Universe Creation System: I Devour. I Build. I Rule!

The weight of rice and beans tugged at Kael's arm as he walked, but his steps slowed outside a flickering blue sign that cut through the dusk like a lighthouse in a dead sea.

404 Gaming.

The neon buzzed above the door, letters blinking in half-cycles, casting ripples of pale light across the puddles at his feet. He stared for a long moment. His fingers twitched.

It had been days. Maybe a week.

He could turn left—take the food home. Or he could step inside and forget for a while. Forget the salt. The hunger. The ever-watching decay of Brinewatch pressing in like mold on lungs.

Kael exhaled, shifted the grain under one arm, and pushed open the door.

Inside, the world changed.

The stale air buzzed with the white noise of cooling fans and the soft clatter of a hundred keystrokes. Monitors glowed in neat rows, islands of color in the dim, flickering gloom. Somewhere, a battle shouted in another language. A laugh rang out. A shriek of defeat followed.

Kael slid six floodmarks across the sticky counter.

The clerk didn't even glance up—just hit a switch.

He found his usual seat in the back corner, dropped into the half-broken chair, and slipped the grain under the desk. The screen flared to life in front of him.

A familiar logo pulsed:

Throne Wars 2

Its haunting orchestral intro surged through his bones. The login screen faded, replaced by the gleaming black-and-gold armor of his character. Level 50. Kael the Unbroken—his second account, built from nothing after he sold the first to pay for medicine that kept his mother alive.

He didn't regret it. But the memory still stung.

He queued into a raid. Fingers flew across the keyboard. His posture shifted. Eyes sharpened. In this world, Kael was not a slum rat. He was a commander. A tactician. A king-slayer. His name echoed across digital banners, his guild respected in the top five hundred. At his peak, he'd broken into the global top 10,000—no bots, no pay-to-win shortcuts. Just grind. Grit. Obsession.

He could've gone further. He knew it.

A ping interrupted the fight. A bright system alert scrolled across the top of the screen in shimmering purple text:

"Ashburn has completed the Shadow Sovereign's Trial. Global storyline advanced by 5%."

Kael froze.

Ashburn.

His pulse spiked.

The legend. The number one ranked player. The only person rumored to have discovered a hidden class—one that didn't appear in any patch notes or official builds. A class no one had believed real until now.

Shadow Sovereign.

Kael leaned closer, heart hammering. Streams had speculated on it for months. Forums swirled with theories—requirements, mechanics, whether it was a stunt. But no one had proven it existed. Until now.

He opened a side feed. Global chat was exploding. Hundreds of players messaging at once. Some furious. Others awestruck.

Kael watched the notification again, breathing slow and shallow.

Ashburn—the one player he studied like scripture. Whose tactics he mimicked, whose raids he replayed late into the night when hunger made sleep impossible. He'd bet his reputation on Ashburn's success months ago, back when others mocked the trial as a bluff. If he'd had the marks to gamble…

He gritted his teeth. "Would've made a fortune," he muttered.

The chat erupted with speculation about the new class. Commands. Shadow armies. Dark summons. Passive multipliers tied to fear and night. The raw control of it all made Kael ache.

If he had that kind of power in the real world…Not just pixels. Not just code. Real power.

No one would push his family around. No one would watch his mother rot in bed or call his sister "brine trash." He'd crush their slum underfoot and build something better from the ashes.

His hands danced across the keys. One last raid. One final match.

He fought like a man possessed, racking up kills, chaining combos, issuing commands that bent veteran players to his tempo. For a few stolen hours, Kael was something more.

Until the screen blinked black.

Session Ended – Insufficient Credit.

The illusion shattered.

He stared at the dark monitor, the hum of fans fading into silence. Around him, the café droned on. No one looked up. No one noticed him leave.

He picked up the grain and beans. The weight was heavier now—because it was real.

Outside, dusk had fallen completely. The streets had gone quiet. Only the distant slap of waves and the occasional cough broke the silence. Shadows spilled across the slums like oil.

Kael walked.

Each step dragged.

His mind drifted to tomorrow.

The Awakening.

He'd be tested. Measured. Ranked. Labeled.

A D-rank would be great—too many jobs to count, factory contracts, guild work. It's not the most glamourous, but I'll never have to worry about food, shelter or medicine again.

An E-rank could be good, if it was rare—like alchemy or logistics—could still earn enough to get us beyond the walls.

But an F-rank?

Dead weight. Useless. Scrap.

F meant forgotten. F meant failure.

He clutched the sacks tighter, the coarse fabric biting into his fingers.

He would not let them be buried in this place.

Not his mother.

Not Sera.

Not himself.

****

The shack rose out of the dusk like a bruise on the landscape—half-collapsed walls of warped driftwood, rusted tin barely clinging to the frame. Smoke leaked through a crooked hole in the roof, and the scent of burning rot drifted down the alley like a warning. But to Kael, it was home.

Inside, the heat was thin but real. A small flame crackled beneath the rusted stove, coaxed alive by the scraps of wood he'd scrounged. Elira knelt beside it, stirring a dented pot with slow, careful movements. The weak light painted shadows across her face—gaunt, pale, every bone in her hand showing through skin stretched too thin.

She was only thirty-eight. But the years had stolen her strength early, worn her down until she looked twice her age. Her once-chestnut hair had dulled into dry strands streaked white, and though her green eyes still held warmth, they flickered like a candle low on oil.

Then came Sera.

She bounded across the shack like the weight of the world hadn't noticed her yet—bare feet slapping the floorboards, her wild black hair bouncing behind her like a banner of defiance. At 66cEl, she was sharp elbows and knobby knees, hazel eyes wide with mischief and wonder.

"You're back!" she cried, throwing her arms around his waist. "Did you get something?"

"Rice and beans," Kael said, lifting the sacks and setting them gently on the makeshift table—a plank balanced on two crates. "Enough for you and Mom."

Sera beamed, bouncing on her toes. Elira reached out with trembling hands, brushing his fingers as she took the food, and the touch made Kael's throat tighten.

"You need to eat too, Kael," she said softly, her voice thin and rough. "You've got to be strong for tomorrow. Don't take chances with your Awakening."

"I ate already," he lied.

The bruised pear and fish tails hadn't settled in his gut so much as sat like stones, but it was enough to let the others eat without guilt. Barely. He straightened, meeting her tired gaze, forcing a steady nod.

Sera narrowed her eyes—skeptical, too sharp for her age—but said nothing.

Elira smiled faintly and poured the rice into the pot, the grains pattering against metal like soft rain. "We trust you."

"Yeah!" Sera said, climbing onto her stool, legs swinging. "You're gonna be amazing—like a hero from your games! Pew pew!" She mimed slashing with an imaginary sword, then giggled.

Kael laughed and ruffled her tangled hair. She leaned into the touch with an ease that made his chest ache.

She was only four years younger than him. Twelve to his sixteen.

And yet… she looked eight. Maybe smaller.

Kael's eyes drifted to her stick-thin arms, the way her knees jutted awkwardly beneath the hem of her patched dress. There was no softness left in her frame—just angles and hollow spaces where weight should've been.

He hadn't been much better at her age. But he'd been born into a better part of Ashport. They'd still had food then. Meals every day, even if they were simple. He hadn't known real hunger—not until the move to Brinewatch, after his mother was poisoned and their lives collapsed.

He was nearly six by then.

Sera, though… Sera had been two.

Her entire memory of the world had been shaped by emptiness. And her body had paid for it.

"Anything interesting happen today?" Elira asked, stirring the pot, the wooden spoon scraping gently across the metal.

Kael shook the thoughts loose and leaned back. "Yeah—Ashburn finally completed the hidden class quest in Throne Wars 2. He got Shadow Monarch. Total monster."

Sera gasped. "No way! That's real?"

"Oh, it's real," Kael said, grinning. "First player ever. Everyone's freaking out."

Elira chuckled—a soft, wheezing sound that lit the air despite its weakness. "Sounds like you out there. Always charging into something."

Kael snorted. "Yeah, well, I don't have shadow armies yet."

They laughed together—soft, tired, but real. As the food cooked, the shack filled with warmth. Not just from the fire, but from them. They shared stories, passed time like it was treasure. Kael told them about the Saltpier, Torv's barking, Malik's latest excuse for a bruise. About Lira's shop, and the rice and beans he'd earned lifting crates.

Sera talked about a seagull she'd chased, convinced it was part of a gang smuggling dried crab. Elira spoke about an old neighbor who traded wilted herbs for stories and gossip.

The food finished cooking, and they ate together on the floor, huddled close. The rice was a little hard. The beans, a little bland. But Kael chewed slow, savoring every bite. Not because it was delicious—but because it was shared.

Later, when the fire was down to coals and the sky outside had gone starless and deep, he stretched out on the straw mattress. Sera curled beside him, one of her thin arms draped over his chest, her breath warm and steady.

He stared at the ceiling—the warped wood above them cracked and splitting in slow, creeping lines.

Like fate. Like fear.

His mind swirled.

Tomorrow.

The Awakening.

Everything changed tomorrow. Everything hinged on what the stars—or the system, or whatever ruled this broken world—decided he was worth.

Watching Sera shrink into herself. Watching Elira slip further away, one cough at a time.

He closed his eyes and pulled Sera a little closer.

"I'll get us out," he whispered, too soft for her to hear. "Whatever it takes."

The mattress rustled beneath him, dry straw poking through the fabric.

Outside, the waves whispered against the shore.

Inside, the fire died down to ash.

And Kael waited—suspended in the breath before fate.