Omni Gamer in Streetball Rumble (KnB Fanfic)

Respawn

"Loneliness can feel like the deepest darkness, but even in the shadows, we can discover the strength to rise again and seek the light of connection." — Anonymous

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"Ever feel like the world's moving forward, but you're stuck? Like some glitched NPC no one bothers to fix?"

Belial let out a slow breath, watching the vapor curl and dissolve into the frigid night air.

The alley stretched before him, dark and uninviting, its cracked pavement littered with discarded wrappers, shattered glass, and the remnants of dreams long abandoned.

He shifted against the freezing concrete, curling deeper into his tattered hoodie

—a thin barrier against the cold.

A sickly yellow glow flickered above him, the dying streetlamp casting feeble light that barely dented the alley's shadows.

The stench of rot and piss clung to everything, seeping into his clothes, his skin

—his existence.

Just another ghost in the underbelly of Shibuya.

Another forgotten piece of trash swept into the city's corners.

His stomach twisted in protest, hunger clawing at his insides.

He ignored it. Hunger was an old companion.

Annoying, but familiar.

He glanced at the half-eaten energy bar in his palm, its wrapper torn and crumpled.

Should he save it?

Stretch it out?

No.

He shoved the rest into his mouth, chewing slowly, letting the faint sweetness trick his body into thinking it was enough.

It never was.

Leaning his head back against the cold brick wall, he stared past the alley's mouth at the towering skyline beyond.

Neon signs blinked in the distance, painting the night in fleeting shades of blue and red.

Somewhere out there, people were laughing, eating, living.

He used to be one of them.

Not anymore.

Two years ago.

Fourteen years old.

A roof over his head.

A family.

Then gone. Just like that.

His parents' voices still echoed in his skull, sharp and suffocating.

"You're wasting your life."

"Gaming will never make you successful."

"Why can't you be like your cousin? He's already studying medicine."

Disappointment. Disgust.

Their expectations crushed him until he stopped trying.

Until his father finally threw him out like last week's garbage.

He could still see the last night at home so vividly.

His father's face twisted in anger, veins popping against his temple.

The stink of beer clung to his clothes as he shoved Belial against the wall.

His mother just watched, silent, eyes filled with something colder than hatred

—indifference.

"You don't live here anymore. Get out."

It had been raining that night.

The streets swallowed him whole, the cold biting through his clothes, his sneakers soaked through in minutes.

He still had his phone back then.

Still had a connection.

The first night, he called a friend. No answer.

The second night, he called another. Voicemail.

By the third, he stopped trying.

That was the cruelest part—realizing how easy it was for people to forget you existed.

Now, he was here.

Now, he was nothing.

But in the digital world…

In there, he was <ShadowNightShade. >

A legend. A strategist. A player feared and respected. His hands knew the keyboard like a second heartbeat—every keystroke precise, every move calculated. When he played, the world blurred into numbers, patterns, victory.

In there, he mattered.

Out here?

He exhaled through his nose.

'Out here, I'm just another failure.'

His fingers curled, rubbing together for warmth.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket, its screen cracked, its battery long dead.

Still, sometimes he pulled it out, staring at the dark display, pretending he could log in again.

Pretending he could escape.

A metallic clang echoed through the alley as something

—or someone—knocked over a trash can nearby.

Belial tensed, fingers curling into instinctive fists.

A shadow moved across the dim light, rummaging through scraps.

Another ghost in this forgotten part of the city.

He looked away.

He didn't need trouble. He just needed to last another night.

And then another. And another.

Survive. That's all he had to do.

The wind picked up, rattling dumpster lids, carrying the distant hum of traffic. The city never stopped moving, never stopped devouring people like him and spitting them out into the cracks.

"Another day, another dead end," he muttered, voice rasping.

"What's the point, anyway?"

But even as the words left his lips, a stubborn ember inside him refused to go out.

He dreamt of a world where he could break free, where he could soar through virtual landscapes

—his skills honed, his spirit unburdened.

He had never belonged in their world. Their expectations were a suffocating weight, dragging him down.

"I'm a failure," he whispered. "I'm nothing."

Slumping against the dumpster, he closed his eyes, trying to block out the harshness of reality. Instead, he pictured himself at his setup, fingers flying across the keyboard, the roar of a virtual crowd filling his ears as he landed the game-winning shot.

A world where he was someone.

Where his passion wasn't a childish distraction

—but a talent worth celebrating.

He remembered his first tournament win.

The rush of adrenaline, the way his hands moved without thinking, executing strategies that no one saw coming.

He had played against professionals

—adults who had been doing this for years.

And he won.

Not because he was lucky.

But because he was better.

Because for once in his life, he wasn't a disappointment.

But gaming wasn't "real," right? That's what everyone said.

"It's just a hobby."

"It's a waste of time."

"It's not a career."

They never saw what he saw.

They never felt the thrill of outplaying someone three steps ahead, the rush of executing a perfect strategy, the satisfaction of knowing you were the smartest person in the room.

They never understood that the digital world had rules too

—rules you could master.

It wasn't just a game.

It was his world.

And if there was one thing gaming had taught him, it was this—

You don't quit just because you're losing.

You find a way to respawn.