Light returned in thin, stubborn strips.
Not the warm gold of Jupiter01's valley. Not the late morning sun that had rested on his armor like something alive. This light was dull and uneven, slipping through a torn curtain and falling across Zedric's face in narrow lines.
His eyes opened slowly.
For a few seconds, he did not move. He only stared at the translucent panel floating inside the visor of his Neuro-Dive, the futuristic helmet-like device locked around his head and temples. Its inner display glowed faint blue, cold and clean against his tired vision.
The words were clear as day.
DEATH PENALTY COUNTDOWN:
4:59:55
Zedric blinked.
Then let out a dry breath.
"Wow," he muttered, voice rough from hours of silence. "Five hours of jail time because I lost dramatically. Not bad, last time I got eight."
The panel stayed there, heartless.
He shifted his gaze past it, toward the roof beam above him. A ceiling fan turned slowly, its blades wobbling like they were also tired of life. It hung from exposed wood beneath a patchy tin roof. There was no proper ceiling. Just beams, nails, a few suspicious gaps, and heat pressing through every opening.
Zedric stared at the fan.
"They call it a ceiling fan," he murmured, "but we don't even have a ceiling."
No one answered.
Naturally.
The warmth from Jupiter01 had vanished. In its place came real heat—sticky, cramped, and rude. It clung to his skin beneath his shirt and gathered around his neck. The peaceful open field, the cold breeze, the swaying grass, the red snowflakes, Pangil's insane grin—all of it collapsed into the truth of his small bedroom.
Thin plywood walls.
A mattress pushed against the corner.
A wooden chair wearing more clothes than he did.
A desk with tangled wires, a half-dead keyboard, and an empty cup that had once contained coffee but now looked like evidence.
Outside, reality shouted through the walls.
Children screamed in the alley, playing some game with rules only children and criminals could understand. A man cursed loudly from the neighboring house, swearing as if each word could solve his problem. Motorcycle engines roared past. Someone laughed. Someone argued. A dog barked with great personal hatred.
Zedric closed his eyes again.
Yep. Real world. No more Zealth, back to Zedric.
A shanty neighborhood.
No magic. No monsters. No peace.
Just heat, noise, bills, and his body refusing to work properly.
He tried to move his finger.
Nothing.
He hated this part most.
During a Neuro-Dive session, players entered a sleep-like state. Their minds ran through Jupiter01 while their real bodies stayed still for hours, quiet and useless, as if politely waiting for permission to exist again. Coming back always felt like slowly borrowing himself from a corpse.
He tried again.
A tingling sensation crawled through his fingers.
"Ah—damn it," he hissed.
The sensation spread, needles pricking under his skin. His wrist twitched. Then his arm. His legs followed with the heavy, delayed obedience of two employees who hated their manager.
"Welcome back, Zedric," he muttered. "Your prize is blood circulation."
He pushed himself upright with great effort, sat on the side of the bed, and waited until the room stopped rocking. The Neuro-Dive released with a soft mechanical hiss. He lifted the helmet from his head and placed it beside the pillow.
His hair fell over his forehead, flattened in strange shapes.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
His stomach growled.
Loud.
Demanding.
Zedric looked down at it. "You waited until I died before complaining?"
The stomach gave no answer, but its argument was powerful.
He stood, swayed once, then shuffled toward the door. His knees cracked in protest. He ignored them with the confidence of a man who seldom listened to warnings, especially from his own body.
The wooden stairs groaned beneath his first step.
Then the second.
Then every step after that.
The stairs did not squeak quietly. They announced him like a haunted house trying to expose a thief.
In the small living area below, Mark turned his head.
His younger brother sat on the old sofa, posture relaxed, one arm resting on the backrest while the television played some noon program too cheerful for their budget. Mark had their father's calm face and their father's talent for speaking only when words were absolutely necessary.
He looked at Zedric.
"Kuys," Mark greeted. "You're early."
Zedric paused on the last step. "That's it? Your beloved older brother returns from digital war, and all I get is 'You're early'?"
Mark's mouth curved faintly.
"How's the stream?"
Zedric stepped down and stretched his arms until his shoulder cracked.
"Worst."
Mark nodded once, as if confirming a weather report. "Anything new?"
Zedric slowly raised one fist and rubbed his knuckles, giving him a sweet smile.
"If you want, I can give you a massage. New technique. Very direct. One punch per muscle."
Mark turned back to the TV.
"No thanks."
"Wise choice."
Mark did not answer.
That was how Mark won most conversations. He simply let the other person exhaust themselves.
Zedric clicked his tongue and headed to the kitchen, dragged forward by hunger and the smell of rice. His mother and father were already eating at the small table.
Tomas, his father, sat quietly with a plate in front of him. He wore an old sleeveless shirt and ate with the steady seriousness of a man who believed food deserved respect and silence. When Zedric entered, Tomas looked up, gave him one small nod, then returned to his meal.
That was a full speech coming from him.
Janet, his mother, noticed him differently.
Her eyes swept over him from messy hair to loose shirt to lazy posture. Her spoon stopped midair. Her face brightened—not with affection, but with fresh material.
"Oh," Janet said, voice sharp with sarcasm. "The señorito is awake at last. It is already lunch, Mr. Zedric Alpiya."
Zedric leaned against the doorway.
"Good morning to you too, my loving mother."
"It's not morning."
"Then, good almost-afternoon."
"Don't charm me with nonsense. Nonsense does not pay electricity."
Zedric lifted a hand. "Noted. I'll invent profitable nonsense later."
Janet pointed her spoon at him. "You played the whole morning again?"
"Technically, I fought for content."
"Did content pay for rice?"
"Not yet."
"Then it was playing."
Zedric looked at Tomas for help.
Tomas continued eating.
A wise man. A silent traitor.
Zedric turned back to his mother. "Mom, what's for meal?"
Janet snorted. "Meal? For you, Mr. President, it is lunch. Stir-fried bitter gourd with egg. I hope you like it. I know you must be very tired from lying down and saving the world."
Zedric immediately sat, took a plate, and spooned rice with the confidence of a man who had survived worse things than vegetables.
"Of course," he said warmly. "Anything cooked by my beloved mother is delicious."
He took a bite.
Bitterness spread through his mouth like betrayal.
Under his breath, he muttered, "Bitter. Just like Mom."
Janet's head snapped toward him.
"What did you say?"
Zedric froze with the spoon still near his mouth.
Tomas, without looking up, said, "You cooked it bitter. Maybe you forgot to rinse it with salt."
Zedric slowly turned to his father.
A legend.
Janet glared at Tomas. "I did rinse it."
Tomas chewed once.
"Not enough."
Mark appeared at the doorway, holding a glass of water. He looked at the pan, then at Janet.
"Bitter?"
Zedric pointed at him. "Careful. The council is watching."
Janet slapped the table lightly. "All of you complain like restaurant critics. This is not a restaurant. This is a house with bills."
Zedric nodded solemnly. "Yeah. We know. We know."
Janet looked back at him. "If you don't like it, get canned sardines at Norma's store. Tell her to list it down."
"No need, Ma," Zedric said, taking another brave bite. "It's still edible."
Janet's eyes widened.
"What?"
He realized the mistake too late.
"I mean, it's healthy."
"What?!"
"Deliciously healthy."
"Zedric."
"Economically delicious?"
Mark looked at him with calm pity.
Tomas quietly took another bite.
Janet leaned forward. "You joke now, but when the bill comes, who will laugh? Your helmet drinks electricity. Your internet eats money. Your stream gives what?"
Zedric swallowed hard.
"Peace of mind."
The kitchen went still.
Even the bitter gourd seemed embarrassed.
Mark said from the doorway, "How many viewers?"
Zedric pointed at him again. "Two. And you are banned from commentary."
Janet placed her spoon down carefully, which was always worse than slamming it.
"Two viewers," she repeated. "For how many hours?"
"There were more earlier."
"How many?"
"Sixty-seven."
Janet stared. "Where did they go?"
"To watch the Ascension Circuit."
Mark nodded. "Good tournament."
Zedric gave him a wounded look. "You too?"
Mark sipped water. "Game Two soon."
Janet ignored that. She had already started counting invisible numbers in the air: electricity, internet, food, helmet maintenance, wasted time, future expenses, marriage possibilities, grandchildren she might never see because her son spent mornings dying in a game.
"At least," Janet said, returning to her plate with a sniff, "you did something useful yesterday. Norma said you paid your debt."
Zedric straightened slightly. "I almost forgot. I already paid Aunt Norma."
"That is what I just said."
"I wanted to say it with pride."
"Pride is cheaper than payment. Payment is better."
Tomas gave a small nod. "Good."
One word.
It landed heavier than Janet's whole lecture.
Zedric smiled despite himself. "See? Dad appreciates me."
Janet scoffed. "Your father appreciates silence. Don't abuse it."
Mark's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, then at Zedric.
"You have plans today?"
Zedric frowned. "Why?"
Mark showed no expression. "You look too relaxed."
Janet seized the opening immediately. "Plans? His plans are always the same. Play game, eat rice, talk back, ignore advice. Zedric, listen to me. You need to think about your future. Find stable work. Real work. Not this maybe-streamer, maybe-knight, maybe-famous fantasy. Think about yourself. Think about Althea."
The name struck him harder than Pangil's dagger.
Zedric froze.
Spoon halfway to his mouth.
His mind, which had survived formation attacks and memory trauma, suddenly failed at the mention of one gentle but terrifying woman.
"Oh, shawarma," he whispered.
Mark looked at him. "Forgot?"
Zedric stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. "I have a date with Althea."
Janet's face went blank.
Then dangerous.
"You forgot your girlfriend?"
"I remembered now."
"That's worse."
Zedric rushed toward the stairs.
Mark stepped aside smoothly. "Go ahead."
Janet shouted after him, "You scoundrel! Come back here. How can you forget a woman who has better patience than your mother? Zedric!"
He was already halfway up.
"I love you too, Ma!"
"Don't weaponize love when you are guilty!"
Zedric grabbed a clean shirt from the chair in his room, sniffed it, judged it acceptable by desperate standards, then changed quickly. He splashed water on his face from a small basin, combed his hair with his fingers, failed, tried again, failed with confidence, then gave up.
When he came back down, Janet was waiting near the kitchen doorway, hands on hips.
"Oh, look. A miracle. He can move fast when romance is involved."
Zedric slipped toward the door.
"I'll be back."
"You better explain properly to that girl."
"I will."
"And don't make jokes when she is serious."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"Because I always mean it at the time."
Janet inhaled sharply, ready to launch another lecture.
Zedric escaped before she could begin.
"Zedric!"