All around, the hiss of burning metal roared, sparks flew into the air, and the flames of welding torches danced. The noise of the factory was deafening—metal clanged against metal, machines hummed, and workers toiled at a relentless pace like mindless machines.
Umeda Raide, a 23-year-old man, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on his boot, walked to his station, lowered his head, his hand trembling as he turned on his welder, and resumed welding. His protective mask was clouded with sweat and grime. More metal sheets, more seams, more hours passed in the rhythm of labor.
He was tired. Tired of the days that dragged on the same, of the repetition and hopelessness that hung over him like a dark cloud. Every time he raised his eyes and looked at the outside world, it was the same smog, the same gray sky. The air was heavy, saturated with toxins, and the people around him moved in their gas masks like robots. Disgusted by it all, he knew this wasn't even a real life anymore.
And then—finally—the sharp voice of the foreman rang out:
"Shift's over! Get the hell home, and be back at seven tomorrow! If any of you are late, I'll personally kick your ass!"
The boss, a fat man with a face like worn-out leather, growled the order, turned, and walked off muttering. The welding noise ceased, and the space filled only with the soft hiss of cooling machines.
Raide turned off the welder, slowly removed his helmet, and took a deep breath. His face was covered in a layer of gray dust, and his eyes blinked instinctively at the factory's harsh fluorescent lights. His short black hair was entirely gray from dust and metal. He deeply regretted his decision. Factory work was slavery—poorly paid and with no future. But what else could he do? The world outside was dead, destroyed by wars and a toxic atmosphere. He had no other choice. He stretched his stiff muscles tiredly before removing his gloves and slowly walking toward the large iron gates.
He headed to the grimy locker room, where his own gas mask awaited. Without it, he wouldn't survive a minute outside. He changed into his black sweatpants and gray hoodie and moved toward the massive metal doors.
These were no ordinary doors—they were designed to protect the building and workers from the toxins outside. Made from reinforced alloy and equipped with special seals, they were nearly perfectly airtight.
As he stepped through the massive metal gate, the cold air saturated with toxins struck him. The city was enveloped in eternal smog, which lazily hung over the streets like a suffocating mist. People shuffled silently along the sidewalks, each wearing a gas mask—children, the elderly… The year 2130 hadn't brought the progress everyone once promised. It wasn't a year worth celebrating—just a slower, bitter decline.
Above their heads, cars once soaring through the skies now hovered silently. There weren't many. These days, they flew only rarely, and most were old, filthy, worn down, and broken. After the war, nearly all energy sources had been depleted. These rare flying machines were relics of the past, with only a few still maintained and fully operational—luxury items for some.
It was said that the government siphoned energy from neighboring countries, but even Japan had only a few decades left before its last resources were drained. People knew it. And they also knew that hope for change was becoming ever rarer.
Raide moved quietly through the streets like a shadow. The people around him hurried back to their homes, some stopped to buy food—carefully packaged and stored in special containers that looked more like alloy boxes than anything edible.
Every house, every apartment building, every floor of a concrete block was secured with heavy metal doors. These doors were designed to prevent the toxic air from entering and to protect the inhabitants from its deadly effects. It was necessary—there had been many incidents where people underestimated the strength of the contaminated air and died. The cities were essentially surrounded by enormous metal walls that blocked the entry of toxic gases. If someone ventured outside, it was a race against time. Even those who tried had no choice but to wear gas masks to survive. And even then, survival was uncertain.
The streets were half-empty, while inside homes, life struggled with a slow, quiet extinction. Those lucky enough had at least a few spare filters and a device to maintain breathable air inside. Filters had become a luxury few could afford. Prices were astronomical—an average family had to save for months just to afford one set of quality filters. And even when they finally obtained them, there was no guarantee of long-term peace. Most of these filters lasted only three or four years, which was extremely frustrating because they had to be replaced regularly.
And though there were models designed to last up to 12 years, they were so expensive that most people could never afford them. If these filters even made it to market, they were usually sold out before anyone had a chance to buy them. When a crisis came and new supplies were needed, most homes relied on leftovers or the black market, where prices rose even higher. And if you weren't strong or clever enough, you were at the mercy of the filthy and poisonous atmosphere outside. That's why it was best to have doors no one could break and, above all, a way to survive.
When he finally reached his apartment—a small, sterile room with a single window that showed nothing but the gray emptiness outside—he shut the door behind him. Automatically, he said:
"I'm home."
No one answered. Of course not. He had lived alone for a long time now.
He walked to the fridge, grabbed some instant food, and ate it mechanically. The food wasn't even worth mentioning—it tasted awful. As he ate, his mind wandered. His parents… they were gone. Poisoned by toxins. Overworked. A fate shared by many others. He was left alone. Work. Eat. Sleep. And repeat.
No… it wasn't just that.
He walked over to a black chair in the middle of the room, an elegant piece of technology. At least something humanity had advanced. Slowly, he sat down, stretched his fingers, and reached for the glasses lying on the table beside him.
Virtual reality nanotechnology. His escape.
He put on the glasses and activated the connection.
As the glasses settled on his face, a vast darkness unfolded before him. Suddenly, the image brightened, and an interface appeared in front of his eyes—a glowing blue window with sharp digital lines.
Welcome, user.
Nanotech network connection detected.
Analyzing biometric data…
A short pause. It always took just a few seconds, but Raide was long used to the process. After a moment, another message appeared.
Identification verified.
Would you like to launch "Eterna Skirmish Online"?
Below the message were two buttons: YES and NO. It was merely a formality—he had never clicked NO.
He always, without hesitation, chose to confirm.
He always chose confirmation without hesitation. This world was his escape, and he didn't want to remain in a world where there was nothing but smog and suffering. Then he was immediately surrounded by light, and his consciousness sank deeply into a kind of sleep.
As his consciousness sank, he slowly began to open his eyes. He was greeted by a blinding light, but the light around him gradually faded and turned into the detailed environment of his domain – a stronghold carefully built as part of his guild, Kuro no Tenshi.
Umeda Raiden appeared in a large, ornate hall dominated by a massive round table inlaid with diamonds and magical stones. Yellow and green gemstones glowed with a dim light, casting gentle reflections on the table's black marble surface. The walls of the hall were adorned with ancient tapestries and engravings reminiscent of his guild's legendary deeds.
In the middle of the hall, opposite the round table, stood a lone black throne. It was decorated with intricate carvings and dark gemstones that pulsed faintly with magical energy. The throne belonged to the leader of the guild – a man who once ruled here with unwavering authority.
But that man hadn't logged in for a long time; his nickname was TimeWasteer.
It was said that he had succumbed to toxins in the real world, or that he had been broken by overwork, which had become a very common cause of death in those times. No one knew what had really happened to him. Eventually, his name began to slowly fade away.
And so the throne remained empty.
Raiden had the right to it, as he alone was the guild leader's representative. He could sit on it and become the new ruler of Kuro no Tenshi, but he refused – for now. It wasn't just about responsibility – he knew such an act could divide the guild. The friendships that bound them could turn into politics, secret intrigues, and a war for power.
And he didn't want that. He didn't want his greed and selfishness to destroy what he loved most. He didn't want to turn his friends against him, even if they were just in a game. He valued even that.
He looked at himself. His avatar was a reflection of the power he had built in this world. Heavy silver-black armor covered in spikes shielded his entire body, his massive nodachi at his waist, while two katanas were strapped to his back. A helmet shaped like a dragon's skull gave his figure a menacing appearance.
But he wasn't alone. Opposite him, at the other end of the table, sat another player character.
She was stunning – an elf of unimaginable beauty, her long blonde hair sparkling like the purest gold. And yet, her eyes were empty, completely white, lifeless. In her left eye, the number 六 (six) was clearly engraved directly into the iris.
She wore an elegant white dress with silver embroidered patterns that seamlessly blended into armor, revealing her right arm – smooth, snow-white, almost otherworldly. Beside her floated a beautifully ornate wooden staff with golden fittings. At its top was a crescent moon, at the center of which a large purple orb glowed, pulsing with energy.
The elf, under the player nickname Yumi, slightly lowered her head and smiled. It had been a long time since their last meeting, yet nothing had changed – she still looked just as ethereally beautiful, still had that strange vacant gaze, as if her mind was elsewhere.
"Yumi… it's been a long time."
He addressed her quietly, almost hesitantly.
Yumi smiled, but there was no warmth in her eyes. "Maybe even longer… I've lost track. Every day is the same."
"Work, sleep, survive. Repeat until exhaustion." His words sounded almost mocking, but as if lacking true emotion.
"Something like that," Yumi nodded and brushed a strand of hair aside.
"My company has me working harder than ever. Paperwork, meetings, endless demands. Each day feels longer than the last."
Kami Kaze smirked. "At least the pay's good?"
"Enough to survive," she shrugged.
"But not enough to make up for the lost time."
Raiden silently scanned the empty hall. The stronghold that once teemed with players now felt like an abandoned crypt.
"And the others? Has anyone logged in?"
Yumi shook her head. "No one. No one's been here in weeks."
"The remaining fifty-five members of Kuro no Tenshi are either working or sleeping. Most of them don't have time to launch the game. And even if they can… they have to save up for filters."
Raiden lowered his gaze.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Yumi looked over the empty table.
"We were once gods in this game. Now we're just slaves to reality."
"We always were,"
Raiden replied softly.
"We just didn't see it back then."
Silence followed. Both looked toward the black throne at the end of the hall—a symbol of Kuro no Tenshi's power. A place that once awaited its ruler.
"And what about you?" Yumi asked, her voice almost tender.
"Still refusing to sit on that throne?"
Raiden looked away.
"It's not about power. Kuro no Tenshi was a family. I don't want to divide it over ambition."
Yumi smiled slightly, though sorrow remained in her eyes.
"In that case, you're a better leader than you think."