Chapter 1: A Lone boy and a room

The gentle pitter-patter of rain was the sole sound to resonate throughout the desolate room. No man, woman, or child breathed, nor did they exist within the void-like domain.

It was a space befitting the description forsaken, one that not even a god, if they did indeed exist, would be able to overturn. It was dark, dreary, without hope, for even under the ethereal light of a summer day, it would be incapable of sparkling radiantly. Fortunately, however, or rather, unfortunately for the lone resident of such a plane who had strangely yet to return, today was not such a glistening time but one of biting cold and snide chills.

Grey lined the room, plunging the space into a realm of eerie monochrome limbo, for no bold shades dared poke their head in such a land but merely drowned under the oppressive lack of light, their bodies never to surface again.

The sound of rain continued to grow ever boisterous, with each passing second, the cacophony of dreary noise gained new members, all of which sought to add their own chorus to the chilling tune. They knocked upon the paper-like ceiling of the drab land. Their attacks, soft at first, little more than the gentle rasping of a fist, were now a bloodcurdling punch that looked as if to penetrate the stained surface upon which they wished to unceremoniously enter.

The roof was giving way, or rather, it had allowed few entry long ago, many nights before such a pelting had even begun to form. Dyed in a petulant shade of yellow, the once-white surface now appeared tainted, unholy, revolting. What should have remained pristine and plastered unmoving upon the base surface of scaffolding had been uprooted, inflated millimetres away from home, its avant-garde appearance acting as a deterrent from the rest of its body, for the separate streams of pregnant paint swirled like a typhoon of dread, wishing to infect more of its distanced sacred corpse.

Within moments a new tune joined the choir, though this time, the noise did not stir from outside but rather from within the solitary space, for a gentle drip fell upon an already sodden floor. The ground was wooden, hard yet damp to the touch, with boards that looked to sprinter under the slightest bit of added weight and a few that had already fractured, with significant gaping wounds present amid their myriad bodies.

However, amidst such lacerations that ought to be pure festered an illness, though not in the form of a virus but rather one that possessed a body, that of callous fungi, minute globs of white poked through the rotten wood, their caps standing with its brethren amidst the darkness within which they thrived, polluting the once pure air with their fetid spores. Inhaling the putrescent scent of such a land was an unfeasible task to many, one that only the sole resident and ruler was currently capable of accomplishing, though even for the boy, it was a tortuous experience.

The slightest fumes were enough to scorch one's oesophagus to make tears well up from the corner of their eyes, to make one rasp and instinctively gasp for breath without understanding the backwards consequences such ingrained thinking would bring upon their figure. One's stomach would sear and jump with joy at the chance such a room presented them, for within seconds, the gastric juice one had procured throughout the day would spill, blistering their throat with such an abrupt exodus.

A window served as the sole beacon of purity in such a room. However, like all things in the godless place, it had been ravaged by both the stains of time and the depravity the owner had to endure. The item could not be opened, for there existed no means to tear apart the glass portrait from its frame, no latch that could be undone nor handle that could be turned.

However, such a situation appeared to not matter for the current occupant of the room, for though the window was firmly affixed to its rightful place of residence, a Siberian wind still blew through the dingy land, though it did not spill through any of the other orifices the minute realm possessed but instead trekked cleanly passed the jagged, fractured edges of the window.

The mirror-like surface that reflected nought but unkempt dust and decay had been shattered. However, judging by the accumulated grime that lingered upon either side of the dreary item, such a discovery was not new. Shards of glass did not spill upon the noxious steeped wood floor, nor did they exist sheltered amidst the decay of the land. The breakage was a thing of the past, and in its place, air flowed freely into the stifling kingdom of rot.

The space was not ample, consisting of the aforementioned one main room and a little dingy offshoot forced to the side and veiled by a drab door of rust, partitioned into multiple smaller areas, if they could even be considered that, all of which tried to imitate a realm one may find in a typical, loving household.

A 'kitchen' postured itself along the back of the small space, occupying more than 20% of the land's total mass. A singular table lay stretched across the minute space granted to it. Originally white in colour, it now bore the same corrupt hue as the ceiling above. Every inch of the top's surface was a violent, repulsive shade of yellow, with not even a single corner of the item left free of the pollution. It shook under the slightest of breezes, displaying the items one good leg in a depressing sense of glory, for the other three lay shattered, bearing pointed plastic tips that pressed fervently into the spongelike damp ground of the flooring underneath.

But one chair lay in wait at the head of such an item. Though to say its condition was any better than the splintered table would be an overstatement. Made of plastic, it teetered upon the precipice of destruction, self-harm and conscious suicide.

Its many legs lay splayed, arched into innumerable angles one may consider grotesque, with pregnant bellies that gorged ever outwards, showcasing the horrific wounds the item had accumulated amidst its moons spent in the lifeless land. The once ornamental arcs that gave way for breath were now little more than blades, forsaken daggers that wished to gouge and commit treason against its sole master, who had treated the item with nought but misplaced kindness.

The sound of rain continued to press ever on in an infinite assault against the frozen room. However, this time, a new sound joined the raucous cry of resentment that the godless land bellowed in return for its master. A gut-wrenching tune, the clawing of an item left to die, the final scratchings of what was once a beautiful shelf, one the master of the house had built to delude himself with the idea of living a perfect life.

The item was small, no more than a singular cabinet created to store whatever ingredients the boy may have procured from his rations. Crafted initially of a rather lacklustre grain of oak, it loomed in the backdrop of the supposed 'kitchen' where once it ruled with the air of a condescending tyrant. However, now, the item did little more than sway in the non-existent breeze the shattered window let peruse the dingy land.

Its once mighty hinge bolted steadfast to the decaying scaffolding now creaked and cried with every little ounce of pressure forced upon its breaking body. Silver had become bronze and, finally, little more than rust as flakes of metal rained upon the decrepit flooring of what could have been a wonderful land, never to be noticed by the one who truly cared for within seconds, such a deluge of corrosion would find its place amidst the splintering floorboards, obscured to the world and the universe as a whole.

Lines of rust formed an arc against the flimsily painted wall, dyeing the insipid grey colour in a horrific shade of bloody bronze, as though the cabinet itself was experiencing a slow and drawn-out torturous death, for its ordeal did not end with just the shattered body of a once brilliant hinge, but continued to the main body of the item.

Its figure, formed of a banal oak wood, appeared crippled and maimed, its door swaying violently in the fetid air of the void-like realm with little regard for any man or creature that could cross its path of fervid rage. Cracks lined the item's face, forcing rifts and wounds open that would never go shut. They were ominous in nature, for the sole inhabitant of the desolate realm was incapable of performing such a feat of strength. However, the oddities did not end there, for upon the cabinets pointer corner shimmered a liquid vile in hue, one not commonly associated with either water or the pouring rain that splashed atop its unsheltered head.

Red, a contemptible, depraved complexion, stained the once inoffensive beige wood item. It was the colour of both blood and wine, a despicable shade that only brought foreboding to whoever gazed upon it in search of the secrets the tinge contained. The colour had long since soaked into the bland grain of the wood, ravishing the item's virgin body leaving it an unholy, blasphemous mess.

And once again, the rain continued to surge, going from a treacherous downpour to the seed of a storm.

The already desolate and monochrome landscape of the room proceeded to darken with every second spent without its host, as though shrouded by a cloak of umbral night, little could be seen amidst the shadowed cowl the land wore, spare for one item, a bed, or at least it was a creation that in one of its many former lives may have been christened as such, for what lay in wait at the corner of the darkened room, did not match the description of such a term.

Seeing it brought about neither feelings of comfort nor longing, even hearing utterance of the usual structure may bring, but instead created pity in the heart of whoever was unfortunate enough to gaze upon the forsaken piece. It was a mound of discoloured cloth. Sheets upon sheets of cast-away bedding piled atop one another until it matched the shape of the supposed item, bearing a length of little more than a metre and a width that didn't even contest with half such a number it was a truly dismal imitation. Its form lay pressed against the infected floor, forced to breed an innumerable amount of times with the almost infinite amount of spores that clung to its dilapidated body. Yellow clashed with brown as a grotesque colour spaned every inch, every millimetre of the mass of sheets Frankenstein-Esque corpse.

It was truly a grotesque, blood-curdling sight, and yet, one the sole resident of the locale gazed upon with utmost indifference, for he had never known any better. As such, the storm continued to rage, building to an ever-increasing climax as a new melody joined the turbulent, gut-wrenching ensemble.

*BANG BANG BANG BANG* The raucous clamouring of a sound akin to that of a ruthless metallic slam echoed maliciously amidst the derelict room, its screams unheard yet felt by the walls and the space as a whole. Something was launching a barrage of hateful attacks against the land, attempting to pry the area open, reveal all, and shed light upon the godless space, for the door, the sole orifice of the locale, continued to shake.

The object was large, the sole monolith of the room. However, like all things within the diabolical land, it too had been corrupted, destroyed and reformed by the passing of months and moons. Where once a bastion of white iron may have stood proudly now lingered, an oxidised, degenerated mess. Contemptible clumps of discoloured brown metal clung to every inch of flooring they could get their snide, envious on, staining the land beneath it with its immoral hue, like spikes they lay in wait for their owner to return, only to assault him with their breaths the moment he made entry to the neglected land. A door handle lay blistered upon the lower right face of the item, worn down by frequent use. It was the only part of the item spare for the seams that did not shimmer in such a deviant colour but instead shone in a soft silver, with scrapings of the original white paint at its base.

Still, the handle was not without flaws. Although it had defected from the rest of its body, it appeared to have injured itself markedly in the process, for what reflected in the darkened atmosphere of the room was not the sight of the usual, push-or-turn construct, but a spike, one without sheath, the fundamental mechanism that still allowed for the use of the monolith. And it was such a handle that did not turn, for the door was not being barraged by that of a mortal, but the everpresent storm that had finally birthed its conclusion, for, within seconds, the once flimsily constructed spike gained motion, in the form of a slow, counter-clockwise twist.

With such motion, clamoured one final, desolate noise, not in the form of a raucous cry or horrific screech but a pin-drop silence followed by a deftly clear click as the door began to turn on its hinges, restraining the urge to scream its lungs out in a grating display of rusted anger. It swung inwards, allowing entry to the decaying realm.

Wind swept through the land with a putrid howl. It was strong, potent enough to send the mass of sheets into the air for all but a second before they collapsed to their graves once again, dead and unmoving, spare for the occasional flap of a mouth puppeteered like a marionette by the hands of the storm.

The stench of decaying wood and mixed dingy spores fled the room, wishing to escape through any means necessary, and yet, they couldn't, for such scents were chained to the very vessels upon which they originate, encumbered by the place they called home.

Still, it wasn't only the items that continued to move amidst the dreadful tempest, for a shadow slunk past the boundary between the two worlds, between comparative heaven and hell. The figure was tall and lanky, yet, such attributes were the only defining features that could be seen, for the rest of their body was veiled by the umbral guise of the forced night.

The vile scent of decay assaulted the shadow's senses, yet, they did not flinch, nor even their nose crumple upon the putrid attack, instead they merely winced, their eyes watering for but a brief second while a faint murmur left their lips in the form of a self-deprecating cough, they were used to such odour by now, having lived in the void like realm for the better portion of their life, for the figure soon moved with apparent knowledge of the land even amongst the darkness to what appeared to be a slight bump in the wall, a tumour upon the domain that wished to destroy the drab colouring of the monotone realm.

It was cold to the touch, with the feel of damp plastic that appeared to sink into the alcove behind the item. A minute ingrowth could be felt in the centre of such ailment, one that seemed to fold under the slightest bit of pressure the visage applied, making a dull, damp click with its breakage before the irritating buzzing noise of fried circuits appeared to play, echoing across the room with little remorse for its sole inhabitant.

Seconds passed in complete darkness as the body poised motionlessly by the now flipped switch, their eyes focused upon a veiled spot in the centre of the room, veiled by the murky darkness, that was, until a tame display of radiance occurred, for from the very site the figure appeared to gaze upon, light befell the room.

A hanging bulb came into view, its glass shield broken in myriad ways, with coarse edges that wished to skewer the ground that lingered underfoot. The very copper wiring that gave birth to light appeared damaged and exposed to the elements, occasionally flickering under the slightest breezes as though breathing its dying breath only to be revived by the endless source of blood pumped into its corpse in the form of electricity. The radiance produced by such an item was faint, inefficient, yet more than enough for the lone figure whose visage finally became clear.

Cowled in the fragile light of the bulb appeared the visage of a boy no older than 17. His body, half illuminated by the flickering light, was sodden, drenched to the very bone by the offspring of the passing storm, for the adolescent wore not a shield in the form of a coat to protect himself but instead commandeered a cloak more befitting the term uniform, one undoubtedly belonging to a nearby public school.

The drapes were aged and tattered, consisting of a tight-fitting, almost see-through off-white shirt that clung to the child's pale, shivering white skin, like a beggar to the ankles of an aristocrat, though not because of the pouring rain that froze the boy to his very core but because the item was many sizes too small, as though the teen had not purchased a more upscaled version to fit his person for the coming year, a statement that rung true with all the item pieces that adorned his figure.

A dilapidated black jumper stained a horrific midnight hue loomed over such frigid transparent cloth, weighed down by the additional sins the storm provided to the point where it appeared swollen and bloated, almost fecund.

Liquid dripped profusely down its edges, falling listlessly down to the already-drenched wood flooring inseminating it with the stains of the outside world. A minute and ripped crest covered the boy's heart upon such an item. Where once it may have been emblazoned with bold colourings of red and purple, now all that remained were dreary monochrome shades of grey. In the centre of such a cancerous bulge appeared what could be faintly identified as a piece of art, an embossed creation of frayed string and regret. It was nothing too intricate or detailed, merely an open book, one that lacked words or even a school motto. It was lazy and lackadaisical in nature, just like the very realm it represented.

The boy's head of shaggy brown hair was stained a horrific shade of forced charcoal, dank and dreary it clung to his forehead and jittering body with no regard for the warmth its presence expunged from his very being. His hollow brown eyes appeared apathetic to the flickering light, clearly desensitised to such a depraved scene. The child was neither handsome nor ugly, falling perfectly in the centre of such a grading despite his apparent impoverished upbringing, his skin stuck tightly to his body, freezing his already clamouring bones and frigid muscles with a Siberian chill.

Still, something was different about the child today. His face, which ought to be without emotion, appeared pulled from the very seams of his frostbitten lips into a slight, almost childish smile, for though usually, he would return to his forced abode empty-handed and mournful, disinterested to the world, today one more item appeared conjoined to his person, though not in the form of a cloak that one may adorn—but, a creation veiled by a girthy alabaster cardboard-box he held to his tremulant side.

The item was neither large nor small, with dimensions akin to that of a relatively broad watermelon, however judging by the teen's reaction, such fruit clearly wasn't the contents that lay within, for the moment the boy accustomed himself to the dreary land he called home he began to move, with broad steps and a considerably upbeat the figure marched to the mass of corpse-like sheets that lay lifeless and unmoving in the corner of the room whereupon he would place his body upon their dreary bereft of life bodies.

The makeshift bed was hard, as though its purpose served not to provide comfort for the child but to merely shield him from the dangers the flooring underneath posed to his already finicky body, and yet the child did not mind the usually grating sensation but instead appeared to remain indifferent to it for once in his life, for his mind and senses were honed on the item he now placed atop his sodden lap.

The boy's distended glaciated fingers trailed the relatively cheap packaging of the item with apparent enamourment, taking note of any increment or raise while fiddling with the occasional piece of tape that held the whole thing together. That was until his eyes came across an item of text, one that the flickering light just so happened to bless with its half-hearted radiance.

In emboldened royal gold words shone the name of the item, one that needs no introduction to the people of this earth, for it was the epithet of the most anticipated creation of all time.

'Fantasia Online', The text read. The first VRMMORPG of its time boasting claims of an almost infinite reality bearing gods and characters from virtually every work of notable fiction. And yet, despite such promises and the rampant desire to purchase such an item, the developers did not put a price tag on their creations. It was accessible to any and all that wished to participate in the historical feat of human ingenuity, from the wealthy to the impoverished.

And it just so happened that today was the day such a creation was released to the world; schools went out early. In fact, some didn't even start. Instead, infinite lines stretched across the globe from every locale vending such a good. The adolescent had spent the entire day in such a line, though not because he was excited for the next step in human technology like his peers, but because he wished to scrounge through the inside of such free equipment to pick it apart as he liked, a wish that would sorely go unfulfilled for the instant his inflamed fingers dug into the water-logged container he would meet with nought disappointment, for the device that appeared before him was without entry to any circuits, it was merely a ring of a mysterious substance.

Not quite carbon fibre nor plastic, the item appeared almost alien to the impoverished boy. It was akin to a halo, a ring worn by the seraphim that waited upon the Christian god, though it was too technical to be called such, for there was no radiant magic involved in the item's appearance. Upon initial sight of the creation, the boy's head slunk, while his hollow brown eyes, bagged and weighted, almost gave up on life appealing distanced for but a second before he became oddly enchanted by the practically angelic creation that rested faintly upon his dreary lap.

There was no charger to refill the item's battery if it even possessed such a limiting constraint, nor a plug to insert into a screen. It was isolated, the sole semblance of life to inhabit the now desolate alabaster box. Seeing no reason not to try on the device, the boy's once idle hands resumed motion, clutching onto the odd ring and pulling it up to the precipice of his head, at which point he let it drop, and yet, it did not fall far but instead landed snugly around his ears in a manner akin to headphones.

Darkness. That was the sole scene the boy could spy, for his vision was obscured by the once luminous ring of white. He couldn't hear nor feel. It was as though losing just one sense had ostracised him from the rest. Isolated and alone, he attempted to pull on the odd ring, only to be met with nothing. He couldn't sense the world around him, unaware of the faint light that started to glow atop the odd device as new stimuli greeted his senses, though not in the form of his dreary room, but white hovering text.

{Welcome to Fantasia Online}