Azrael lunged at The Silver Sword, his physical capabilities boosted to previously unreached levels. The elements heeded his call, cladding him in power and boosting him further. His daggers were reinforced to their maximum, while his [Aura] proceeded him in the attack. He didn’t make it further than his first lunge.

  One step, one move, and Mors was suddenly in front of him. The twig, unbroken despite the furious battle, cut through the remaining distance in the same way it cut through his [Aura]. Its tip raced towards Azrael. The blow, the end, was inevitable.

  Azrael gasped and sat upright, throwing a worn blanket off himself. He ran a hand to where his heart was, patting it down. He was alive.

  The blow had never come. Azrael had lost. That fact was undeniable. However, it was only his pride, not his life that he’d paid with.

  Azrael looked down to his chest, to where the twig had stopped just short his heart. If Mors was wielding a sword, then he knew that he would have been dead.

  Despite that realisation Azrael could only think back to a single memory. Where he’d looked down at the stick pointed at his heart. The amount of power and control that had been focused on that small unquivering tip, stopped just short of his chest.

  He felt a shiver run through him from the memory, both in fear and in thrill. It was only just dawning on him. He could have almost died. He would have died if Mors only had half the control he did.

  Still, there was an undeniable thrill of letting loose and giving it his all, to throw all rules out of the window. There were no consequences, no real ones anyways. It was a game.

  It was the last thing that remembered, just before he’d blacked out, that left the greatest impression on him. He’d been beaten, broken, defeated and those apathetic eyes had looked down at him. Mors had stepped in close, the stick still pointed at his chest, and repeated a question in his same cold voice.

  “Who are you?” he had asked.

  Three words, but for Azrael they were the equivalent of to “What is life?”

  It had been a rhetorical question. Mors hadn’t expected an answer, just like he hadn’t the first time. It was, he realised, not a question for Mors, but for himself. And though Mors didn’t require an answer, it did need to be answered.

  “Who are you?”

  Who was he? Could anyone really say who he was?

  He was a gamer, but that didn’t define who he was. The past played a large role in defining his present.

  Who was he?

  He was Kale Evans, ex-programming student.

  He had been best friends with Samson.

  He’d fallen into a coma, losing a year of his life and more.

  He had been The_Darklord69, a notorious player, a quest clearer. Later he was Cain, a troublemaker.

  He’d even been a guild master in a small guild he’d made with Samson.

  He’d betrayed and been betrayed in turn, when he joined Holy Empire and played as Cain, the mage.

  He’d suffered, he’d endured, he’d hoped.

  He’d lost both parents and been pushed to the side by Holy Empire in a time where he’d sought normalcy and stability.

  And he’d withdrawn, forsaking the world as it forsook him. Yet, somehow, he was back.

  Almost.

  Things had changed. He had changed.

  Who was he?

  It was hard. The thoughts and ideas seemed disassociated with each other, coming in fragments.

  Azrael’s hand moved and he found himself touching a blanket. He removed it and looked around the room he found himself in. It wasn’t the same room from earlier, but a different one. It was smaller, containing only a chair, a table and the sleeping mat he found himself on.

  Light shone in from a window, showing that at least a night had passed since their duel. Despite the game’s prodigious healing Azrael still felt sore, as if he’d run a marathon and then thrown himself off a cliff – repeatedly. Though he was still covered in deep blue bruises, Mors had never drawn blood.

  Curious about his recovery, Azrael opened went to open his status, only to get swamped by the list of new notifications. The list went on, seemingly forever.

  “Sera?” he asked, curious. “Is there a way to compress the notifications?”

  He knew there was no way for Sera, or him to change the way his [Status] was laid out, as that was how he’d created the skill. The notifications however had not been something he’d added, but the system. It simply piggybacked off of his skill.

  Since Sera was the AI in charge of his skills and stat gains, it made sense that she would be the system’s link to his [Status] and the notifications.

  Sera giggled and the notifications compressed, with like notifications compressing into others of their type.

  He looked at the change appreciatively.

  “Thanks.”

  With a much shorter though still incredibly daunting list, he read on.

  He was both surprised and glad to see that the fight had pushed [Meditation] past level 25 and the first advancement. That wasn’t the only surprise that he found amongst the seemingly endless notifications.

  His status was growing, a numerical representation of who he was. Though it was enormously satisfying, it didn’t represent all of who he was and didn’t help answer the question that kept on swimming through his thoughts.

  Who am I?

  Rising, he moved to the door of the small room. He was going to find Mors. Maybe another fight would rattle an answer loose. That and the stat gains were good. A gamer’s gotta gain.