If you had the choice to run away from your problems… what would you do?
That's what I was thinking about, while the classroom dissolved into voices, laughter, yelling, and the hollow sound of desks being dragged around for no reason. It was one of those ordinary nights, just like all the others, when the teacher hadn't shown up yet — or maybe he was just waiting for the noise to die down before walking in. As if that was ever going to happen.
I was there, sitting in the front row, earphones plugged into a phone with a cracked screen. A playlist I had made months ago was playing — full of instrumental tracks, slow guitars, melancholic pianos… sounds that carried me far away from that sweaty, chaotic reality.
My hands moved on their own. My fingers were already used to the weight of the pen scratching the yellowed pages of an old notebook, a little warped at the edges, with a duct-taped cover.
I was drawing. Not because I wanted to create something beautiful, but because drawing was the only way to silence everything screaming inside me.
Today, I was sketching a city. Not a regular one, but one of those massive, twisted places with crooked skyscrapers, living shadows in the windows, empty streets, and a massive moon tearing through the sky. Something inside me always imagined places that didn't exist. Maybe because this one… never felt like enough.
Behind me, someone threw a paper ball at someone else. The thud of impact was muffled by my earphones, but the loud laughter that followed couldn't be ignored. I didn't even turn around. It was expected.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one awake in the middle of this chaos.
My gaze went back to the notebook. I picked up the eraser and started softening the edges of a tower. There, on that graphite-stained page, everything made more sense than it did out here. There, I was God. A creator. The architect of a world where maybe… just maybe… I could run away.
Run away from what? I'm not even sure.
From myself, maybe.
Or from everything they say I'm supposed to be but never managed to become.
I leaned my elbow on the desk and rested my chin in my hand. The song changed. Now a slower piano piece, almost whispered. Almost like a question:
If you could leave all of this behind, would you?
I took a deep breath. My pencil hovered in the air.
I think the answer... is already inside me. I just don't know if I have the courage to say it out loud.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the music wrap around me completely. The sound of the piano echoed softly in my ears, muffling the chaos of the classroom — it was almost like the entire world was slowly being turned off.
"History…" I thought to myself, eyes still closed. That was supposed to be the next class. With Professor Rogério.
I smiled slightly at the thought. I'd always been one of the best students in that subject, even if no one seemed to care much about it. History was more than just dates and events to me. It felt like every character, every empire, every revolution... carried an echo of what humanity truly is. I got lost in those stories. Saw myself in many of them.
I remembered how everyone used to complain about Professor Rogério. Always the same whining: "He writes too much on the board," "It's too much to copy," "He only talks about complicated stuff." And every time a new semester started, it was the same scene — people saying they'd switch classes, or that they were already sick of it before even giving it a try.
But for me? It was never like that.
I liked the way he taught. The way he spoke about historical figures with a sparkle in his eyes, like he had actually been there. Like he knew Da Vinci personally. Like he had read Aristotle's texts straight from the source, walking through the gardens of the Lyceum. Like he had debated with Solomon or faced Gilgamesh with his bare fists.
And he talked about everyone: scientists, philosophers, conquerors, inventors. From the empires of Mesopotamia to the downfall of the modern world.
I remembered everything.
I remembered how he described Nikola Tesla's mind, glowing in silence, even when the world mocked him. I remembered his words about ancient manuscripts, forgotten thinkers, dreams shattered by politics and greed.
And while others dozed off in their seats or made up excuses to skip class, I was taking notes. Every word. Every reference.
But today… the professor didn't show up.
I opened my eyes slowly and looked at the clock on the wall. There wasn't much time left until the last class was supposed to end. No one came in, no announcement was made. It seemed he really wasn't coming. Maybe he was late. Maybe he skipped. Maybe he gave up.
Most likely? We're getting out early.
After all, it's the night shift. This kind of thing happens all the time here.
I turned my eyes back to the notebook and gently moved the pencil again, shading the clouds around the moon in my drawing. If the professor didn't come, there was no reason to keep waiting.
And still… part of me wished he had shown up. That the class had actually happened.
Because sometimes, diving into the shadows of the past… is the only way to forget the darkness of the present.
Without even realizing it, my fingers had just completed the last line of the previous sketch. It was like the twisted, shadowy city I'd been building for over half an hour had finished itself, like a secret just waiting for a hand to bring it to life.
I stared at the scene for a few seconds. The shadows, the buildings, the deformed moon. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it captured exactly what I was feeling. That was more than enough.
I turned the page with an almost ceremonial gesture, revealing a new blank sheet. It stared back at me, silent, raw, waiting for me to decide what to do with it. Every time I saw a blank page like that, the same feeling hit me: the strange responsibility of creating something from nothing. Of filling the emptiness with a piece of myself.
I tilted my head slightly, considering.
What should I draw now?
The playlist had ended. A brief silence took over the headphones, as if the world had paused along with me. I fiddled with the phone and, without thinking much, selected a different playlist. One of those I kept with care, made entirely of anime songs that had marked me over the years. The first chords began to play—soft, melancholic, like an old dream being remembered.
I closed my eyes.
I could draw anything, couldn't I?
A Chinese dragon winding through the skies, its whiskers floating like ribbons in the wind…
An ancient deity, full of arms, eyes, and timeless wisdom…
Or maybe…
The music changed.
It wasn't just any track. It was a specific one.
And in that instant, I knew exactly what to do.
I smiled—not much, just enough for me to notice—and my fingers started to move. The pen slid confidently over the blank page, as if it had been waiting for that moment. I started with the flowers…
Countless small, serene blue flowers, swaying beneath a starry sky in a deep, ethereal blue. Above, a crimson moon, horizontal, cut the horizon like a divine scar.
The world there wasn't real. And yet… it felt more real than many things here.
And at the center of it all, between the sea of flowers and the almost living presence of the sky, I drew him.
An old man with white hair and a cunning expression, dressed in a dark overcoat. His eyes, red like ancient rubies, stared into the infinite like someone who had crossed it thousands of times.
Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg.
Almost no one in the class would know who he was. They'd probably think he was just some generic wizard, or another old guy in stylish clothes. But to me, he was more. A forgotten figure, powerful, with one foot in fiction and the other in the infinite possibilities of what "reality" can mean.
In my mind, he was there for a reason.
And somehow… it felt like he was looking back at me.
As if he knew what I was trying to run from.
My strokes grew more careful now, almost delicate. Each blue flower gained more defined outlines, some with petals slightly tilted, others gently wilting under the weight of the imaginary time I projected over them. I traced the silhouette of Zelretch's cane with precision, his body slightly leaning forward, as if he had just arrived there, in the sea of flowers, from another universe entirely.
As I drew, I let my thoughts wander.
What if I had powers like his? Like Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg?
The question came naturally, as if it had already been there, watching me, waiting to be noticed.
To cross infinite worlds, infinite versions of reality, jumping from timeline to timeline, where each choice creates a new path, a new "me." To look at all the mistakes I've made and see a world where I didn't make them… or worse, where I made even greater ones.
At first, maybe I'd use that power with a kind of childish excitement. Who wouldn't?
Visiting anime worlds. Meeting characters. Living stories that once existed only behind a screen.
But… and then?
Then the truth would come.
I thought to myself, silently laughing:
"It's not like I'm gonna become some kind of Zelretch. Much less an Ultimate One. What a stupid comparison…"
It was so surreal it was almost funny. How do you compare a being who represents an entire planet, a pure concept, with… well, someone like me?
It's like trying to compare an ant to a supernova.
Still… there's no harm in imagining, right?
But the strangest part is that… even if all this were possible—if, by some absurd twist of fate, I had access to the Second Magic, to Kaleidoscope, to the truth of infinite realities—it wouldn't exactly be a gift.
Because the Nasuverse, if you look at it realistically, is anything but pleasant.
That whole universe… It may be beautiful on the outside, but when you look closer, it's a spiral of despair, suffering, and tragedy. A world where humans are almost always too small to make a difference. Where heroes always die—or live long enough to watch everything fade. Where hope does exist, yes—but it's fragile, lonely, almost artificial.
Even with things like the Counter Force, Alaya, and Gaia, which are supposed to protect the world and humanity… deep down, it all feels more like damage control than salvation. There's no guaranteed happy ending. Only postponements of inevitable tragedies.
Living there… would be more of a curse than a dream.
I kept drawing. Zelretch's eyes were now turned to the starry sky. Maybe he knew it too—that even with all the power he had, with all the doors open before him, the truth was cold and constant:
Too much power doesn't fix the world. It only gives you more responsibility over your own choices.
And deep down… maybe that's why I'm still here.
In my front-row seat, headphones in, pencil in hand.
Drawing worlds where, for at least a few pages, reality belongs to me.
I kept sketching, now calmly shading the curves of Zelretch's cane and the folds of his coat, making each detail as close as possible to what I imagined—or rather, to what I felt.
But my mind had already gone far beyond the drawing.
The thought kept unfolding, cold and logical, like an inevitable spiral.
Even if I had that power, even if one day I gained something like the Second Magic… it wouldn't just be a matter of "using" it. No. With such power would come an absurd weight. Not just moral, but existential.
Because with powers like that… I would become a threat.
A threat to the world.
Not by choice, but by the mere nature of my existence.
Alaya—the collective unconscious of humanity—would see me as a risk.
Gaia, the will of the planet, would perceive me as a rupture in the natural order. Like an immense grain of sand in the gears of survival.
And they would respond. Not with dialogue. But with force.
I would be hunted, watched, limited.
I would be classified as an "Anomaly."
As something that should be erased before my existence unbalanced the delicate thread the world hangs on.
I would become a paradox.
Alive, but unwanted.
Powerful, yet alone.
And if, by some absurdity, I became something even greater… like an Ultimate One?
…then I would no longer be human at all.
Being an Ultimate One isn't a title—it's a state of being. It signifies becoming the absolute representative of a planet, a concept, an existence. It's about leaving behind ego, body, and individual soul. It's transforming into an instrument of reality, a weapon of cosmic preservation. Much like Arcueid Brunestud was created—not as a girl, but as a living weapon. A reflection of the planet's will.
And even she... even she only deviated from that destiny because of Tonho, because of a human coincidence, a touch of fragility that broke her programming.
But even so... that's due to the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. She still bears the mark of someone capable of seeing the end of everything.
Ah, the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception...
Just thinking about them sent a shiver down my spine.
One of the greatest "hacks" of the Nasu multiverse. The power to see death—not in a symbolic sense, but literally. Lines and points through which everything can die. People. Objects. Concepts. Ideas. Gods. No matter how eternal something seems—if you can see its death, you can kill it.
Supreme power, right?
Wrong.
Because seeing death means living with it. All the time. In trees, in books, in people. It means seeing the end even in your own thoughts. And the brain... the human brain wasn't made for that.
It collapses. Fries. As happened with Ryougi. With Shiki Tohno. Their sanity wasn't stable. Their perception of the world was cut by lines no one else saw. And that tore them apart inside.
That's the price.
That's always the price.
Because nothing in this world comes without cost. Not in the Nasuverse, not in the real world. Even here... even now... every breath has a price.
We eat to have energy. Work to have money. Spend money to stay alive. And then repeat. Again. And again.
A cycle. A spiral that doesn't stop.
Even the most beautiful ideas... have cracks.
Power? Has a price.
Knowledge? Has a price.
Freedom? Has a price.
And the price, most of the time, is peace itself.
The tip of my pencil touched the paper one last time, closing a shadow beneath the crimson moon.
Zelretch, there, in silence, seemed to understand what I was thinking. Or maybe it was just my imagination projecting a bit of humanity onto a piece of paper.
Either way... I smiled. Lightly. Sadly.
And looked back at the room. The noise continued. The real world, without magic, without powers, without mystic eyes... But with its own cracks too.
I closed the drawing with a light stroke, dragging the shadow of Zelretch's coat until it blended with the bluish grass under the crimson moon. The sky seemed to breathe behind those flowers, as if frozen between silence and a whisper. He, Zelretch, gazed at the horizon with eyes that didn't need to be drawn to convey what I felt.
I felt my chest loosen. Maybe it was pride, maybe exhaustion. Or maybe... a bit of peace.
But it didn't last long.
Thud.
A paper ball hit my head directly with a dry thud. It wasn't strong, but it was precise—enough to knock my headphones off and onto the desk. They fell with a muffled sound, the cables tangling like defeated snakes.
The room, previously noisy, fell into an almost rehearsed silence.
I didn't react immediately. I stayed there, still, feeling the tension slide down my back like a cold blade.
I took a deep breath. Not like someone seeking calm. But like someone gathering a final dose of patience before it disappears.
The sigh that escaped me was so heavy it seemed to have its own echo. It went around the entire room. I felt all the gazes. Some curious. Others nervous. Others just idiotic.
I stood up slowly from the chair, with a straight and firm posture. Pushed the chair back with a dry creak. Picked up the headphones, placed them on the closed notebook. And then my eyes went to the back of the room.
The person who threw the paper ball looked at me with a hesitant smile. One of those smiles that try to seem like a joke but tremble slightly at the corner of the mouth when they feel things have gone wrong.
I stared at that face as if sculpting its skull with my gaze. And that's when I let it out. With a low, firm, unhurried voice—as if writing a sentence:
"Do that again, and I'll embed this damn desk's rust into your skull."
The words cut through the air like shrapnel. Cold. Dry. Sincere.
The silence that followed was different from the previous one. This one was dense. Uncomfortable. Pure.
The boy at the back slightly widened his eyes, not knowing whether to laugh, respond, or pretend it wasn't about him. But he knew. And everyone knew.
I settled back into the chair, pulling it calmly, as if nothing had happened. Put the headphones back on. But didn't press play.
I stayed there, looking at the sheet where Zelretch still contemplated the moon. As if he were laughing, quietly, at all this.
"Beat him up, Rodrigão!"
The voice came from the back of the room, loaded with that hysterical tone of someone seeking attention—someone wanting to set fire to a wet matchstick just to see if it burns. I recognized it immediately. It was Jean, with that always forced loud voice, laughing louder than any joke he could make.
The whole crowd burst into laughter. Some banged on the desk, others shouted, a group near the broken window even started theatrically reenacting what had just happened, as if it were an epic scene from a fifth-rate action movie. And there they were, laughing again, as if the school were a stage and they, the protagonists of some tacky and predictable script.
I just... sighed.
Heavy. Like someone carrying a world they didn't choose. I sat down, letting my body fall with the weight of contained irritation. The chair creaked again, an accomplice to my silence.
I picked up my headphones, tossed there over the closed notebook — Zelretch was still staring at the moon as if he didn't care about any of these earthly noises. As if he were saying, "You're far beneath all this."
I put the headphones back in my ears, but didn't even hit play. I just needed the feeling of being disconnected from everything, even if it was a temporary lie.
"Rodrigão"...
Just thinking of that nickname brings a bitter taste to my throat.
Ridiculous. Childish.
And even more irritating because it came from her.
Bitch.
I curse in my mind, feeling my teeth clench in the back of my mouth. She's always been like that — mocking, cynical, like she's above everyone just because she knows how to laugh louder. She was the one who started that nickname. And like every well-planted curse in this den of idiots, it stuck. It grew. Became identity.
But I'm not that "Rodrigão" they think they know.
I'm not the joke.
I'm not the show.
I'm just... someone trying not to explode.
I stay there, still, listening only to the muffled vibration of the world around me.
Waiting for time to pass.
Waiting for the next class that might not even come.
Waiting... maybe for something I don't even know what it is.
...
I didn't even notice time passing. When I came to, the classroom was nearly empty, the ceiling fan squeaked alone like a scratched record, and only a few distant voices remained outside. I took off the headphones and looked around. The desk next to me was already pushed back, the open window let in the hot night air mixed with the smell of dust and some old street grease. The class... or better, the next classes had all been canceled. Another day the teachers didn't show — nothing unusual for the night shift.
I packed my notebook with the drawing of old Zelretch and quietly made my way out. I passed through the darkened front desk, where the night guard slept with his head dropped over his phone. No one to notice me, no one to say goodnight. Better that way.
As I walked out through the school gate, the night fell entirely over me. The sky was cloudy, threatening rain, but nothing like the skies I used to draw. It was dark, heavy, and humid. The streetlamp flickered with that dead, yellow light, looking tired of existing too.
And just ahead, the usual sight greeted me: the open sewage.
A dark stream of foul water lazily flowing beside the poorly paved street, with steam rising slowly as if the city were exhaling its own rot. Plastic, paper, leftover food, the occasional rat scurrying by — a typical scene from where hope has already given up living.
I stood still for a few seconds. Staring at it.
The contrast between the world of ideas, of art, of history that I loved so much... and the real world. My world.
It was better to just head home. Standing there, staring at the sewage like it was some poetic symbol of my life, wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make reality hurt any less. Because, in the end, no matter how many better worlds I draw, no matter how many times I imagine being someone important… I'm just Rodrigo. Rodrigo Raphael. A poor kid with a scribbled notebook, worn-out headphones, and a patched-up backpack. Nothing more than that.
The street was almost deserted, like it always was after nine. The houses stood glued together, small, poorly finished, some with peeling plaster, others with rusty bars and barking dogs behind them. The streetlights formed a path smeared with shadows, some flickering, trying to resist time, others already dead, leaving chunks of the road submerged in darkness.
I walked at my own pace, hands in the pockets of my worn-out jeans, head slightly down, but eyes alert. Not out of fear — I'd already gotten used to the danger in my neighborhood — but out of habit. You learn to walk with a sixth sense in places like this. You know when to speed up, when to cross the street, when not to look back.
My headphones were back in again, but with no music. Just the comfort of muffled silence. I felt the vibration of my own footsteps on the cracked pavement, the distant sound of a motorcycle revving, and the static from a loud TV coming from some open window.
The lights flickered again. I didn't care. The sky was dark, the moon hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, but not a single drop of rain had fallen — yet.
I took a deep breath. The air had that humid smell of a hot night, mixed with exhaust smoke and trash fermenting in the corners. Might seem unbearable to someone who wasn't born here. But for me? It was just another day. Just another walk home.
Because I knew who I was.
Rodrigo Raphael.
Nothing more than that.
And maybe, just maybe… that would never change.
I kept walking, my old sneakers squeaking lightly with each step on the uneven asphalt. The streetlights were still flickering behind me, but now my mind was far off, lost in thoughts of what I'd do once I finally got home.
First thing: a shower. A long one, the kind that fogs up the whole bathroom mirror. Hot, almost boiling, like it could melt the exhaustion right off my body. I needed that. Then, open the fridge and hunt for anything — maybe some reheated rice, a rushed fried egg, a pack of instant noodles seasoned like it was haute cuisine. And then... then came the good part.
I smiled to myself in the middle of the street. Because I knew that after all this, I was going to spend the whole night playing that Fate RPG — a fan project, but better made than a lot of big-name games out there. One of the few places where I wasn't just "Rodrigo, the poor and tired," but Rael, one of the strongest players on the entire server. Wielder of one of the True Magics and one of Solomon's rings. That, to me, was real power. It was my escape valve. My little slice of the universe where I wasn't limited by the shit of reality.
I remembered the event when the game blew up. The battle against Solomon and Goetia. It was insane. Almost every active player online at the same time, all the Servants summoned, each one fighting with their best strategies, buffs, Master skills, Command Spells, rare craft essences. The chat exploding with messages, dice rolling every second, so many simultaneous actions that the servers nearly collapsed. The dice system froze and resumed, froze and resumed — it was like the game itself was struggling to withstand the weight of that battle.
I remember how my character — with the True Magic of manipulating reality through dimensional patterns — was essential. I managed to hold back Goetia's advance long enough for another player to activate Gilgamesh's Noble Phantasm at full power. Those were seconds of pure tension, where a single mistake could've wiped the whole group. But it worked. We won. And in the end, that collective victory tasted like glory. Like belonging. Like something that, for a moment, was ours.
It was funny how that virtual world made me feel more alive than the one outside. There, I could be strong, important. Make a difference. Something that, off-screen, seemed impossible.
And even if it was escapism... who cares. It was what I had. And it was already better than nothing.
I kept walking through the empty streets, with that high-pitched hum of a dying streetlamp filling the night's silence. My steps were automatic, but my mind was already in the game.
"Should I farm more rare materials today? Or try that extra event in the Camlann Dungeon?" — I wondered to myself, but then the weight came: the server had been down for weeks. No updates, no fixes, no new events. Nothing.
All because of that damn mess with Type-Moon. The company had finally found the game — and of course, hit it with a lawsuit. People on the forums said it was a copyright dispute, that their lawyers were pressuring the amateur devs. And I get the legal side, I really do... but damn, was it so hard to just let us have our fun?
It was a fan project! From fans to fans! No one was making money from it, it was just love, sweat, and a few good late nights of coding. And still, that game had done more for me than any official product from the company. I thought about that every time I looked at my character: strong, respected, built piece by piece with real effort. Not with gacha money, not with luck, but with dedication.
The truth is, it hurt. Because it wasn't just a game under threat. It was my world. My space. My escape from a fucked-up reality. I didn't want to lose my character, my achievements, my records from old events, or the story I built alongside the community.
And that's when the frustration hit hard. How could a fan, with zero budget, coding at night after work, create something so complete, so immersive, so... alive? And Type-Moon itself, with millions behind it, did nothing similar? Just gacha after gacha, content repacks, recycled animations and systems. They had it all: lore, characters, a fanbase... but it felt like they'd forgotten the most important thing: passion.
I sighed deeply, seeing the warm vapor escape my mouth into the cold night.
"Why does it always have to be like this?" — I muttered.
Even if the server went down... I didn't want to forget. I couldn't forget. That was more than a game. It was a place where, for a few hours, I wasn't just Rodrigo Raphael, the invisible guy in the noisy classroom, the poor kid from the outskirts with an old notebook. I was someone. I was important. I was strong.
And maybe... maybe that's why it hurt so much to even think about losing it all.
Before I even realized it, my steps had led me straight to the gate of the housing complex. There it was, with its peeling paint, rust in the corners, and the marks of time fully exposed, as if screaming: "forgotten people live here." I stopped for a moment, looked up at the dark, cloudy sky, took a deep breath... and let the air out in a long sigh.
I pushed the gate hard, like I always did. It responded with that loud, dragging metallic screech, echoing through the empty entrance like a warning for anyone still awake. But no one cared. Not even me. That sound had long been part of the routine, almost like a second soundtrack to my life.
The inner sidewalk, poorly maintained, had weeds growing between the cracked tiles, and cigarette butts scattered here and there. I kept walking, listening to the sound of my sneakers hitting the concrete, while the yellowish lights of the streetlamps flickered, as if fighting not to go out completely. Every now and then, I passed a window with a TV on or a radio playing some old pagode… but other than that, it was silence. That kind of silence you only get in the outskirts, where everyone locks themselves in early, trying to forget that the world outside doesn't forgive.
I reached my building: that gray rectangle with missing plaster and a moldy smell clinging to the entrance. I tapped my key tag on the digital lock, which answered with a muffled beep and a weak green light. I opened the iron door, and it groaned just like the gate. Inside, the tiny lobby with cracked ceramic tiles welcomed me with the same scent as always: a mix of cheap disinfectant and old wall dampness.
I started climbing the stairs, each step a small struggle. The corners of the handrail were rusty and sticky, so I avoided touching them. The paint on the wall was crumbling, and in some spots, you could even see the exposed concrete. Step after step, I climbed that claustrophobic maze of cement and untold stories.
The echo of my footsteps filled the stairwell as if the whole building could hear me coming. But it didn't matter. This was my world. This was my home. Degraded, forgotten—but mine.
As I climbed the last few flights of stairs, I felt anticipation growing in my chest—it wasn't every day I could say it proudly: "this weekend is mine." No work, no obligations, no one nagging me. Just me, my room, and that glowing screen throwing me into a world where I actually existed. Where I was strong. Where I made a difference. Where I could stay up all night and no one would say a word about it.
With every step, the thought of diving back into that RPG excited me more. I already had plans: rebuild my magic build, hunt rare materials, maybe even recruit a legendary servant in a server event. I'd been waiting days for this… and finally, now it was just a matter of logging in and forgetting the real world for a few good hours.
I reached the fifth floor, breathing a little deeper—not from exhaustion, but anticipation. I approached my door, number 502, the paint so worn the number was barely visible. I slid the key into the lock with that familiar dry twist. The handle turned… click.
The door creaked softly as I opened it. The darkness inside greeted me like an old friend. No lights on, just the lukewarm silence of a small, stuffy, familiar apartment. The weak hallway light still lit part of the entryway, but as soon as I stepped inside, everything seemed to vanish—it was like crossing a veil. Everything there was my refuge, even if drowned in shadows.
I shut the door behind me, hearing the muffled clack of the lock. The smell of the house hit me right after: a mix of old wood, light dust, and the cold night air seeping in through the cracks in the window.
I smirked. "Now we're talking…" I thought.
Now the weekend had officially begun.
As soon as the door closed behind me, the muffled sound of the outside world was swallowed by the heavy silence of the apartment. I took a few more steps into the dark living room, where only the weak yellowish light from the hallway spilled in through the curtain slits. Without much thought, I took off my headphones and tossed them on the old two-seater couch, along with my phone, which was flashing with a nearly dead battery.
I sighed deeply, rolling my sore shoulders, and tossed my backpack into a corner of the room with a dull thud. No reason to be neat right now. It landed half-open, with some of my notebooks spilling out. I ignored it. I started peeling off my school uniform shirt with some difficulty, the fabric sticking to my skin from the humidity and the stifling heat of the room. I pulled it over my head and threw it on the kitchen table. Then I slowly unbuttoned my pants while cracking my neck from side to side. The dry pop of vertebrae echoed through the empty space.
My body ached in specific spots—little reminders of a day that had been too long, too heavy. The sound of my own bare feet against the ceramic floor echoed softly, dragging. An intimate sound, repeated so often over the days it felt like part of the house's routine—like the barely audible ticking of the old clock on the kitchen wall.
I entered the narrow hallway leading to the bathroom. The walls were a worn-out beige, peeling at the base, with little signs of water damage in the corners of the ceiling. The bathroom door creaked as I pushed it with my shoulder. The cold lightbulb in the ceiling flickered twice before switching on with a click. The white light spilled into the narrow space, revealing the foggy and slightly stained mirror above the cracked porcelain sink.
I stopped in front of the mirror and stared at my own reflection. A heavy silence took over the air. I felt the whole world go quiet behind me, as if time had taken a step back and left me there, isolated.
I looked at myself for a few seconds, in silence. And for a brief moment, I let out a low laugh. Ironic. Contemptuous. One of those laughs that only exist to cover up the disgust.
"Just look at you, Rodrigo…" I muttered, still staring at that wreck on the other side of the mirror.
Hair stuck to my forehead, messy, greasy. The dark circles under my eyes made it look like I'd taken two solid punches. Pale skin, full of old acne scars, like puberty had decided to set up camp here and never leave. The double chin stared back at me without a shred of pride. Sagging chest, bulging stomach, fat arms. A lump of poorly sculpted flesh wearing the expression of someone who gave up trying to feel alive a long time ago.
"A walking piece of trash," I whispered, laughing a little louder this time. "Not even an anime villain would use this body."
I stepped closer, like I wanted to see how far the disaster went. My eyes tried to avoid the mirror on reflex, but I forced myself to keep looking. Because running from it didn't change the truth. This is what I am. Nothing more than this.
"The great Rodrigão… browser RPG champ, master of reality escapism. Queen of suffering, king of running away…" I said in a drawn-out, theatrical, mocking voice.
My reflection didn't reply, of course. It just stared back. Fat, tired, broke, pathetic. A guy who talks to himself in the bathroom while peeling off sweaty clothes and trying not to think too hard about his own existence. My shoulders slumped.
I let out another sigh, heavier this time, like I could force all this crap out of my lungs. I turned on the shower without waiting for the water to warm up. Cold it is. Maybe it'll wake me up. Maybe I'll freeze inside and stop thinking.
When the "Extra Nasuverse" screen finally opens, the background music starts playing—epic sounds, with soft instruments gradually building as the game comes to life. The world unfolds before my eyes, with vibrant characters, battles that promise to be intense, and a massive map full of secrets. Part of me wonders if all of this is just another empty distraction. But the other side... the side that's tired of life, the one that just wants to forget everything... gets lost. It simply gets lost there.
I log into my account, and my heart races. There's nothing more thrilling than having that kind of power at your fingertips—the power of a character who is strong, who is respected. My in-game avatar, with abilities that defy limits, with magic that could rewrite reality. Still, something tells me that this search for power, for control, is just another reflection of the emptiness inside me. But again, who cares? What do I have to lose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I open my character list, and my eyes fix on one—my favorite. He's the strongest, wields true magic, one of Solomon's rings, and in the game, he's unbeatable. I remember the last event, when we faced Solomon and Goetia. What was supposed to be a simple battle turned into absolute chaos. The fight animations were incredible, with every server united against two of the biggest villains. I remember the adrenaline, the stats, the data flying across the screen at nearly impossible speed. It felt like the whole world was there, fighting together. But at the same time, all of that... was just a game. Nothing real.
That nostalgia hits hard, but at the same time, a weight builds in my chest. What am I really doing here, playing this? There's no answer. No meaning to any of it. So, with a sigh, I let the game take me over completely. The battles begin, and for a moment, I'm more than Rodrigo, more than just some lost kid in a world of limitations. Here, I am who I want to be.
As the game goes on, part of me still knows it's all temporary. But in that moment, it doesn't matter.
I frowned and stared at my computer screen, waiting for it to respond, but the only thing showing was a blank screen with the word ERROR flashing repeatedly, almost as if it were mocking me. I had just selected my favorite character, Zelretch—the legendary mage, the one who could manipulate time and space itself, raw power wrapped in magic. I was ready for another battle, another night of fun, and now... this?
"ERROR... ERROR... ERROR..." The words kept flashing, as if screaming at me, amplifying the discomfort I already felt. My finger hovered over the mouse, still trying to click, but nothing happened. I tried moving the cursor across the screen, but it floated weirdly, like the whole system was crashing.
"What the hell..." I muttered, an ironic smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. How could I be so stupid? Of course this was going to happen. How could a fan-made game really last? It was a ticking time bomb from the beginning, a bomb that probably just exploded. I didn't want to believe it, but what else could it be? It was Type-Moon. Of course they'd shut it down, one way or another. They never liked this kind of thing. Copyrights and fan piracy were never a joke to them.
I leaned back in my chair, shoulders heavy, head tilted back as I stared at the ceiling of my room. The air was stuffy, the window half open, but the breeze coming through did nothing to ease it. How was it again? "Nothing ever lasts," I thought, laughing at myself. Nothing—absolutely nothing in my life seemed to last. I already knew that. All I wanted was to escape a bit, spend a few hours in a game that made me feel some kind of power, some kind of control over something.
Now, not even that was left. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to calm down. It wasn't the first time the game had bugged, but something told me this crash was different. Something inside me knew this was the end, and that pissed me off even more. I ran a hand over my face, feeling the warmth of my palms against my skin, trying to push away the rising frustration. There was nowhere left to run. It was all a joke, wasn't it?
"Damn you, Type-Moon..." I whispered, the anger swelling inside me. All I wanted was a chance to be something, to feel like my life had some value—even if just for a few hours inside a damn game. But even that, they took from me.
I clicked the screen again, trying once more, hoping it was just a temporary glitch. But nothing. The same blank ERROR.
I didn't know what to do anymore. I didn't know if I wanted to shut the computer down and lie in bed, or throw everything aside and go outside for a walk. Sitting here, letting myself be consumed by anger, wasn't an option. I always hated when this happened—when everything seemed to fall apart—but there was nothing left to do. The relief that game brought me, that tiny bit of escape, had vanished, taken away by the absurdity of reality.
Maybe it was fate trying to tell me something. Maybe it was a message, a cruel joke... No, none of that. I was just being dramatic. I knew that. The only thing I knew for sure was that all I wanted now was a distraction. Something to make me forget everything—even if just for a night. But now, even that had been taken from me.
I let out another sigh and, not knowing what else to do, closed the game window. The dark screen in front of me seemed quieter than usual, and for a moment I just sat there, listening to the sounds of the street outside—the wind rustling the leaves on the trees—trying to find some kind of peace in the middle of all that chaos.
But deep down, I knew that moment of calm wouldn't last. I knew I'd have to face reality again, sooner or later. I didn't have the strength to deny it anymore.
The room plunged into complete silence when the laptop screen suddenly went black. There was no pop, no static, nothing. Just the sudden disappearance of the glow that had been lighting up my face and part of the room with that pale bluish hue. I froze for a few seconds, blinking in confusion, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Darkness settled around me, a reminder that the only light had been from the screen itself.
My first thought was that the laptop had died, but when I glanced at the edge of the desk, the charger was still firmly plugged into the socket, the cord properly connected. I checked the power button, tapped the keyboard, the trackpad. Nothing. No response. That wasn't normal—and with that old piece of junk, I'd seen every kind of glitch.
I started to lean forward, ready to close and reopen the lid, when the screen suddenly came back to life. A faint glow, almost shy, and then… text.
A single sentence appeared in the center of the black screen, written in white, in a font I swear I'd never seen before. Elegant. Clean. But strangely… old. Almost like something handwritten with a digitized quill.
"If you could wish for six things from the Nasuverse… what would you wish for?"
I froze.
My heart did a strange leap in my chest. The sentence just sat there. No sound. No blinking cursor. Just that question… staring back at me. I looked around, half-expecting someone to have come in and started filming me. That some idiot friend was playing a prank. But the door was still locked. The only company was the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood and the ticking clock on the wall.
"Is this... some kind of mod?" my mind tried to rationalize. A hidden Easter egg? Maybe an ARG, something left behind by other fans. But I had never heard of anything like it, and I'd been on that server since the first month it launched.
The question kept staring at me, as if demanding an answer—as if it already knew I was going to reply.
I adjusted myself in the chair, my breathing slightly faster. "If I could wish for six things from the Nasuverse..." I repeated mentally, a chill running up my spine. The idea was… absurd. But intriguing. Dangerous. Hypnotic.
If it were only one or two, I'd have to choose coldly, tactically. But six?
My mind started racing in a thousand directions. I knew that universe like the back of my hand. Every spell, every mystical concept, every cosmic horror. I knew what it meant to ask for something from there—it wasn't just about "cool anime powers." It was messing with forces that crushed sanity, that bent reality, that ripped you away from your humanity.
But if I could… if… choose six, what would I choose?
The screen glowed again.
For a second, I thought it might shut off completely—maybe it was just the laptop frying its old graphics card. But no. The light grew brighter, steady, silent, as if the machine was breathing with me. The previous message was still there, firm, at the center of the screen:
"If you could wish for six things from the Nasuverse… what would you wish for?"
But now… there was something new.
Right below the sentence, as if the interface had come alive, a kind of input field began to form. Not a typical single text box. It was a simple table, with six perfectly symmetrical divisions—one for each wish. The outline was too clean, like it hadn't been made for the screen's format—like it had been drawn by a logic of its own, detached from the operating system. No jagged edges, no pixel glitches. Everything looked… too perfect.
I leaned forward, staring at each of the six empty cells. The feeling was strange. Almost physical. As if those blanks were waiting for something from me—something pulled straight from the depths of my mind. By reflex, I slid my finger across the touchpad. The cursor appeared… hesitant. Then, it slowly moved toward the first field.
"Ah… so that's how it is?" I muttered, letting out a nasal, low laugh, trying to shake off the chill crawling up my back. "These mods are getting freaky as hell..."
But deep down, I knew this wasn't a mod. No indie developer would program an input system like that into a game where the interface was always locked, where every change required a patch. This was something else. Maybe an ARG. Or…
Or I was finally breaking the boundary between escapism and reality.
Even so, the idea of being able to write down six wishes made me... electric. I, Rodrigo Raphael, the broke, overweight guy sitting in an old chair in a crappy apartment in front of a battered laptop—was about to write down my six most absurd wishes.
It was laughable.
And yet… it was everything I'd ever wanted.
I held back the urge to just type anything. Took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment. Tried to recall the rules. The consequences. What it really meant to have those powers. The responsibility. The weight.
But the keyboard was calling to me.
The fields still blinked on the screen as if staring at me—patient, yet insistent. Each rectangle looked like a hole in the fabric of reality waiting to be filled with the impossible. I took a deep breath, my hands hovering over the keyboard. It was absurd—of course it was. Just a game, a mod, a joke by bored developers... But still, something inside me said to take it seriously. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe—just maybe—a voice whispering deep inside that there was more to this than I could understand.
"Sixwishes, huh?" I muttered to myself.
So, I decided to write as if it were all real. As if this were the most important moment of my life. Because, honestly? What harm could it do?
In the first field, I typed:
"Kaleidoscope — The Second True Magic."
On the surface, any idiot would think it's just a window into parallel worlds, a useless quirk of mystical curiosity. But anyone who truly understood the Nasuverse knew: the Kaleidoscope wasn't just about seeing possibilities. It was about navigating, moving between them. To master it meant to control infinite versions of reality — infinite versions of myself, of every choice I never made and every future I never lived. A power so colossal that even the Mages of the Clock Tower treated it as a living legend. Having it... wasn't just power. It was becoming the epicenter of the multiverse.
My fingers trembled as I typed the second wish:
"The Ring of Solomon, along with his personal Magecraft grimoire from the Age of Gods."
That... that made me smile. I didn't ask for all ten rings. That would be stupid. Having all ten would make me an absolute force, yes — but it would also make everything boring. Where's the fun if you can just nullify everything with a snap of your fingers? True power lies not in total domination, but in discovery, in study, in growth. With one ring, and with Solomon's true grimoire — the man who commanded 72 demons and was called the "King of Magic" — I would have tools and knowledge from a lost era, something no modern mage had ever dreamed of touching. The Age of Gods lived in that book. And with it... I could recreate it.
The third wish was almost indulgent. Almost.
"Wish Upon a Star — the EX-Rank Noble Phantasm."
Its true limit is unknown. They say it grants the user's wish temporarily, but what kind of wish? The scale was never clearly defined. That's what drew me in. The mystery. The implied vastness. The fact that it was ranked EX already said everything: it broke the scale. It didn't matter if it was an attack, a defense, or something conceptual. It would be granted. And the best part? For a limited time. That meant it required strategy. Choosing the right moment, the right wish. It was dangerous. It was perfect.
In the fourth field, I typed something that nearly made me hesitate, because the weight of this wish was... terrifying.
"Clairvoyance EX — the fusion of Solomon's prophetic sight."
If Kaleidoscope would give me access to multiple universes, Clairvoyance would let me see through time, space, and maybe even concepts. Solomon could foresee the end of humanity, see the roots of events before they even sprouted. Having those eyes would help me know everything. Anticipate everything. Maybe... even change everything. And still, it was frightening. Seeing too much can break you. But I... I wanted to see.
Now, the final two wishes. They came together, like a package I could never ignore:
"Excalibur and Avalon — the sacred sword and the eternal refuge."
The sword of promised victory, the ultimate symbol of hope. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a legacy. A light against despair. And Avalon... the true gift. A place where wounds don't reach, where time doesn't pass, where death cannot touch. An absolute sanctuary. Together, those two artifacts made Artoria more than a warrior — they made her a walking miracle. If I had both, I would have the power to destroy and survive, to fight and protect, to bleed... and remain standing.
I finished typing. Six fields, filled with the foundations of what could very well be the beginning of something unthinkable. I stared at the screen for a long moment, my heart pounding.
If it was just a mod... well, what a damn good one.
I finished typing the six wishes with a twinge of embarrassment and a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I spent a few seconds looking at the screen, still glowing with that dark background and the text boxes filled with what, let's face it, sounded like the megalomaniac fantasy of a lonely nerd. I leaned back in the chair, my spine popping in protest, and slowly let the air escape through my lips.
— What kind of idiot writes something like this thinking that... I don't know, that something might actually happen? — I muttered, my voice fading into the dimness of the room. — It's just a damn game mod...
My gaze swept over the dark and messy room. The only sound was the faint hum of the ceiling fan creaking lazily. The light from the laptop screen was the only illumination, tinting everything around with a bluish glow. It was a pathetic scene. A fat guy with deep eye bags, sitting in his underwear in a stuffy, God-forgotten room, feeding fantasies he didn't even believe in himself.
I felt stupid. Deeply stupid. And it wasn't that ironic, theatrical kind of self-criticism we do sometimes. It was a real knot in my throat. A raw sense of futility. I was nobody. I never was. I never would be. I was just Rodrigo Raphael. Just some loser. A piece of insignificant meat lost in a system that crushed dreams and ground down wills.
What did I think was going to happen? That the universe would choose me? That some magical lightning bolt from beyond would come down and pull me into a fantasy world because I typed six wishes into a fan-made game? Ridiculous.
I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking about just closing everything, lying down on the couch, and falling asleep pretending that this moment of weakness never happened. But before I could move my hand to the mousepad, the screen flickered.
Not a normal flicker. It wasn't a glitch or loading lag. It was a flash. A living, pulsing, almost organic light. It was as if the screen had come alive, as if it were breathing. The bluish glow intensified, soaking the room. The change was so sudden it hurt my eyes. I raised my hand to shield them, and when I lowered it again, the screen showed something new.
"Initiating soul transfer..."
I stood still.
For a moment, I thought it was a joke. Some random easter egg from the developers, a well-crafted prank. But then... the air changed. Literally. The pressure in the room increased, as if something invisible was pushing the world down. I felt the air grow warmer, denser. My ears started picking up a deep, muffled sound, a hum coming from all directions — not loud, but invasive, like it was vibrating inside my bones.
My heart began to race. My hands grew cold. My legs started trembling on their own. I tried to stand, but my muscles were stiff, as if they had been swallowed by an electric current, paralyzing them slowly.
The blue light from the screen intensified, and now it seemed to expand. Not just illuminate — but swallow. The outline of the desk disappeared. The floor beneath my feet seemed less solid. The reality around me started to feel... fragile. As if it were shattering into shards of glass and light.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I tried to close my eyes, but I couldn't even do that anymore. I was being sucked into something I didn't understand, and the fear was so tangible I almost vomited. That's when one last line appeared, slowly typed out, as if the one doing it wanted to savor each letter:
"Welcome to the other side, Rael."
And then, the world... collapsed.
First came the vision — a blinding white flash, as if I had been thrown directly into the eye of the sun. Then came the sound — everything went silent, then distorted, then a symphony of impossible echoes. And finally, the body — or what was left of it. It felt as if I were being flayed from the inside out, not with pain, but with an alien sensation, as if my very existence were being dismantled piece by piece.
There was no floor. No ceiling. Nothing.
And I... I was just falling. Or floating. Or vibrating. I can't say.
All I know is that, in that moment, I stopped being just Rodrigo Raphael.
And maybe... just maybe... something heard me.