Rosaria breathed in as though she had climbed a mountain—the crisp, clean air of nostalgia was now replaced by the pungent stench of smoke and rubble.
It was difficult to believe someone could damage Mythikar like this. Buildings once filled with NPCs (non-player characters)—serving, living, anchoring the world—were tarred and defiled beyond recognition. Normally, the structures would reset after a short time. But they haven’t.
Strolling through the main streets, once buzzing with life like a vast city, now felt like wandering through the aftermath of an apocalypse. Rosaria felt like she was the sole survivor. She could almost see the ghosts of those who had once been there—the ones she had mingled with, passed by, watched in cliques or wandering alone.
On the side of a ruined building, colorful cursive graffiti shimmered like defiance against decay: Sylvanna Drake, I challenge you to a duel. You know where. Fifteen minutes. I hope the rumors about you are true. Signed, Death Slasher.
His name was Death Slasher. Was killing his game? The timestamp showed the message had been written ten minutes ago. He was likely watching her. Rosaria narrowed her eyes. Why would someone so destructive come to Mythikar? He seemed better suited to wasteland arenas and dystopian bloodsports. She needed answers. And she would get them—on or off the battlefield.
The Gladiator Arena was much like the Roman Colosseum, where warriors of every origin fought for rewards. It was where Rosaria had earned her title and gained her reputation. She was as swift and intangible as a specter; any damage done to her hardly affected Rosaria’s power and movement. Rather ironic since she had thought of herself as a ghost outside the game but fought like one in Mythikar. She had a habit of startling some people because they didn’t notice her; even her relatives and teachers would forget her presence. Rosaria had wanted the things people wouldn’t give, following the rules no one lived by anymore. It was all heartbreaking, lonely, frustrating to the point where she fought here frequently like an addict.
What was once was a shining colosseum was black with coal ash; dreadful things were drawn and written around it. Leaning by the entrance was a blue-finned, muscular man that stood in the doorway upon her approach.
The Dragoness’ cold blue eyes froze him in place. Her fiery solar hair flared against the visible scales that glimmered like starlight—her remaining skin a canvas of night. She dared him with an unspoken challenge.
There stood the legendary Sylvanna Drake. A proud fighter who refused submission. And yet, as he neared her, something shifted. A strange air surrounded her. Baven glimpsed a spark of hope through the windows of her soul.
Hope—for what?
Something inside him flared so much it scorched him. What did she want him to do? He didn’t wish to force her to surrender. No—he longed to lull her, to soothe her, to draw her gently to his side.
Ah, yes. To ease her toward him. To show her he was the one to trust with everything she held fragile in her templed chariot.
He would take great care not to shatter the sacred things she carried. She need only to place her faith in him.
Was this how all the men of this game felt before facing her in the arena?
“You don’t look like a Death Slasher,” Rosaria mocked.
“You don’t look like a Phantom Dragon, Sylvanna Drake.” He grinned. “More like. . . .a celestial one.”
“You know my name, yet I don’t know yours,” she said.
“The only people who haven’t heard of you would be those who don’t play.” Rosaria stared at him blankly, “you can call me Kaiser,” said Kaiser.
“You wished to challenge me? Is that why Mythikar is now a bleak badland?”
“I do wish to battle you; I had heard tell of a mighty player that dethroned the champion before you in a single, swift strike in mere seconds. And on the first try,” he said, “I have always been good with games myself, never had much difficulty with them. I was getting bored. . . and wanted to see your skills for myself.”
“Are there not videos of me you could watch?” she asked flatly.
“I did, in fact,” he said, stepping closer. “And just by watching them, I came to admire your style. You’re a natural fighter—you belong on the battlefield.”
“I don’t fight just to win,” she said quietly. “I fight to show who I am to those who see me as a loser. To prove that I’m strong.”
“And have you?” he asked, almost in a lulling manner.
Rosaria frowned. “I wouldn’t know. Besides, it’s not the kills that count,” she said gravely.
“If not the kills, then what?” Kaiser arched an eyebrow.
“The thing every woman wants, whether she admits it or not. The thing men refuse to give—and earned my malice for it,” she said, her voice sharp.
“Ah. So that’s why you fight. Cold vengeance against a gender?”
“In a word—yes and no. Only the more lustful of men.”
“And what if someone of that gender didn’t carry such lust? Didn’t display it so freely?” Kaiser asked, his tone quiet.
“I would hope that he was someone I befriended, but I don’t know any man of the sort,” Rosaria said in a tone that was laced with venom.
“Then I can bet that no opponent has offered a wager, am I wrong?” he asked.
“No, this is a place to earn money. Why?”
He grinned like a sly fox, “If I win, you’ll go on a date with me, IRL.”
Rosaria laughed in disbelief, “how would that be managed? We’re most likely not even in the same country!”
“We are much closer than you think,” he said.
Rosaria’s smirk faded.
“Isn’t that why you returned? Not just to check on Mythikar like any other veteran? I promise you this—on that date, I’ll explain everything.”
“How about this,” she said. “If I win, you tell me what I want to know right then. No date. And you explain what happened in my absence.”
“Then you wouldn’t know the secret behind the riddles, would you?” he countered.
“The riddles are just something the Admins put in to spice up the game,” she snipped.
“Are you sure?” Kaiser pressed.
Hesitation flickered through her. “I’ve read a good amount of riddles. They pertain to the quests.”
“Have you noticed the odd thing about them too?” he crept closer. “How they mention personable things about Diana in subtle details?”
Rosaria stepped back, sifting through her memories. She’d known something was off—but never knew what.
She straightened, lifting her chin with quiet confidence. “I suppose I’ll have to make you tell me?”
“You’re certainly welcome to try, but I’ll give you a hint about them first.” He leaned close enough for his breath to tickle her ear. “They’re not meant to be solved, they’re meant to be remembered,” he whispered, bowing and gesturing for her to go first. “After you.”
The words briefly shook her, “Oh wow, a gentleman. How kind of you,” she purred.
The players entered the arena one after the other. The digital MC (Master of Ceremonies) announced:
“Entering the arena is the veteran hybrid Dragon, with a total of one million, seven hundred forty-five kills—the ruthless, the vicious, the Phantom Dragon, Sylvanna Drake!”
An augmented roar of cheering echoed through the empty stadium.
“And the newcomer challenging her, with a total of two million, one hundred thirty-seven kills—known as Death Slasher, the destructive, the invulnerable, Kaiser!”
Another wave of cheers rang against the metal.
“Two legends of Mythikar face off on the field, one old, the other new. Who will take home the victory? Warriors—prepare to fight in three. . .”
Rosaria’s body responded before thought as a ball of fire bloomed in each hand, forging into twin blades that pulsed with heat.
“Two!”
She exhaled sharply. This was the moment to strike hard, to deal the most damage before defenses rose.
“One!”
Her eyes scanned Kaiser’s stance, reading the subtle shifts in his weight, the angle of his shoulders. She knew where to aim. She dropped into her fighting stance, low and coiled.
“Start!”
“Rovirché,” she whispered. Disappear. Her legs fired like pistons, propelling her forward in a blur.
The blades flared, slicing through the air with silent precision, aimed cleanly at his neck— Clang. Metal met metal. Rosaria staggered mid-strike, eyes wide.
What? She should’ve been invisible. The maneuver was flawless. But Kaiser had blocked her—and was staring straight at her. His irises glowed red, like molten glass. An unnatural shimmer like that of contact lenses lit from within.
Therma Oculus. Heat vision. A rare skill. It allowed players to see anything with a heat signature, even through cloaking. Rosaria’s breath caught. He shouldn’t have seen her. She was too fast. Too practiced. But he had. And he was grinning—eyes blazing with righteous fire and lips curled in wicked delight.
Rosaria couldn’t let him get under her skin. He would see red in her eyes soon enough.
She pivoted sharply, blades flashing—one strike to his torso, another to his shoulder. Ring. Ring. Sparks scattered like fireflies.
She leapt back, keeping her breath steady while casting, “Voltainus!” Lightning surged from the hilt of her blade, coiling around Kaiser’s blade like a living rope. She yanked hard, expecting the weapon to fly free—but instead, she was lifted into the air, pulled with her flame-steel blade.
“Vimish!” she shouted. The line snapped, dissolving into static and dropping them toward the ground. Rosaria’s wings unfurled midair, catching the wind. She hovered above him, coiled and poised.
Enough warm-up. It was time to get serious. A storm of elemental orbs burst upward, spiraling toward her in chaotic arcs.
Rosaria blocked most of them with her clockwork defense skill—a power that encased her in the hollow center of lined gears, whirring like a sanctified machine. She requipped from swords to a bow and quiver of arrows, summoned from spacial fire. Notching an arrow, she let it fly. Her enemy dodged, and the arrow burst into a nebula cloud of diamond dust.
She fired again—this time, an arrow that wouldn’t miss. Kaiser dodged once more, but the arrow curved midair and struck his back just as he began to brag about his agility. Rosaria bubbled up with laughter, helpless against the joy of it—something that had never happened before. She quickly recomposed herself, notched another arrow, and aimed it high into the sky. It multiplied into ten thousand arrows, raining down point-first toward her opponent. He summoned a bubble shield. It might reduce the damage, but it wouldn’t block them.
As she reached deeper into her rusty bag of tricks, Kaiser surprised her with a stun attack, stripping her of flight. She plummeted—but he caught her just before impact. Alive, she glimpsed a sliver of metal near her throat, even as a ball of electrified water pulsed by his ribs. Her blood boiled from the heat of battle; surely, it had been far too long since Rosaria fought like this. She darted through the chaos, dodging incoming hits, her imagination already racing toward the next time she’d log on. He looked at her in a way she couldn’t read—not that she’d ever been good at reading people.
“Well now, it seems we’re at an impasse,” Kaiser said. “Will we both get what we want, or will we not?” His tone teased, but something in his eyes hinted at more.
“Might as well get what we want—my curiosity’s piqued.” He unequipped his weapon, standing down and releasing Rosaria. She tossed the sparking orb at the interior colosseum wall, its crackle echoing like a closing spell.
“But I still don’t know how you expect us to go on a date IRL,” Rosaria said.
Kaiser drew her close. “Don’t be dumb now. It was me who called for you in the alley.”
So it was him. She pushed him off. “I figured as much, but it never hurts to have closure,” she said.
“Why didn’t you just ask?” he replied, his face scrunched in confusion.
“I’d rather make the person say it without asking. To me, it’s a surefire way of knowing the truth—and not looking dumb about it,” Rosaria explained. “Where do you want to meet, and when?” She could find out then how he knew her real face.
“How about Shellias Burger Joint in five? My treat.”
“Fine. Just make sure to hold your end of the deal and tell me what you know about the riddles. Also,don’t even think about using loopholes with me,” Rosaria said
“Alright, just don’t flake, Sylvanna Drake.” Kaiser gestured as though mimicking something, but she knew he was taking off his visor; his sea-based avatar shimmered, then folded in on itself like crumpling paper.
Rosaria followed suit. In her cyber-clockwork home, she peeled off her gloves and changed her shoes for the date. She glanced at the bathroom mirror. Her bark-like hair tangled at the ends; she brushed it smooth, staring into the navy-blue eyes she’d seen a thousand times before.
She splashed water on her face, wiped away the oil and dust, and slipped into a fashionable t-shirt with slightly ripped jeans. It was always hard to find denim that fit—skirts and capris were easier when you stood just five feet tall.
The gears whirred softly in her house, recycling the moisture from her faucet into energy. Most homes in America ran on steam-powered mechanics: gyros rotated along walls and rooftops, capturing everything from chimney smoke to kitchen heat. Even the sidewalks were gyro steel—gears turning beneath her feet like a mechanized outdoor walkway.
Rosaria often paused to watch them. The motion mesmerized her, not just for its function, but for its rhythm. It was a world of gears and steam, and she moved through it like clockwork.
Sheila’s Burger Joint was within walking distance from her home, and Rosaria arrived on time for her sudden date. Amidst the cluster of clockwork buildings, a deteriorating factory loomed—its rooftop pipe pumping steam into the narrow pathway between her house, her job, and the restaurant plaza. She’d always been curious about the building, but left it well enough alone. The area was heavily restricted, and curiosity had its limits.
The restaurant’s sign read closed, but inside, a black-haired, beautifully lean boy sat alone in a booth. Silvered highlights threaded through his hair, catching the light like wire filaments. His shirt read I survived the deadly automatons. He looked to be in his early twenties—just like her.
It wasn’t dark yet, and the store wasn’t supposed to be closed. But what caught her breath wasn’t the timing. It was the boy himself.
To her surprise, it was the same boy she’d had a crush on since junior high.
The chaotic feelings she once had for him had long since gone numb. If they hadn’t, she would’ve drowned in loneliness—isolated, aching, and unbearably alone. It was a struggle Rosaria had carried for years. Eventually, she abandoned hope.
But seeing him again—knowing that he was Kaiser—was like something inside her had been revived. And yet, it hurt. It hurt in a way that felt ancient. She wanted to feel alive again, but she was tired of hurting. Tired of always being in pain.
The boy lifted his head and smiled at her. It was him.
Rosaria glanced around. No one else was there. She pulled the door open, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t.
She stepped carefully toward the booth across from him. He stood up, wide-eyed.
“Rosaria? You’re Sylvanna Drake? She was you?”
“I’m surprised. We never spoke in school, yet you know my name.” Her voice was steady, but every fiber of her being buzzed with emotion—rage, confusion, something dangerously close to longing. “Though I suppose I was her. I created that avatar, after all. So yeah.”
She shrugged, as if the gesture could contain the storm stirring inside her.
“You’re Kaiser. Aka Baven Morrison,” she said, low and deliberately.
He nodded subtly.
“Okay. I’m here.” She slid into the seat across from him. “Now spill—before I leave.”
“Spill? Spill what?” he teased, easing back into his side of the booth, cool as a cucumber. “We don’t even have our drinks yet.”
Amusement glinted in his eye. He didn’t seem to notice her irateness—or worse, he did and didn’t care.
Rosaria’s gaze flicked to the tight muscle beneath his shirt, the way his flesh curved around bone. He was too perfect. She knew that. And yet, her walls began to crumble and fall. Her heart gave way to him anyway.
“You know what I mean. Start divulging what you know—or we go back to being strangers,” she said sharply. “Including what happened to Mythikar.”
“Before we get to that . . .” he began.
She was already dismantling any hope this encounter had stirred. She didn’t need him to make things worse.
“How have you been?”
Rosaria shot a look so dirty it could’ve corroded steel. He’d just discovered she was an online legend—and this was his response?
She slammed her hands on the table. He jumped. She rose to her feet in a dramatic sweep—an unfortunate penchant of hers.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” she screeched.
Baven stiffened, frozen like a statue.
“You don’t talk to me,” she snapped, “even though I made countless efforts to get closer to you online. And now, after finding out my secret, you ask how I’m doing? Like we’re old pals? Just what are you playing at?”
“Uh, nothing,” he said.
“Are you sure there isn’t an ulterior motive?” Her voice was sharp, but her restraint was thinning. “Especially given this remarkable coincidence.”
She wanted to hold back. But she didn’t. The stress, the rage—it wanted out. It wanted to flood the room like water breaking through a dam.
“What other motives could I have,” Baven asked, “besides teaming up with the strongest player in the game?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” she snapped. “There’s an infinite number of possibilities. Maybe you’re bored. Maybe you wanted to see if I’d fall for some twisted setup. Maybe you thought you could get close enough to hurt me.”
She paused, the next thought crashing through her like lightning. It was intrusive, absurd, and terrifyingly logical.
“Maybe you wanted to see if you could rape me, drug me, rob me—because that’s what powerful and wealthy people do when they’re bored.”
“Rosaria!” he gasped in his horrer. “How can you even think that? You know me—”
“I’ve known you existed,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “But I don’t know you. We’ve never had a real conversation until now. You never made the time—either because you couldn’t, or because you didn’t think I was worth it.”
Baven sputtered, struggling to find his words. “Okay, yes—but I’m not who I used to be, Rosaria.”
“NEITHER AM I!” she shouted, her voice sharp with fury. “And I’m not so naïve as to believe anything you say without a scrap of concrete proof. So unless you have something to show me right now, I’ll go back to living my miserable life alone.”
I’m better off that way anyway.
She rose from the booth, her movements swift and final as she left Baven there in stunned silence.
Rosaria returned home and collapsed face-down onto her sea-decorated queen-size mattress. The nerve of him, she seethed.
People called her crazy—for the things she thought about, for being herself, for speaking her mind without apology.
She hadn’t gotten the answers she wanted. She’d left him before, and she didn’t care.
If I had to guess, she thought, he was the one who caused that kind of destruction.
As for the riddles. . . Rosaria’s thoughts drifted. What could it be about them? Even in those ruins, they kept falling from the sky at regular intervals—strips of paper, like discarded fortunes.
There were too many unknowns. Hacks, server settings, glitches—anything could explain it. Why does it matter? she thought. My home is where I am now. And I can distract myself until I forget all about this.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been left with burning questions before. She’d learned how to live with unanswered ones. The desperation had dulled. The ache remained.
So much mental torture. And nobody even noticed.
Rosaria sat up and pulled her high school yearbook from the shelf. She stared at the photo of herself—young, quiet, half-faded. She remembered how, during exams, some teachers forgot to hand her the materials. Not out of cruelty. Just. . . absentmindedness.
Just like a ghost, she thought coldly. Is this how it’s going to be for me? Invisible unless I force myself to be seen? Is it like this for everyone? Or just people like me?
Thinking about Baven made her stomach turn. The strange part was, she’d never felt this way before—not even when she was smitten with him. Something had shifted.
Rosaria gritted her teeth, slammed the book shut, and lay back down.
How could he not know who I am if he could track me down in the real world? What did he want with Sylvanna Drake in the first place?
She shrugged, assuming she’d never know. And let the distraction of other thoughts lure her into sleep.
Baven hung his head in his hands.
The blonde waitress placed the plates in front of him—food he’d ordered for himself and his date, though now the word date felt absurd.
He was still reeling. The Rosaria he knew was Sylvanna Drake. Not someone else. Not… whatever version of her had erupted across the table.
Her rage. The words she’d thrown at him. Where had that come from? What made her believe he was capable of something so unspeakable?
Then again—maybe she was right. Maybe, as she said, she didn’t know him. Not really.
She hadn’t let him explain. Not his situation. Not his reasons. Not even why he’d called her here.
Did she even care?
A scrap of concrete proof. That’s what she’d asked for.
It was clear now what he needed—if he wanted her to listen, to trust, to come to his side.
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