"Ahem…"
"This is a work of fiction…"
"Any similarities between characters, events, or entities within this story and those of the real world are purely coincidental."
"Such coincidences are inevitable in a world shaped by fate and choice."
"May this journey lead us… starward."
______________________
The sun was at its peak, bleeding through the slats of Anthony Cloyne's window blinds with the kind of determination only sunlight could have. The warmth hit first, settling on his cheek and eyelids, but it was that thin, stubborn beam slicing right across his face that finally pried him out of sleep.
"Damn it…" Anthony muttered, voice rough and low as he flopped his arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the unwanted wake-up call.
The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and stale coffee. His duffel bag still sat half-unpacked in the corner, military tags clinking faintly when he shifted. His boots were tucked neatly under the bed, out of habit more than anything — even though, for the first time in years, there wasn't some commanding officer breathing down his neck.
For the first time in… God, how long? It felt normal.
Or it almost did.
It seemed distant now—the drills, the rigid schedules, the way every second of his life was accounted for. Waking up before sunrise, gear checks, and marching orders barked at him like clockwork. That Anthony—Anthony-the one standing at attention, always half-waiting for something to go wrong—felt like some other person entirely.
He stretched again, the stiffness still lingering in his shoulders. His body didn't quite know how to relax yet. It was like his muscles were stuck halfway between tension and habit—years of standing straight, watching his back, always keeping one eye on the exit.
But home? Home was supposed to be different.
And for the good part, it was.
After three long years, he was finally back with his family—his mom, his dad, and his little sister. Just saying that in his head still felt weird sometimes. Like he'd blink, and the walls of his barracks would snap back into place. Like the knock at his door would be his sergeant, not his mom, threatening to steal his breakfast.
But no—this was real. It had to be.
Average military service back home ran around twenty-four months, two years, give or take. Most people were in, out, back to normal life. Maybe they picked up a story or two, maybe they came back with a few rough edges, but that was the deal.
Anthony wasn't most people.
His timing couldn't have been worse. His second year rolled around, and suddenly the news lit up with talk of tension—border disputes, political nonsense, the same cycle history never seemed to break. And when tensions turned into threats, threats turned into action… well, nobody got to go home on time.
Another twelve months tacked onto his service. Another year of sand, sweat, and wondering when it'd end.
The funny thing was—he could've stayed longer. Some guys did. Some didn't have much waiting for them back home, or maybe they couldn't picture life outside the walls of the base. But for Anthony? He already pictured it every day.
His mom's texts that always started sweet and turned into passive-aggressive check-ins. His dad, pretending not to miss him, but sending old photos anyway. His little sister was growing taller by the minute—she'd probably cry and whine to him the second she saw him for missing her birthday last year.
That was the picture that kept him going.
So when that third year hit, the decision wasn't hard.
Get discharged. Go home. See the people who mattered most.
Now, standing barefoot in his room, sun creeping through the blinds, laundry half-done, and the smell of coffee hanging in the air—it felt like maybe, just maybe, life was finally slowing down.
It wasn't perfect. He still woke up some nights thinking he heard sirens. His shoulders were still tight, like his body hadn't gotten the memo that the fight was over. But this… this was normal.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
Anthony yawned as he pushed himself off the bed, stretching until his shoulders popped. The ache in his joints wasn't new, but now, at least, it was from a soft mattress instead of concrete slabs and camp cots.
He grabbed his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and opened his bedroom door, shutting it gently behind him as he padded down the hall.
The quiet hum of the morning filled the house—the soft creak of floorboards, distant birds outside, and—
Clink. Clatter.
He stepped into the dining room and paused, taking in the scene: His little sister, Rose, standing on her tiptoes, fridge wide open, half a mess of cereal already scattered across the table. She was battling a gallon of milk almost as big as she was, her small hands struggling to keep it steady as she poured into her cereal bowl.
Milk sloshed dangerously near the edges, but to her credit, most of it made it in.
Anthony couldn't help but smile, warmth creeping into his chest despite the groggy start to the morning.
"Hey there, Rose," he called softly, his voice laced with that easy, older-brother teasing as he stepped closer.
She jumped just enough for the milk to wobble in her grip, nearly spilling everywhere, but she managed to wrestle it onto the table. Her cheeks puffed in a pout as she spun around to face him, crossing her arms dramatically.
"Big brother, you scared me!" she protested, frowning up at him.
Anthony laughed under his breath, raising his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright… my bad." His grin softened as he ruffled her messy hair. "But… shouldn't Mom or Dad be helping you with breakfast? You raiding the fridge already?"
Rose's expression faltered, and she glanced away, fiddling with the edge of her oversized t-shirt—a faded one that probably used to belong to him, now practically a dress on her.
"W-well… they're still sleeping," she mumbled, kicking her foot lightly against the floor. "And I thought you were too… but you've been back for a few days, and I…" Her voice trailed off before she straightened her shoulders, eyes bright with determination. "I wanted to show you how much of a big girl I've become!"
Anthony blinked for a second, the edges of his grin softening into something more sincere. Damn. She had gotten bigger. Last time he saw her, she was still losing baby teeth; now she was pouring her own breakfast and fighting milk jugs twice her size.
He crouched down slightly to her level, resting his elbows on the table. "You know what? You're doing a pretty good job, Rose," he said, nodding toward her cereal. "Way better than when I tried making breakfast at your age. Pretty sure I nearly burned the kitchen down."
Her pout faltered into a proud little smile. "Really?"
"Swear on it," Anthony replied, holding up two fingers like a scout's oath.
She giggled, the tension easing off her shoulders as she grabbed her spoon, carefully stirring the cereal.
"Thanks, big brother," she beamed, kicking her feet as she sat down.
Anthony straightened up, glancing toward the quiet hallway. The house still felt still… peaceful… familiar.
"Man… I could get used to this again," Anthony muttered to himself with a low stretch, arms reaching over his head as his spine popped. The motion pulled a satisfied groan from his chest—the kind you only make when you finally let your guard down after years of keeping it tight.
Just as he relaxed, the soft shuffle of footsteps echoed from the hall, followed by the familiar creak of the floorboards near the kitchen.
His mom appeared first, still tying her robe, her hair slightly messy from sleep but eyes sharp enough to clock the scene instantly. Behind her came his dad, scratching at his stubble, a knowing smirk creeping onto his face as they took in the sight: Rose proudly sitting at the table with her bowl of cereal, milk carton slightly askew, and Anthony towering nearby like he'd just rolled out of bed—which, to be fair, he had.
"Ohhh, would you look at that?" his mom cooed, stepping over to Rose with that exaggerated, proud-parent grin. "Such a big girl, making breakfast all by herself!"
Rose lit up, beaming under the praise, and Anthony couldn't help but chuckle as his mom fussed over her, adjusting her hair, tapping her nose. His dad ruffled Rose's hair too, shaking his head playfully.
"Already stealing our jobs," his dad joked, before his gaze shifted toward Anthony, eyes crinkling with that same warm look Anthony always remembered—half pride, half I see you slacking off already.
"And look who finally decided to drag himself out of bed," his dad teased, clapping a hand lightly on Anthony's shoulder.
Anthony snorted, rolling his eyes, but the grin snuck up anyway. "Yeah, yeah… figured I'd let Rose handle the hard stuff first."
His mom finally turned toward him, that same soft smile blooming across her face, her hand reaching up to gently pat his cheek like she used to when he was half Rose's size.
"It's good having you home, sweetheart," she said quietly, voice genuine beneath the teasing.
And for a second, the warmth in the room outweighed everything else. The tension in his chest eased, the tight coil in his shoulders loosened. This—family, dumb jokes, cereal spills—this was the life he promised himself when he was halfway across the world, sand in his boots and no end in sight.
Anthony's grin softened as he looked around at them. "Yeah," he murmured under his breath. "It's good to be back."
___________
"Annnd just like that… it's night already," Anthony murmured to himself, glancing around his room.
The house was quiet now, the hum of conversation downstairs had faded, his mom probably cleaning up, his dad watching some late-night show. Rose was no doubt knocked out in her room, drooling on her pillow.
But here? It was just him. His room. His space.
The familiar posters still clung to the walls, old, peeling at the edges—the ones he'd never gotten around to taking down before shipping out. His guitar leaned in the corner, gathering dust. Even the faint smell of the house—the wood floors, laundry detergent, and the old air vent—settled in like a blanket of nostalgia.
Anthony exhaled slowly, lowering himself onto his bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, but for once, it was a welcome sound. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he stared at the ceiling, humming a quiet tune from some song stuck in his head—a habit he never shook off, even overseas.
"I know I keep saying this to myself…" he muttered, voice trailing off as his eyes softened, tracing the small cracks in the ceiling paint, "…but I really enjoy this. Back to this kind of life."
The words barely left his mouth before a chill crept across his skin.
At first, it felt like nothing more than a cold draft brushing past his ankles. But when he looked down, his brows knitted in confusion.
Thick, black mist curled at his feet, rolling in like smoke—too heavy, too deliberate to be dust or shadows.
"Hey—wait, what the hell is this—?" Anthony barked, but the words barely escaped his throat before the smoke invaded.
The black mist shot up his chest, curling over his shoulders and seeping into his mouth, nose, ears—burning into his eyes. His lungs tightened, choking off the rest of his sentence as panic gripped him.
His body jolted—then nothing.
The next thing he knew, consciousness came creeping back, slow and suffocating, like waking from a nightmare you weren't done having yet.
Anthony's eyes snapped open—but it didn't help.
He was blind.
Not because of darkness—there was no comforting black to sink into. It was the opposite. A searing, overwhelming brightness consumed everything around him. The kind of light that didn't just blind—it pressed in from all sides, weightless but suffocating, flooding every corner of his vision with an intensity so sharp it bordered on pain.
His hands instinctively moved to shield his eyes—but they didn't feel like his hands. Numb. Weightless. Like he wasn't entirely real in this place.
His heart pounded in his chest as disorientation took hold, his breath shaky, mouth dry.
"Where the hell…?" he started to say, but his voice came out brittle, barely a whisper against the hum of the endless white void.
Then—cutting through it—a voice. Distant yet deafening. Calm, but soaked in something ancient… powerful… untouchable.
A crack of brighter light split the space, like a lightning strike with no storm.
"Mmm… I see. So this man is the Chosen One."
The words echoed—not just around him, but inside him, reverberating through his chest, his skull, his bones. It pressed down with an authority that wasn't human—something higher, something so far removed from normal comprehension it made Anthony's knees buckle.
Every nerve screamed to lower his head, to bow, to submit—because standing upright in front of a voice like that felt wrong. His instincts, all those drilled-in military habits, his hardened mind—it didn't matter.
He was small here. Insignificant.
His pulse raced. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck, though his surroundings had no heat, no cold, no air at all that he could even feel.
Am I dead? The thought tumbled in, unfiltered, raw with panic.
It was the only thing that made sense.
He remembered the mist—the suffocating pressure, his room disappearing—and now this? The voice, the impossible light, his body barely feeling real?
Dead. He had to be dead.
But before he could spiral deeper, the voice spoke again, calm but laced with finality, like it wasn't used to being questioned:
"No… not dead. Not yet."
Anthony's jaw tightened, his teeth pressing together as the voice echoed in his head—calm, steady, terrifying in how certain it sounded.
His heart hammered wildly against his ribs, his pulse drumming in his ears, but his eyes—still blinded by the overwhelming, oppressive light—saw nothing. No shapes, no shadows, no edges. Just an infinite, searing white that bled into every corner of his awareness.
Then what the hell is this? The question blared in his mind, sharp and panicked.
He tried to speak—to push the words out, demand answers—but nothing came.
No breath. No voice. His throat strained, but the air didn't move, his lungs locked in place. His body… it wasn't responding, like he was half-floating, half-trapped in this space. He was present, but powerless.
All he could do was think.
What is this? Where am I? What's happening? The raw fear crawled beneath his skin, wrapping around his spine like ice. His instincts screamed at him to move, to fight, to run—but he couldn't. He was pinned by nothing but the weight of the voice and the blinding void.
Then, the presence spoke again—closer this time, as if it leaned in, reading the frantic thoughts tumbling through his mind like pages of an open book.
"Your confusion is expected… They always struggle at first."
Anthony's fists curled—he could barely feel them, but the action still flickered at the edges of his consciousness.
The voice hummed, almost amused now. "Calm yourself, Anthony Cloyne… You've been chosen. That is all you need to know."
Anthony's mind raced, panic turning into defiance despite the helplessness clinging to him.
Chosen for what? He thought sharply.
For a second, there was silence, the blinding white pressing tighter around him—until the voice returned, quieter, but every bit as commanding:
"For now, survival… if you're capable."
The words barely faded before the light around Anthony pulsed, throbbing like a heartbeat. Suddenly, something solid slammed beneath his feet—a jarring shift from floating in nothing to standing on hard, uneven ground.
The weight of his body returned all at once, sharp and overwhelming
His lungs seized, and then, like a dam breaking, air ripped into his chest. He doubled over, gasping—each inhale burning like his lungs were on fire, like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
His knees nearly buckled, but he forced himself upright, blinking hard as the impossible brightness fractured—hairline cracks slicing through the endless white. Color bled in through the gaps—jagged shapes, unfamiliar skies, warped terrain—and then the world snapped into focus.
And right in front of him… it appeared.
A floating, translucent screen, flickering faintly like a hologram from some sci-fi flick. Its glowing yellow light pulsed steadily, letters etched across its surface in bold, alien-like script—yet somehow, his mind understood it instantly.
[ Welcome, {Chosen One}, to Thelha Ra'tha. Your Testing Grounds. ]
Anthony's heart lurched in his chest, eyes scanning the words, his brain scrambling to make sense of them.
[ Your goal is to survive and grow stronger in this world. ]
His throat tightened as the words hung there, suspended in the air like a digital threat dressed as an invitation.
Thelha Ra'tha…? Testing grounds? Anthony's instincts flared—the same gut feeling that kept him alive in places no one was supposed to walk out of. His eyes flicked to the jagged landscape materializing around him—stone platforms hanging in midair, an endless red sky stretching above.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't home.
And whatever this place was… it wasn't meant to be safe.
It looked like a dog—but bigger. Leaner. Wild eyes and jagged fur matted in patches, its form twisted in a way that made his instincts snap to life.
Before he could react, the creature lunged, jaws clamping down on his forearm like a vice.
"Gah! Damn it!" Anthony shouted, his voice cracking from the shock as pain ripped up his arm.
The beast's teeth sank in deep, the hot sting of it shooting through his nerves, his body snapping into survival mode. He stumbled, gritting his teeth, and used the momentum to roll, dragging the snarling creature with him before forcing it off.
The dog-thing tumbled across the jagged stone floor, but it wasn't down for long. Its wild eyes locked onto him again, foam dripping from its mouth, ready to lunge.
Anthony's breathing was ragged, blood pulsing in his ears. He scanned wildly, spotted a jagged rock near his feet—rough, heavy enough.
Without thinking, he snatched it up, the familiar weight grounding him for a second.
The creature charged again.
Anthony stepped in, slamming the rock down with everything he had. It cracked against the beast's skull, the sickening thud vibrating through his hands as its jaw snapped open unnaturally, teeth splintering, head twisting to the side with an audible pop.
The dog collapsed, limp.
Anthony staggered back, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air as adrenaline surged through his veins. His arm throbbed with pain, teeth marks glaring angry and red through the torn fabric of his shirt, blood seeping down to his wrist.
His eyes flicked to the creature's body—a twisted, oversized dog, collapsed in a broken heap. Its jaw hung at a sick, crooked angle, bone visibly warped from the strike. It wasn't moving. It wasn't getting back up.
"Jesus…" Anthony muttered, stumbling against a jagged stone ledge. His body trembled, his hand gripping his wounded arm, trying to focus.
Then—the yellow screen flickered back to life, humming faintly as words burned across the display:
[ You have slain a {Pyre Dog}! ]
The letters pulsed for a moment, then another message appeared below:
[ +25 EXP Earned ]
Anthony's eyes narrowed, confusion flickering in his exhausted mind. EXP? Like… experience points? A game?
He barely had time to process that ridiculous thought before another line of text slammed onto the screen, cutting through the haze of adrenaline like a cold slap:
[ Caution! The {Chosen One} has less than a 5% chance of survival with current abilities in Thelha Ra'tha. ]
Anthony's jaw clenched, his breath ragged, pulse still racing. Less than 5%? His mind scrambled to grasp the math, but the meaning was clear—he was as good as dead if things kept going like this.
But the system wasn't done yet.
The screen pulsed again, colder this time—sterile, detached, like it wasn't even speaking to a person:
[ Would the {Chosen One} like to end his own life? ]
For a moment, everything went still. His chest tightened. His mouth went dry.
What the hell kind of sick joke was this?