Not that the office was the best place for it, but the mouse cursor opened a hidden folder on the computer. The one performing the action didn't really care as he clicked frenetically on the icon, hoping that doing so would somehow speed up the process.
He knew he should stop before some superior — or some nosy coworker—peeked over to see what he was doing instead of working.
The afternoon was ending, and by that hour people had better things to do than linger around the bank.
Welcome, Voyager2120! The greeting appeared on the loading screen.
The loading bar crawled forward at a snail's pace — far too slow.
In front of the computer screen, the employee rubbed his forehead, trying to hide his scowl.
He was used to it by now; it had been happening for days. In the end, he always blamed the bank's crappy computers.
Switching screens, the monitor then displayed a gleaming phrase:
⇱ The human being is not special. You are nothing but a speck between nothingness and infinity. But that doesn't mean you are disposable or useless. Each of us must seek our own place in history. ⇲
Error! A yellow and red alert window blocked the previous message.
What? He thought, irritated, staring at the warning on the screen.
Do you wish to install VD Insurance? A pop-up appeared with the options Yes and No.
What's this for? He clicked Yes.
Invalid account, restart the game and insert a valid one!
"Ahh" the reaction slipped from him.
"Everything okay there, Anthony?" A teasing voice came from the back of the office.
"Y-yeah, sure" he stammered, the words stuck in his throat as he stared at the monitor. "The system's slow, must be the internet again."
His answer was far too calm for someone about to lose an eleven-year-old account in his favorite game. He redid the process, clicking the mouse without pause until the screen froze completely, this time with a new message:
Servers shut down! We apologize for the inconvenience, please contact support.
For a moment his blood ran cold, then boiled. Rage clouded his vision, but he was at work; he couldn't scream and hurl the monitor against the wall like some lunatic.
The game shut itself down moments later.
With the calm of a buddha and a taciturn gaze, he strode quickly down the corridor until he reached the bathroom at its end.
The sound of running water masked his muffled grunts.
What am I even doing here?
Splashing water onto his face, the young adult stared at his reflection. His brown eyes carried disappointment and sadness straight from his core, while his intentionally tousled dark hair contrasted with the thin tie perfectly aligned with the buttons of his dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up slightly.
Hanging from a lanyard around his neck was an ID card that read: Anthony Lemark.
He forced a bitter smile, half-heartedly posing a double biceps in the mirror, though there wasn't a shred of definition. On his left wrist was a simple leather-strap watch, where only the hour hand moves — probably broken from age.
"Calm down. It's almost six o'clock, I'll sort this out at home. They probably figured out I play at work and decided to prank me." His words bounced back from the mirror in a weak attempt to cheer himself up.
Back at his desk, a notification caught his eye. It was from Dragon Sword — the very game that had glitched minutes earlier.
As a reward for accepting VD Insurance, remember this phrase: Inrud Zelah, Veyrael.
What the…
A calm yet terrifying voice — terrifying because he was supposed to be working, not worrying about games — pierced his ears, forcing him to close the message at once.
"Anthony! This client has an old account here at the bank and needs it recovered. Your computer's the best in the department, so it'll be faster." One of his coworkers, Lee, was clearly mocking him for his earlier complaints about the system being slow (when it was really the game messing up) and because it was almost quitting time.
With Lee was a young man, about 5'9'' tall, short curly black hair, expressive face, medium-toned skin, and casual clothing that made him utterly unremarkable.
"Alright, good afternoon! How can I help you?" No matter how drained he felt, Anthony had to look professional.
"I came to withdraw money from an old account, since I couldn't do it online." The young man sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
"Very well, do you know the account number?"
"Number 161.803.398."
Anthony bit his tongue, his brows knitting in confusion. On his screen appeared an account dormant for nearly twenty years — yet the youth across from him couldn't have been older than that.
"That account was my father's, and the keyword is fragmentofdestiny." The young man promptly replied, noticing the banker's puzzled expression.
"The keyword is correct, but I'll need some ID to confirm your relation."
The young man produced his identification card.
"Alright, Mr. Ram…" Anthony began, but was cut off.
"No need to say that name aloud, I really don't like it. I'll change it someday." Nervously, the youth snatched back the ID. "Just make the funds available for withdrawal, please."
"Whatever, it's already cleared in the system. You can withdraw at any teller in the lobby." Anthony frowned, tired of it all.
The young man stood and quickly walked toward the machines.
Anthony glanced at his watch — the hour hand had already ticked just past six. He went to his locker, pulled off his lanyard, grabbed his motorcycle helmet, and headed for the bank's entrance.
Just as he reached for the door handle, the same young man tapped his shoulder.
"Mr. Anthony, right?"
Anthony only nodded.
"Thank you for your help. It may have been simple, but as my father always said: "We live a fragment of life at a time, and the importance of each is defined by the impact it has on those around us." And today, your fragment made me happy!" His lips curved into a smile, dimples showing. "I'd like to chat more, but let's save that for another time. You look a bit stressed."
"Ah, yes, of course" Anthony replied awkwardly, confused as he opened the door to leave.
A few meters away his motorcycle was parked. He strapped on the helmet, glancing back as the young man exited the bank with a gentle expression. Two taller youths waited for him.
"You brought us here just to recover a bank account? No way, man…" the tallest laughed.
"Come on, Henri, don't give me that blank look. Stop teasing me." The shorter one protested.
"Fine, fine. So, shall we begin?!" Henri retorted, shaking his head.
"Relax, let's get home first."
The three turned the corner, vanishing from Anthony's sight as he started his bike and rode off in the opposite direction, merging onto the main highway.
The long straight stretch tempted him to pick up speed, weaving between lanes to pass cars.
Once again, disappointment and sadness clouded his thoughts.
Damn it, Dragon Sword… I dedicated nearly half of my life to that account. Wasn't it saved properly? I'm sure I set up two-step verification.
I've lost my hobby. No… it feels more like I've lost a part of myself.
Blinking back to reality, he noticed something unusual in the sky — a shimmering green light, flickering like the northern lights.
What? But we're nowhere near the poles, this is stra…
Before he could finish the thought, his elbow struck something hard as stone. Snapping his focus back to the road, he realized it was the side of a truck.
Reflexively, jolted by the scare, his motorcycle swerved left, handlebars shaking violently as he fought for control.
"Son of a bi…!"
The handlebars locked left, sending the bike skidding across two lanes straight toward the guard rail dividing the highway.
His eyelids clenched shut at the moment of impact.
One second… two… five… Nothing. No pain. No crash. The roar of vehicles vanished, replaced by the crackle of something burning and the clash of metal. The scent of soil and smoke filled his nose.
Gasping for breath, he opened his eyes as though for the first time. But this was definitely not the highway.
Where the hell am I?
All around were tall trees, his motorcycle now resting on an ancient cobblestone path — one end leading to a castle, the other to a ruined gate flanked by walls enclosing the area.
To complete the chaotic scene, people were fighting, some mere meters away by the roadside, others closer to the gate. Three visually distinct groups clashed: two factions battling each other and also against soldiers armed with spears, bows, swords, and shields.
The first group wore navy uniforms. The second didn't seem uniformed, though each bore a common gray garment.
Maybe I hit my head hard and I'm dreaming… but my bike's here too, and the green light in the sky hasn't gone away.
The whistle of an arrow grazed past him, making him turn aside to avoid it. That snapped him back to reality, his eyes now locking on a young lady running as two people in blue chased her down.
Maybe instinct, maybe adrenaline — he couldn't explain it himself — but he kicked into first gear and charged toward the trio.
Breathing deep, he shifted into second, then third, the bike roaring toward them.
Slamming the front brake and swinging the bike at ninety degrees, the rear wheel struck one blue-clad, sending him flying.
The other one dove to the ground to dodge, narrowly avoiding his partner's fate.
"Come on, get on!"
Anthony's hand reached out to the young woman, who stood frozen in shock at the stranger.
"But…" she stammered, hesitant.
"Just get on!"
Urged on by his insistence, she grasped his hand, climbed onto the passenger seat, and clung to him as the bike surged forward again.
"What's happening?" he asked first.
"You're here because of the prophecy too?" she countered with a question of her own.
"Huh?"
Prophecy? What? I'm losing it, this can't be real.
His mind spun with thoughts.
The clash of swords, the smell of cut grass and smoke… It's too real to be a dream.
"I'll help you get out of here, then you explain everything."
Seconds later, the ruined gate loomed ahead. Passing through, they were a short ride from the city.
"I should've asked sooner: who are you? And what is this thing we're riding?" The girl rested her head against his back to shield herself from the wind.
"My name's Anthony, and this is my bi…"
In a flash, a spear whistled between his arms, embedding itself in the metal flank of the motorcycle.
"AHH!" she screamed.
The bike jerked violently. Her nails clawing his sides in panic as a thunderous BOOM followed.
The screech of metal and a rush of wind filled the air like a bittersweet lullaby.
Eyes blurry, Anthony strained his neck to take in the scene.
A few meters away lay his bike, burning, rear wheel shattered with a spear stuck in it. Nearby, his passenger lay unconscious.
No… my bike… He didn't even think about the young lady.
Glancing at his own injuries, his arms were cut, his right knee exposed through torn fabric, raw flesh visible from scraping against the ground.
Worst of all was the throbbing in his skull. likely worse if not for the helmet.
A tall man strode past him, spiky white hair cropped short, clad in a black uniform trimmed with blue.
"Stay where you are!" The attacker's voice was sharp, commanding.
This bastard's the one who wrecked my bike?!
Anthony's consciousness wavered, eyelids drooping, darkness closing in.