

  “Wha—?!”

  She giggled, almost as smug as the boss in Sekiro he’d just barely beaten. Then, without missing a beat, she shoved the glass of crushed ice into his hands.

  “There,” she said. “Now you’re cool.”

  He groaned, taking the ice, but she was already walking off.

  “Whatever,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re gonna turn into a skeleton at this desk.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  But Marshal knew she'd be back. She always came back to mess with him. Annoying? Absolutely. But Lily was still his brat. And if anyone tried to talk down to him, to belittle his grind? She'd tear them apart mentally with just a few choice words that would leave them speechless. She knew better than anyone that Marshal wasn’t just playing games. He was preparing for something.

  It started, like most disasters do, with overconfidence.

  Marshal had conquered Sekiro. Worn down bosses with nothing but 1 HP and muscle memory. He’d built AI models that solved problems most people didn’t even know existed. He was fast. Sharp. Focused.

  So when he heard about “Extraction Shooters,” his curiosity lit up.

  “It's like real life but hell,” someone said online. “One shot, you bleed. No markers. No hints. No second chances.”

  It was the opposite of chaos.

  It was brutal order.

  Tarkov-style games didn’t care about your flashy skills. You either thought like a soldier or died like a fool.

  Marshal downloaded it anyway.

  And within his first two hours?

  He died. Ten times. In under thirty minutes.

  Sometimes he didn’t even know where from. Sometimes the match hadn’t even fully loaded before a bullet ended his run. He moved like an idiot. He aimed like he was still in an anime game. And when he tried sniping? He used the sniper rifle like an AR—rapid firing in panic, alerting the whole map and whiffing every shot.

  Every. Damn. Time.

  His kill count?

  Zero.

  His death count?

  ...Let’s not talk about it.

  He slammed his hand on the desk one night after another failed run and muttered, “This game’s broken.”

  But deep down, he knew.

  He was the one who was broken.

  And so, like he always did when his pride took a hit, he messaged the one person who’d never sugarcoat anything:

  Vince.

  An old online friend. An absolute menace in tactical FPS. Calm as ice, sharp as a scalpel. British accent so dry it could flay you, and sniping skills so smooth they could lull you to sleep—then kill you mid-yawn.

  Marshal: “Bro. I suck. I literally die before I even hear a bullet. Teach me something before I uninstall this and throw my laptop out the window.”

  Vince: “You’re not playing the game. You’re just panicking inside it.”

  Marshal: “I am the panic.”

  Vince: “Then become the ghost they panic about. First rule: never run unless you're ready to be seen. Second? Stop aiming like you’re dragging a sword. You're sniping, not swinging.”

  Marshal wanted video tutorials. Settings. Loadouts.

  But Vince didn’t give him any.

  He gave him rules.

  Mindset.

  Discipline.

  And Marshal… listened.

  He printed the rules out, taped them on the wall above his desk.

  “Sound is more powerful than sight.”“Don’t chase kills. Hunt silence.”“One bullet. One breath. That’s all you get.”

  His free hours from gym work became training blocks. Not full matches. Not kill-chasing.

  It wasn’t the game Marshal wanted.Hell, he didn’t even like it.

  The UI was bare, the maps were dead silent, and the gameplay?Unforgiving.No gimmicks. No fun mechanics.Just you, your gun, and a whole lot of dying.

  But Vince played it.And Vince didn’t respect casuals.

  Vince—the British sniper built out of sarcasm and steel nerves.He didn’t “teach,” he judged.Didn’t offer tips—just dissections.

  “That’s not a flank. That’s a death sentence.”“You peak with your elbows, not your brain.”“Sniper? You? You’re just a drama queen with bullets.”

  Marshal hated it.

  But deep down… he knew Vince was right.

  Vince was brutal. Efficient. And even though he was still learning himself, his game sense was razor sharp.

  He never showed Marshal a thing.Just gave him puzzles wrapped in insults—and Marshal solved every one of them.

  That became his ritual.

  Morning gym clients.Afternoon VOD reviews.Nighttime drills.

  He practiced aim discipline. Built guns like a surgeon, not a soldier.Trained his reaction time like a boxer shadowboxing with pixels.

  He stopped treating the sniper like a flashy tool—and started wielding it like a scalpel.

  Four months. No shortcuts.

  But the deeper he got, the more the outside noise crept in.

  “You think this gaming thing is going anywhere?”That was his dad. Not yelling. Just tired.

  He’d say it when he thought Marshal was asleep.In hushed talks with Mom after dinner, when the plates were clean but the air still heavy.

  “He was supposed to be a software guy,” his father said once, not knowing Marshal heard.“He’s wasting time shooting pixels instead of building something real.”

  His mom defended him.Sort of.

  “He’s passionate. At least he’s not doing drugs, right?”

  That stung worse.

  Like gaming was some lesser evil, not a career.

  Not a choice.

  And then there was Lily—his little sister with a mouth like a sword.

  She never said it to his face, but he caught her once texting a friend:

  “Yeah, he’s smart but like... all he does now is play loser games and grunt at his laptop.”

  Did it hurt?

  Damn right it did.

  But Marshal didn’t clap back.

  He just took it.Swallowed it.And logged back in.

  Even Y-Tube felt like betrayal.

  His clips?Low views.No algorithm push.Even his “cleanest” snipe got buried under garbage highlight reels and rage edits.

  This game didn’t reward flash.It rewarded consistency.

  And that doesn’t go viral.

  “I’m not sure it’s worth it,” Marshal whispered one night.Not to anyone in particular—just to the screen.To the grind.To himself.

  But then Vince messaged—just five words:

  “Quitting’s easy. So is losing.”

  Marshal stared at the message for a long time.

  Didn’t reply.

  Didn’t have to.

  He still didn’t love the game.Still hated the way it felt to lose, to watch hours of footage with no reward, to hear his parents argue softly about his future in the next room.

  But he kept going.

  Because this pain was shaping him.

  Because he was building more than just aim.

  He was building discipline.Precision.And something no one could take away from him—not Vince,

  not Y-Tube, not even the people who meant well but didn’t understand.

  Four months in.

  Still unknown.Still misunderstood.Still grinding.

  But now?

  Cold hands. Sharper eyes. A sniper’s heart.

  Even if this game wasn’t his, it was teaching him the one thing he needed most:

  How to survive in a world that doesn’t clap for the quiet ones.

  The clock read 1:12 a.m.

  Another aim tutorial playing on loop.Marshal sat slouched at his table, gym tank still damp with post-workout sweat, a cold dinner half-eaten beside his mousepad-box.

  Vince hadn’t messaged in a month.

  Not even a “Yo.”Not even a ping.

  Work got him. Life pulled him under.

  And Marshal?

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Still grinding.Still stuck in a game he didn’t love.Still unmatched in gun builds, still average in win rate.

  He could sculpt loadouts like an artisan, dismantle recoil patterns in his sleep, build the smoothest suppressor meta combo anyone’s seen……but what did it matter? No one was watching.

  He almost shut the laptop.

  Cursor hovered over the little red ??He’d already watched this VOD twice. His brain was fried. His arms sore from the gym, his eyes dry and blinking against the screen light.

  And that’s when he heard it.

  “YYYYYYEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

  The sound blasted through his laptop speakers like a damn riot.Big crowd. Roaring crowd.Explosions, lasers, chanting.

  The camera shook like someone had just scored the final goal at the World Cup.A name echoed over and over again from the commentators:

  "AND HE TAKES THE FINAL DROP—UNREAL SNAPSHOT FROM DUSK RIDGE! THAT’S IT! CHAMPIONSHIP POINTS LOCKED IN!"

  Marshal flinched so hard he almost fell out of his chair.His mom stirred in the other room. His soul left his body for a second.

  But she didn’t wake up.

  Miracle.

  And on screen?A black-and-chrome tactical HUD, layered over a battlefield straight out of sci-fi purgatory. Not Fortnite, not some kiddie rainbow game.

  This was cold. Clean. Brutal.But something about it… felt alive.

  And then the logo dropped.

  "REVETIEN: ASCENT LINK – PROTOCOL ZENITH"

  Marshal blinked.

  The trailer had kicked in midstream autoplay.Not a sponsored ad.Just a live stream highlight.But the game?

  It commanded attention.

  “This… is not just a game. This is the edge of evolution.”

  [Dark screen. The hum of machinery. Slow zoom toward a high-tech, circular dome glowing with cybernetic veins.]

  “Welcome to the future.”

  “Where skill is not borrowed… but bred.”

  “Where memory defines the battlefield. And every choice is final.”

  “This is: Revetien: Ascent Link – Protocol Zenith.”

  [The camera cuts through holographic interfaces as a metallic voice overlay.]

  “Forget what you knew about shooters.”

  NO battle passes. NO universal metas. NO second chances.

  “Protocol Zenith isn’t just about aim.It’s about understanding.The game knows you.”

  “With advanced memory-mapping AI, Revetien analyses your playstyle—across all genres, all inputs, all decision trees—and generates a custom skill pool just for you.”

  Let’s Starts with SKILL SYSTEM:

  “You’ll begin with a 1,000-skill armoury:– 700 based on your past games.– 300 surgically selected by our system, based on patterns that match your mental rhythm.”

  “From this arsenal, you must select:– 5 Passive Skills– 3 Active AbilitiesThese become your core.”

  “You will have exactly 30 days—in our testing phase—to find your flow.Build your path.Discover your true style.”

  “After that?”“Your account, your data, your safe picks… wiped.Everyone restarts. Only skill survives.”

  BOSSES:

  Revetien’s bosses are not scripted.They don’t follow patterns.Each boss is driven by adaptive learning AI—studying you across each attempt. Every rematch becomes harder, faster, smarter.

  Bosses learn’s about you and your patterns

  Same boss? New brain.It watches how you fight.Remembers how you dodge.And it evolves—not just moves—but mentality.

  MATCH STRUCTURE

  Each match is a 45-minute tactical extraction run.No respawns.One extract One win and One death per game.

  At 30 minutes, the zone begins collapsing.At 10 minutes, the boss appears.Players must choose to ally with otherplayers… or eliminate each other.

  If the boss isn’t killed by minute 44?Punishment Protocols Activate.AI-controlled doppelgangers, built from your weapon loadouts and kill patterns, will spawn in.

  Your accuracy? Nerfed.Your cover? Obsolete.And if you fail to escape in 60 seconds?You lose everything. Even your safe loot.

  CUSTOMIZATION + PHILOSOPHYNo pay-to-win.No flashy dances.Every outfit earned.Every loadout forged through survival.

  Only after you defeat 100 adaptive bosses can you change your appearance.

  Why?Because in Revetien, we don’t reward flash.We reward growth.

  Think you’re ready?You’ll start not in a lobby, but inside the MindVault—a simulation dome where the first sync begins.

  Inside, you’ll be scanned. Observed.Your past games, tactics, builds, timing—converted into data.

  You do not download Revetien.You are invited.

  Apply at a local neural sync pod.Enter the MindVault.And prepare to earn your protocol.

  [The screen glitches, warps, and then burns in the logo.]

  “Revetien: Ascent Link – Protocol Zenith”

  "Adapt. Ascend. Survive your mind.”

  His chest tightened.This wasn’t just another “play-to-be-sweaty” shooter.This was designed for people like him.Grinders. Solvers. Pattern-readers. Overthinkers.Ghosts of dead metas who never got to shine.

  And then, the final words:

  “Apply at a local sync pod. Enter the MindVault. You have 30 days. Ascend… or be forgotten.”

  He stared at the screen, wide-eyed.And then—WHAM.A loud thump echoed from the next room.

  His mom stirred.

  Shit.

  He slammed the laptop shut and held his breath, heartbeat pounding like a boss warning cue.But silence returned.No slipper across the face tonight.

  THE NEXT DAY:

  The sun didn’t shine that morning.Sky was a dull grey. The air was sticky and weird—like the city couldn’t decide whether it wanted to sweat or sleep.

  Marshal walked with his gym bag slung over one shoulder and a hoodie pulled low, moving past shuttered shops and cracked sidewalks. His phone buzzed with usual gym notifications, but he ignored them.

  Today wasn’t about reps.Today was entry.

  The address led him to a dead-end lot in the industrial zone. Old signage, dusty security cams, the kind of place that screamed "do not enter" in three languages. A gate creaked open slowly, revealing a squat, rusted dome—like a bunker that forgot it was supposed to be high-tech.

  This… was the MindVault?

  He stepped forward.

  The moment his foot crossed the threshold—

  Whhhhmmm.

  The air shimmered. The walls unfolded like petals.The rust peeled away, replaced by glass and chrome.Holograms flickered to life, wrapping around him like data vines. He wasn’t in the city anymore.

  He was in a neural forge.

  The inside pulsed with energy—white-blue veins running across the curved walls, interface orbs floating like planets in perfect sync. Light scans ran across his body from head to toe, warm and weightless.

  A synthetic voice greeted him:

  “Welcome, applicant. You are now inside the MindVault.”

  ?? INSIDE THE MINDVAULT — THE LAB

  The MindVault didn’t feel like a gaming facility. It felt like a place meant to contain something dangerous—or perhaps something divine.

  The air was crisp and sterile, the kind that smelled like freshly unwrapped tech. The walls pulsed with data, screens showing symbols and neural graphs he didn’t understand. He expected headsets, maybe motion sensors—what he saw instead were scientists and devs.

  Real ones.

  Not hoodie-wearing developers or esports staffers.These were lab coats, glasses, grey-hair-level IQ scientists.One of them passed by holding a neural reader that looked like a crown made of silver thorns.Another monitored holographic projections of skill trees growing like fractals.

  Marshal’s throat dried.

  "Wait… I know that face…" he murmured under his breath.

  He saw Dr. Eshwari Sen.He remembered her from a science docuseries on AI evolution when he was 13.The woman who theorized emotion-based decision layers in gaming intelligence.She was real—and she was right here.

  And no one had even noticed him yet.He was just a speck in this cathedral of thought.

  He stood there, stuck in his own body.No map. No instructions. No NPC guide.Just real people working.

  So, he did the dumbest thing he could’ve done.

  He cleared his throat and said, just a little too loud:

  “Uh… h-hi. I’m the test player. I mean… not the test player, I’m one of them. I think. Marshal. That’s me.”

  Silence.Three heads turned.

  The room slowed to a crawl.

  A tall man near the central console paused, his eyes locked on him.Dr. Sen blinked once, then gave him a tired smile—like a teacher used to dumb questions but kind enough to answer them anyway.

  barely perceptible nod, signaling him to sit down. Marshal mirrored her motion, his hands feeling a bit too sweaty for comfort, like a kid caught trying to cheat on a test.

  The moment was interrupted when a young staff member, corporate and overly eager, approached Marshal, holding a camera, a scanner, and a plastic card printer.

  Staff (cheerful): “Name?”

  Marshal: “Uh… Marshal?”

  The staff member typed something into the pad and nodded.

  Staff: “Gamer tag?”

  Marshal blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, I… I don’t have one.”

  The staffer looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “No gamer tag? Alright, let’s try this. How about... ‘ShadowKiller'?”

  Marshal (nervously): “Uh... ‘ShadowKiller’?” He gave it a shot, only for the staffer to shake her head.

  Staff (with a small smile): “Already taken.”

  “Okay, okay...” Marshal’s mind raced. “How about... ‘XxLoneWolfxX’?”

  Staff (typing): “Taken.”

  His brain scrambled. He tossed out famous names, like “MasterChief” and “Sephiroth.” All rejected. Each one already in use. He could feel his face burning.

  Then, as if he had no choice left, he mumbled to himself, half-laughing.

  Marshal (muttering): “What’s left… 'The Fool'?”

  The staffer paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She looked at Marshal, half-grinning, like she was waiting for the punchline.

  Staff (smirking): “'The Fool'...?” She pressed the key anyway, and the printer whirred to life, spitting out an ID card with Marshal’s half-blinking photo, real name, alias, and a glowing chip embedded.

  Marshal stared at the card in his hand like it was a ticket to a universe he wasn’t sure he wanted to enter.

  But then, reality hit him.

  Marshal (nervously): “Wait… hold on. I don’t have money for this. I didn’t—does this... cost anything? I mean, this is a game test, right? Is it like premium access or—”

  Before Dr. Sen could answer, Marshal felt a cold stare. The CEO was watching him from the other side of the room. His expression unreadable. Marshal’s stomach dropped, and for a second, he thought the CEO might actually speak, but instead, he just turned and walked away—like Marshal was just another number to be processed.

  Dr. Sen stepped closer. She whispered something to a colleague, her voice clinical and precise.

  Dr. Sen “softly said” Let’s get him to the Sync Chamber. Quickly”

  They guided him toward the Sync Chamber. The inside looked like something out of an old sci-fi movie: a cold, metallic pod with a semi-transparent shell.

  Marshal stepped in. The lid clicked shut with a quiet hiss.

  SYSTEM (calm, clinical): "Initiating sync... please remain still."

  The chamber hummed to life, and a cold pressure wrapped around his head.

  At 25%, everything went wrong.

  The lights flickered, turning a harsh, alarming red.

  SYSTEM (blinking error): “Sync failed. Neural path instability detected. Rebooting scan matrix.”

  Marshal's heart skipped. What the hell? He hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything.

  He glanced at Dr. Sen. She was no longer the calm, collected scientist. Her brows furrowed; her voice lowered to a quick, hurried whisper to a colleague.

  The CEO, ever the shadow, stood behind reinforced glass, arms crossed, staring intently. His eyes never left Marshal.

  Staff (whispering): “Is the system broken?”

  Dr. Sen (softly): “No… it’s… different. Something in his neural patterns.”

  A sudden rush of information spilled across the screens. The system accessed his raw client-side logs, digging deep.

  There was a pause.

  LAYER LOG — ID: Marshal

  GAME: ELDEN RING

  Boss: Malenia, Blade of Miquella? Attempt #10 – HP remaining: 7%? Attempt #109 – Victory.??- No-hit run confirmed??- Used items: Poison mist, bleed weapon??- Flask usage: 0??- HP on finish: Max??- Time to completion: 3 days 12 hrs??- Behavior pattern: Self-inflicted deaths on any damage taken??- Death count: 108 (non-boss kill)

  GAME: SEKIRO

  Boss: Genichiro / Isshin? No recorded victories? Save data last accessed: 78 days after purchase? Input patterns: 94% parry attempt failure rate? Last logged note: “fuck this game”? Application closed mid-fight — not reopened

  GAME: DARK SOULS III (MODDED)

  Boss: Orphan of Kos? Win status: Victory? Boss HP at death: 25%? Player HP: Full? Log note: “Intentional death”? Replay not saved? Win condition: Unplanned blind roll + backstep swing? RNG probability: 0.07%

  GAME: SGWC2 (Sniper Ghost Warrior Contracts 2)? Logged kill streaks: 7 (5+ headshots in one life)? Clip retention: 0? Deleted recordings: 89? Replay triggers: Manual wipe after hesitation? Scope wobble frequency: High? Behavioral pattern: Sudden freeze pre-shot → cancel → retry

  GAME: ARENA BREAKOUT

  Timeframe: First 10 Days? Matches played: 918? Wins (successful extraction): 24? K/D Ratio: 0.21? Accuracy: 19%? Death locations: Exfil gates (61%), hallways (22%), spawn zone (9%)? Loadout loss rate: 96%? Frequent loadout: Mosin + painkillers? Notes found in voice logs:??- "I suck."??- "Just one more."

  ADDITIONAL DATA FOUND:

  GAME: ARENA BREAKOUT — SEASON 2 STATS? Matches played: 300? Successful extractions: 276? Total kills: 673? Headshot rate: 61%? Inventory loss rate: 11%? Assists: 0 (solo entry 100%)? Current loadout: Custom-built M700, smoke+flash kit, double knife? Win condition: Psychological baiting, flank control, audio tracking? Squad invitations: Denied (automatic)? Behavior tags:??- “Plays solo only”??- “Never camps extract”??- “Weird movement”??- “Talks to himself sometimes”??- “Clutch god or dead weight — no in-between”

  GAME: SGWC2 — DEEP SYNC (After 4 Months)

  Session logs: 102? Confirmed kills: 316? Longest headshot streak: 12? Clip deletion: 0? Scope tremor rate: None? Kill delay: 0.8s after target lock? Rifle of choice: ZXR .50 (custom modded)? Wind calculation success rate: 94%? Noise management: Silent run, zero alerts triggered in 23 consecutive missions? Ammo recovery: 67% of shots retrievable? Signature technique: “Double-breath reverse correction”? Final log annotation:??- “If I miss, I’m dead. So I don’t.”??- “One shot is all I can afford. So I make it count.”? System behavior tag:??- “Improved beyond baseline”??- “No longer flinches”??- “Crisis focus: locked”??- “Emotionally steady under scope”

  NOTE (SYSTEM AUTO-MARKED)

  Subject's performance no longer matches psychological logs.Historical failure data contradicts current trajectory.Inconsistencies unresolved.Possible cause: external influence or… regression immunity.

  Processing player profile…Reconciling behavior model…Contradictions increasing…Data structure unstable…Statistical logic violated…Behavioral baseline invalidated…Unknown variable: Vince

  SYSTEM OVERLOAD

  Subject exceeds projected mental durability.Recovery patterns not accounted for.Breakdowns expected — recoveries logged instead.Statistical anomaly no longer classifiable.

  SYSTEM HALT INITIATED

  Error 500: Persistence ExceptionEmotional resilience overflowCognitive contradiction stormProfile corrupted beyond predictive capacity

  System failed Please try again after 72hours

  Dr. Sen took a step back, blinking in surprise. She hadn’t expected this—no one had this kind of error.

  He sat up slowly, unstrapped by a quiet staffer who didn’t say a word. No eye contact. No apology. Just procedure. The room felt colder now—like the machine itself had passed judgment.

  Dr. Sen stood nearby, arms crossed, staring not at the screen but at Marshal. His eyes were difficult to read. Not anger. Not pity. Just... silence.

  And then the CEO stepped through the observation doors, hands behind his back. Calm. Measured. Every step echoed.

  “25%,” he said plainly. “Then a neural rejection.”

  Marshal didn’t know what to say. His throat was dry. His heart was hammering. That was it? All this technology—this legendary place—and he’d failed before the trial even began?

  “So…” Marshal’s voice cracked slightly. “I’m not a player?”

  The room froze.

  One of the lab techs chuckled under their breath. Someone else scoffed. The air was heavy with unspoken dismissal.

  The CEO didn’t smile. “No, you’re not. Not yet.” i want it to be ceo sen should be schoked becasuse of failure after 25%

  And just like that, the little flame inside Marshal’s chest—the one he kept alive through every humiliating death, every quiet night training alone, every snide comment from his family—it flickered. Died.

  He looked down at the ID card in his hand. Still warm. Still real.

  It meant nothing.

  The CEO exhaled. “Come back in three days.”

  Marshal blinked. “What?”

  “Three days. You’ll report here again. Same time. Same scan.”

  “But I failed—”

  “We’re not syncing a username, Marshal,” the CEO said, now looking directly at him. “We’re syncing you. Your neuro-pattern, your memory lattice, your muscle feedback. If we wanted someone who could play the game… we’d grab a streamer. If we wanted someone who could win… we’d grab a pro.”

  “Then why me?”

  “We’re looking for someone who can grow.” His tone was calm, almost fatherly. “And you… You survive.”

  Marshal swallowed hard. He nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll come. But—”He looked up, sincere, a little embarrassed.“What’s the cost? For all this? I don’t have much now, but next time… I’ll pay.”

  There was a pause.

  And then laughter.

  Not cruel. Not mocking. Just disbelief. It echoed through the dome like a memory from a dream.

  The young woman who’d made his ID—quiet till now—stepped closer, smiling gently as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Didn’t you hear what we said?” she asked softly.

  “No pay-to-win.No flashy dances.Every outfit earned.Every loadout forged through survival.”

  She stepped back, arms crossed.

  “Why?”“Because in Revetien: Ascent Link – Protocol Zenith, we don’t reward flash.”“We reward growth.”

  Marshal said nothing.But that flame?

  It flickered again.

  And this time, it burned a little brighter. Then he left with a hope

  Then the night had grown colder by the time Marshal stepped out of the dome.

  He didn’t look back. Not at the silver letters spelling MindVault. Not at the glass doors that had closed behind him like the jaws of some ancient machine. The future had welcomed him with blinking lights and impossible tech... and still told him not yet.

  His ID card hung around his neck, heavier than it should’ve been. He kept looking at it. Just plastic. Just a symbol. But in that moment, it was everything.

  The streets were half-dead. Gloomy streetlights blinked over puddles of stale rain. Neon signs buzzed in that annoying way he’d stopped noticing years ago. But tonight, everything was louder. Sharper.

  His legs moved on autopilot. Down the slope. Through the narrow market street. Past the old tea stall where uncles played cards and cursed politics.

  Not a player. Not yet.

  The words bounced inside his head like bullets with no exit wound.

  When he finally reached home, the gate squeaked like always, and his mother yelled from the kitchen, “Why are you late again?! You didn’t even message!”

  “I went to... that place. The MindVault center,” he mumbled, unlacing his shoes.

  “Is it a job? They’re hiring you?” she asked, peeking from behind a wall, holding a dripping spoon.

  “No. Just testing something.”

  “Tch. What test is this now? At least bring milk when you test so much.”Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just tired.She didn’t get it.

  He didn’t blame her.

  LATE NIGHT

  Marshal sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop on the cardboard box he still used as a desk. His gym bag sat nearby, untouched. The smell of sweat still clung to the fabric.

  On-screen, a new video played.

  A recent Revetien: Zenith Protocol tournament match—full throttle. Celebrations louder than life. Fireworks. Crowds.

  The announcer roared:

  “—AND THAT'S THE FINAL STRIKE! Look at that execution—teamwork, precision, evolution! THIS… IS RE-VET-IEN!!”

  The screen exploded with confetti and digital overlays. Champion banners. Skill trees of champions displayed in 3D as their stats spun. Passive synergies. Custom abilities. User-defined playstyles. No two players alike.

  And yet… one name.

  One crown.

  Marshal leaned closer. Mouth slightly open.

  His cursor hovered over the “Download” button again.

  It was greyed out.

  Just like they said.

  You can’t download it.You have to register.You have to sync.