The second Kenji pushed through the front door, his mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp enough to pierce armor.
“KENJI! Clean your damn room! It smells like squid in there!”
Kenji kicked his shoes off with a dramatic flourish. “It smells like ambition and victory!”
“It smells like a dumpster,” his mom grumbled from the kitchen, ladle in hand. Her flower-print apron was splattered from the stove, her short hair pinned back. She looked ready to hit him with the spoon, but her eyes gave away the fact that she was glad he was home.
“Oh—hello, Nathan. Did you clean your room?” she asked, noticing the boy behind Kenji.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nathan replied with a polite grin. He lived twenty minutes down the road, but at the Takahara household, he wasn't a guest—he was a permanent fixture with his own key and his own stack of laundry.
Her eyes softened. “That home run today was beautiful. You carried the team the same way Shinji used to. He would’ve been proud.”
Kenji’s shoulders stiffened.
He hated how easily Shinji’s ghost could walk into a room and sit at the table like he never left.
One compliment for Nathan, and somehow it still felt like a comparison to him.
Nathan dipped his head, voice steady. “Thank you. I’ve still got a long way to go before I can live up to him.”
From the couch, Kenji’s father added, quiet but firm, “Number nine lives on. You’ve honored Shinji’s legacy.”
Nathan managed a small smile. “He’s the reason I ever picked up a bat. Back in first year, he showed me how to square my stance. I’ve never forgotten it.”
A silence lingered—not heavy, but meaningful.
For a split second, Kenji saw it play again behind his eyelids:
The fire.
Shinji running past the bystanders and panicked neighbors, ripping off his jacket and wrapping it around the child, and stumbling out the doorway with her in his arms, soot covering his face.
Him turning back—because he heard coughing.
Because someone else was still inside.
The second collapse and the roar of flames.
The news report that night:
“Local high school baseball star dies rescuing two from residential fire.”
Kenji shut the memory down with a mental slam.
Hard.
Instant.
Like always.
He couldn’t compete with a dead hero.
No living person could.
He cut between the adults quickly.
“We’re gonna be late. Raid starts in three.”
“You also have a bathroom. Use it, nerd,” Rika called from the livingroom. She peeked over the edge of a paperback.
Kenji narrowed his eyes. “What are you even reading now?”
“The Rose Duchess and Her Seven Knights by Arisugawa Iroha,” she said proudly, lifting her paperback like it was holy scripture.
Kenji scoffed so hard it echoed.
“Wow. That trash?”
“Better than the trash you hoard,” Rika shot back instantly.
Without missing a beat, she turned to Nathan with bright eyes.
“Hey Nathan, did you know the author is the CEO of a rising startup in AI–content automation—”
“Stop!” Kenji cut in, hands flailing dramatically. “Please. I’ve already heard so much about it, my ears itch.”
Rika huffed and flipped her hair like a smug idol.
“I wasn’t telling you, I was telling Nathan.”
Kenji rolled his eyes. Of course, she was.
He muttered under his breath,
“It’s some book about a peasant girl who finds out she’s a saintess and suddenly has seven guys falling all over her. How unrealistic.”
Rika gasped. “It’s not unrealistic! It’s heartfelt! Inspirational! They adore her!”
“Yeah, that’s the unrealistic part,” Kenji deadpanned.
Nathan tried — and failed — not to laugh.
Rika pointed her paperback at her brother like a holy weapon.
“Just because no one is falling over you, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t enjoy romance!”
Kenji pretended the jab didn’t land, but it left a tiny dent anyway.
Even his little sister saw him as background character material.
Kenji clutched his chest in mock agony. “You wound me.”
Rika stuck her tongue out. “Live with it.”
Rika turned back to Nathan.
“Right now, they have finally started punishing that villainess, Iris Albrecht. Ugh, I hate her so much. In chapter ten, she throws water on—”
“Enough.”
Kenji bolted for the stairs. “We have a world to save.”
As they passed the family shrine—Shinji’s photo framed beside a worn baseball mitt and his number nine cap—Nathan slowed just a step.
“I miss him,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Kenji didn’t answer. He just climbed faster, jaw tight—like speed could outrun grief.
He hated walking past that shrine.
It always felt like Shinji was still the protagonist of a story Kenji never got to star in.
Before he reached his room, the living room TV snagged his attention.
“…authorities are still investigating random anomalies showing up around the world.“from electronics going on the fritz, to unexplained fires, and a rise in reported disappearances. Citizens are advised to remain alert—”
“Kenji,” his father called.
Kenji stopped on the landing. His father sat in his usual spot, remote in hand, one foot tucked under the kotatsu. He looked calm, but his voice carried weight.
“Be careful, okay?”
Kenji looked down at him.
“We already lost Shinji,” his father said softly. “I don’t want to lose you too.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Harder, because it reminded him Shinji had been the kind of son worth worrying about.
He wasn’t sure he was.
The room was quiet except for the TV’s low murmur.
“I know,” Kenji said at last, forcing a smirk. “It’s probably just scare tactics by the media. Don’t let them scare you, Dad.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
His dad gave a tired smile, though the concern stayed in his eyes.
From the livingroom came a small, blunt voice. “Don’t get stuck in the game and forget reality, onii-chan.”
Rika peeked out again, still in pajamas, dragging her plush unicorn by one leg.
Kenji smirked down at her. “Reality forgot me first.”
She didn’t laugh. Her gaze drifted toward the closed door across the hall. The nameplate still read: SHINJI TAKAHARA.
She hugged her unicorn tighter. “He said that too.”
Kenji’s smirk faltered for a beat. Then he disappeared up the stairs.
Kenji’s room was, by all definitions, a warzone.
Posters of mecha battles and silver-eyed antiheroes plastered every wall. Manga overflowed from shelves. Figurines cluttered every flat surface. A body pillow slumped in the corner like a defeated sidekick. Empty energy-drink cans leaned in precarious towers. Bento boxes had fossilized into strange monuments of forgotten meals.
It looked chaotic, but Kenji understood every pile.
Heroes always built their kingdoms out of clutter.
But none of it mattered. None of the junk, none of the noise—none of it felt real the way Everfall did.
In the far corner, nestled in a tangle of wires and glowing LEDs, sat his sanctuary: a full-dive VR pod. Custom-built. Water-cooled. Air-cushioned. The nameplate taped to its side read: The_Real_MC — Pod #01
He had written it as a joke once. Then he’d started believing it.
Kenji climbed in like a pilot entering a cockpit. The hatch sealed with a hiss, cutting off the smell of the room and the sound of his mother’s kitchen. His grin returned, wide and hungry.
“Begin login,” he whispered. “Everfall Online — The Windless Divide.”
The house fell away.
Initializing Full Dive… Connection Stable. Welcome back, The_Real_MC.
Moonlight spilled over Everfall’s plaza. Stars wheeled above a cathedral skyline. His avatar’s trench coat fluttered gently, violet eyes glowing with faint neon edges. A sword too massive for physics gleamed across his back.
He wasn’t Kenji anymore.
He was the Main Character.
In here, he mattered.
A ping flashed across his HUD. [Canadian-goose]: The Tankard. 5 mins. Bring the 'high-tier' salt.
Kenji materialized in Moonshadow District—a neon slice of fantasy nightlife where lanterns floated midair and musicians conjured flames with flutes. Vendors hawked rare loot. Decorative dragons spiraled above tavern rooftops.
He ducked into their usual player-run pub. The sign read:
The Digital Tankard
His raid crew was already inside, gathered around their usual booth. He flicked open his friend list:
- TankyBoi — online
? MeguMeguChan — online
? xXDarkReaperXx — online
? SnaxxMaster3000 — online
? RNGsus — online
? Canadian-goose — online (Nathan)
? LokiS_Coolsun — OFFLINE … Shinji’s gamer tag.
He stared at it for a second too long.
Then looked away.
“So, what’s the strat for Grethak?” TankyBoi asked through a mouthful of roast.
“Same as last time,” Nathan replied. “Dispel wards. Control aggro. Don’t die.”
“Easier said than done,” MeguMeguChan teased.
“You die because you pull aggro in lingerie,” Kenji deadpanned.
The booth erupted in laughter. Even xXDarkReaperXx typed a muted lol.
Grethak’s Maw loomed ahead — an obsidian fortress stitched with bone, its corridors pulsing with shadow. Chains rattled in the mist like restless spirits, and every step sent ripples through a floor that felt too soft, too alive.
Kenji swallowed.
“Good. Good start. Love when the floor has a pulse,” Kenji muttered. “Makes the inevitable wipe feel more personal.”
His palms tingled — part fear, part excitement.
Boss fights always felt like stepping into destiny.
“Buffs up!” TankyBoi shouted, slamming his shield into the ground as glowing runes spun outward in a protective dome.
“Mana batteries loaded! Don’t die!” MeguMeguChan chirped, already juggling spellbooks, lingerie armor shimmering questionably.
xXDarkReaperXx said nothing, simply drew two daggers and vanished into stealth like a bad omen.
RNGsus whispered a prayer to whatever digital deity listened to men destined to roll zeros. “Please… not like last time.”
Nathan — Canadian-goose — cracked his knuckles and took point. “Push in. Grethak’s awakening animation is shorter in this patch.”
Kenji felt his heart spike — not from fear, but from thrill.
Patches, frame data, animation windows…
This wasn’t chaos to him.
It was his language.
The fortress trembled.
A deep, choking roar erupted from the chamber ahead — Grethak, Devourer of Light, tearing itself free from a throne of skulls.
Its form was massive:
A centaur silhouette made of metal and bone, dripping with violet flame.
Six arms, each holding a corrupted weapon.
A maw on its torso that screamed independently of its head.
Kenji’s fingers twitched on his hilt.
“Okay. Breathe. This is nothing. I’ve soloed harder… probably.”
But his grin betrayed him — he loved this part.
First wave.
Grethak lunged.
TankyBoi barely blocked the first cleave. His HP bar cratered.
“HE HIT ME FOR HALF MY EXISTENCE!”
“He does that,” Nathan replied, already firing luminous arrows into Grethak’s joints. “Stagger window in three—”
MeguMeguChan slammed a staff into the ground, sending a wave of pink fire spiraling upward. “Charm burst!”
It fizzled instantly.
“IMMUNE?!” she shrieked.
“Why are you surprised every time?” RNGsus yelled while hurling grenades like a man possessed.
xXDarkReaperXx materialized behind the boss and stabbed its spine — then immediately got punted into a wall.
“Reaper down,” Nathan observed calmly. “Again.”
The first wipe came quick: Grethak unleashed a roar that erased their health bars like correcting a mistake.
Second wave.
They pushed deeper, dodging spectral chains that tried to drag them into the floor.
“Pull him to the bone pits!” Nathan commanded. “Less AoE there!”
TankyBoi taunted. Grethak slammed down with three arms, shaking the arena.
MeguMeguChan chanted frantically. “Barrier! Barrier! “—BAR—!” She exploded.
Kenji winced.
“Saw that coming,” he whispered.
He had predicted the AoE 0.3 seconds before it cast — the game almost moved in slow motion for him.
RNGsus screamed. “WHY AM I ALWAYS TARGETED—” He exploded.
Even Nathan got clipped, skidding across the arena hard enough to leave a trench.
Everything was falling apart.
Third wave. Chaos.
But Kenji?
When everyone else panicked, Kenji felt something click.
This world didn’t overwhelm him.
It aligned with him — like he’d been built for it.
Kenji didn't see a monster; he saw hitboxes and hurtboxes. He moved like he was reading the source code in real-time.
He dashed through shadow spikes with frame-perfect timing. Then countered Grethak’s left arm with a parry that should’ve been impossible. Then he took his opportunity and slid under a sweeping cleave, chaining sword arts until the game itself struggled to render the animation.
He knocked Grethak back with an aerial combo that broke physics, gravity, and the dev team’s intended DPS curve.
His strikes blurred into a lethal rhythm, his evasions driven by raw muscle memory.
“Is… is he even human?” MeguMeguChan whispered from the respawn gate.
“No,” Nathan said quietly, watching Kenji carve through the boss with glowing precision. “He’s Kenji.”
Kenji didn’t hear him.
He was somewhere deeper — a place where instinct eclipsed thought, where the screen wasn’t a screen but a window into who he wished he could be.
Kenji leapt high, sword blazing with impossible color, and plunged it straight through Grethak’s screaming torso-maw.
The world froze.
Grethak roared its final, glitching death cry — the sound of corrupted code collapsing — and burst into shards of violet data that scattered like dying stars.
Kenji landed in the center of the explosion, cape fluttering, sword raised.
Triumphant.
Unscathed.
The_Real_MC.
The victory screen unfolded in a golden cascade.
Loot poured from the sky in pixelated beams.
And Kenji stood atop Grethak’s vanished corpse like a hero in promo art.
He took a screenshot of his victory.
That would be his wallpaper for months.
Fire crackled at the respawn campfire.
The team regrouped, limping, cheering, grieving their repair costs.
The team passed drinks and jokes around the fire.
“Yo, Canadian,” TankyBoi said, raising his mug. “That home run today? Finals, right?”
Nathan nodded. “We’re going.”
“Daaamn,” MeguMeguChan sighed dramatically. “I wish I was that cool in high school. All I had was acne and poor life choices.”
“Wish I went outside,” RNGsus muttered into his drink.
The table erupted in laughter.
Everyone except Kenji.
Kenji smiled with them, but it felt like a costume slipping.
He stared into the digital fire, watching the pixel-perfect flames flicker and bend as if responding to his breathing. The laughter around him grew distant, muffled — like the world was fading to the edges of his vision. And only one thought dominated his mind
I wish this day wouldn't end.