"PIPE DOWN, YOU LOT!"
Old Man Jo's voice thundered through the Golden Mouse Internet Café, cutting through the cacophony of clicking keys and heated gaming banter. The wizened café owner stood atop a wobbly chair, his wiry frame commanding attention despite his age. Conversations died mid-sentence as heads swiveled toward him.
"Golden Mouse is hosting a League of the Ancient tournament two weeks from now!" Jo announced, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of a man half his age. "Five-man teams, thirty-two brackets, single elimination. Prize is $2,500 cash, plus sponsored gear—keyboards, monitors, pro-grade stuff! Entry's $50 per team. Sign-ups open at 8 AM on match day."
Aiden's fingers froze over his keyboard, the battlemage on his screen forgotten. Something electric surged through his exhausted body, a jolt more potent than the energy drinks he'd been subsisting on. His mind, always calculating, always three steps ahead, immediately started running the numbers.
$2,500 split five ways... $500. My rare runes could fetch $250 on the black market. Dad's insurance has about $100 left. If I can get a sponsored keyboard worth $200...
He glanced up, meeting Marcus's wide-eyed stare from station 17. The hulking man's face had split into a rare, genuine grin that transformed his usually stoic features. Liam, unusually, had abandoned his shadowy corner to drift closer, his thin frame vibrating with barely contained energy.
$1,050... just $149 shy of a basic pod.
For the first time since the trailer's release, Eternal Realms wasn't just a distant star—it was a destination with a map. The realization bloomed in Aiden's chest, warm and dangerous as hope.
"We're doing this," Aiden said, his voice quiet but firm. The words hung in the air between them, not a question but a declaration.
Marcus's meaty hand slammed onto the table, rattling empty cans. "Hell yes we are," he rumbled, eyes alight with possibility.
Liam's response was subtler—a slight nod, a sharpening of his gaze—but Aiden had learned to read the quiet assassin better over the past week. That look meant he was all in.
"Tournament, Architect?"
The voice cut through their moment, precise as a diamond-tipped arrow. Elena stood by station 24, her slender frame backlit by her monitor's glow. Her 1v1 match with Aiden remained unfinished on her screen, her archer avatar poised mid-draw. Something in her stance—the perfect posture, the chin tilted just so—spoke of privilege, of training beyond what the Golden Mouse's regulars could afford.
"Ambitious for a pickup crew with week-old synergy," she added, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched.
Aiden turned to face her fully. "Ambitious enough for you to join. We need five—me, Marcus, Liam, and two more." He locked eyes with her, not challenging, but offering. "You in?"
Elena's gaze swept over them, calculating in a way that reminded Aiden of himself. The slight creases at the corners of her designer shirt couldn't hide its quality, just as her careful management of resources in-game couldn't fully mask her formal training.
"I don't play with amateurs," she said finally, each word knife-sharp. "I win, or I walk. And you three..." Her pause was deliberate. "You're not exactly championship material."
Marcus straightened to his full height, broad shoulders tensing. "3v3 last night, 600 gold. We took down ThunderAxe's squad clean." His voice carried a defensive edge. "We're not rookies."
"Against café scrubs," Elena shot back, unimpressed. "I've fought against sponsored pros in regional qualifiers. Your shield technique is sturdy, Fortress, but it's not cutting-edge."
Liam stepped forward, his movements fluid and silent. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost intimate. "Cutting-edge gets sloppy when pressured. Too many programmed responses." His eyes flicked up to meet Elena's. "Run with us, or miss the prize. Your call."
Aiden recognized the opening and pressed forward. "$2,500 is real money, Elena. Your bow work is lethal—I've been on the receiving end enough to know." He allowed himself a small smile. "We're stronger with you than without."
Elena crossed her arms, her expression unreadable as she measured him. "You're banking a lot on this tournament."
"Always," Aiden replied steadily, letting her see the quiet determination that had kept him afloat these past years. "Your call."
For a moment, Elena's carefully constructed facade cracked—something vulnerable and hungry flashed behind her eyes, so quickly Aiden almost missed it. Then her trademark smirk returned, softened just enough to signal acquiescence.
"Fine. Temporary alliance," she said, emphasizing the timeframe. "Don't expect me to drag you across the finish line."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Aiden replied, relief mixing with caution. Elena's skill was undeniable, but her loyalty remained a question mark that would need time to answer.
Old Man Jo shuffled up to their impromptu gathering, clipboard clutched in his gnarled hands. Coffee stains marked the edges of the tournament sheet—already half-filled with team names. "You lot in?" he asked, eyeing them skeptically. "Need a fifth member and that $50 entry fee by tomorrow if you're serious."
"We'll have it," Aiden said with more confidence than he felt. His mind flashed to Sophia—a healer whose clutch revives had turned a pickup match last week, her cool head a perfect counter to Elena's competitive spark. "We're good."
Jo squinted at them through thick glasses, then dropped a bomb that landed like ice in Aiden's stomach: "One thing you should know—Imperial Vanguard's sponsoring the gear prizes. Blackthorn's outfit. They're playing angles, not just games."
A tense silence fell over their group. Blackthorn's humiliating loss to Aiden still hung in the café's collective memory, his threats a cold edge that had sharpened every victory since. Sponsorship meant power, possibly traps laid in the tournament structure itself.
"Classic," Liam muttered, the scar along his jaw catching the fluorescent light as his expression darkened. "He'll want to control the narrative, make himself look good no matter what."
"Then we'll take control from him," Aiden said, his voice firm despite the knot forming in his gut. "Our game, not his."
Jo chuckled, the sound dry as autumn leaves as he shuffled away. "Don't choke, kids."
They claimed a table near the exit, screens dark, the surface cluttered with empty soda cans and crumpled napkins. The familiar smell of instant ramen and overheated CPUs hung in the air as Aiden initiated the strategy talk.
"Two weeks to prepare. What's your edge in this? What makes you different?"
Marcus went first, his response grounded and honest like the man himself. "I'm the rock. I hold the line, eat damage, keep them locked down so you can hit." His large hands made a wall gesture. "Nothing gets past me to our backline."
Liam's shrug was slight but precise. "I'm the ghost. I flank, disrupt, get out. I create openings through chaos." A hint of pride colored his typically monotone voice. "Nobody tracks me when I don't want to be found."
Elena's tone was clipped, still testing the waters of their alliance. "I'm precision. Long-range, clean shots, high damage output. Don't make me waste time covering your mistakes."
Aiden absorbed their answers, the pieces of their team clicking into place in his mind. Marcus would hold the front, immovable and reliable. Liam would create opportunities through unexpected angles. Elena would deliver the killing blows from safety. And Aiden...
"I set the field," he said finally. "Traps, timing, counters. We don't slug it out—we outthink them." The strategy was forming already, tailored to their strengths rather than forcing them into conventional roles. "We play our game, not theirs."
Marcus nodded appreciatively, but Elena's perfectly shaped brow arched higher. "Pretty words, Architect. They better work against Blackthorn's cash advantage and pro-level coordination."
"They will," Liam said with unexpected conviction, his typically guarded demeanor sliced through by absolute certainty. "We're not folding to reputation."
Aiden's mind was already mapping the potential brackets, imagining matchups. Blackthorn's Imperial Vanguard would be there—sleek professionals with expensive gear and polished strategies. But pros had patterns, and patterns had blind spots. All he had to do was find them.
The $2,500 prize would be his bridge to Eternal Realms—$500 from his share, $250 from selling his runes, $200 from a sponsored keyboard, $100 from what remained of his savings, and $150 he'd grind out in the next two weeks. It would add up to a pod, if he stayed sharp.
As they stood to return to their stations, Aiden paused, looking at each of them in turn. "You guys chasing Eternal Realms too?" he asked, keeping his tone casual despite his intense curiosity. "$2,500's a significant chunk toward a pod. Got strategies to make it work?"
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Dunno yet. Gotta see what shakes out after the winnings." Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps dreams of a better place for his mother and siblings.
Liam's lips twitched, almost smiling. "Maybe. I don't plan that far ahead." His fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his thigh—belying his words with nervous energy.
Elena tilted her head, her earlier smirk returning. "I've got my own moves in play. Don't need a roadmap from anyone else." Pride mingled with something harder in her tone—a determination as fierce as Aiden's own.
Aiden nodded, letting the matter rest. Their paths toward Eternal Realms weren't his to navigate—not yet. He would carve his own way forward, starting with this tournament.
He returned to station 23, the familiar seat embracing him as the match queue pulled him in. Blackthorn's shadow hung heavy over the tournament, but the $2,500 prize shone brighter. With Marcus, Liam, Elena, and a fifth member to find—they would fight for the golden opportunity before them.
And Aiden would fight for his pod—for his future beyond survival. One calculated move at a time.
As his battlemage materialized on screen, fingers of arcane energy dancing between his avatar's palms, Aiden felt something stir within him that had been dormant for far too long: not just determination to endure, but ambition to rise.
The screen flashed with the match countdown: 3... 2... 1...
Let the real games begin.