Karl's apartment was barely more than concrete, steel, and shadows. Spartan furniture, a weight bench shoved against the wall, black-out curtains locked tight against the city's neon glow. But the gleaming, unfamiliar hardware dominating the corner demanded attention.
The Eidolon Gate full-dive rig looked deceptively simple—a sleek neural cradle lined with adaptive gel, biometric nodes pulsing faintly under dim light. The helmet sat beside it, more military-grade than gaming accessory.
Beside the cradle, nutrient fluid bags hung prepped—synthesized sustenance designed to keep a player's body stable during extended immersion. Karl checked the IV lines twice, ensuring the metabolic regulators were in place. He didn't trust Hollow's tech division, but starvation mid-op wasn't on his agenda.
Three-to-one time dilation. Three hours inside the system equaled one in the real world. Dangerous, addicting. A perfect breeding ground for corruption—and manipulation.
Karl moved methodically, stripping down to compression gear. His scarred torso caught the faint glow of the rig's status lights, muscle memory driving his setup routine like any other mission prep. The faint hum of the city outside—the distant sirens, the pulse of traffic—faded under his focus.
The nutrient packs hissed as he secured the IV ports, cool liquid seeping into the lines. His body would be sustained for days, maybe weeks if needed. A dangerous luxury disguised as tech.
His gaze lingered on the helmet—the polished surface, the embedded neural ports, the faint etching of the Eidolon Gate insignia. The crown jewel of modern entertainment, veiled in whispers of addiction, exploitation, and under-the-table military contracts.
Karl exhaled slowly, sliding into the cradle. The gel molded around him, cool against scarred skin, the neural ports syncing with quiet efficiency. The helmet descended, locking over his head with a faint hiss of compressed air.
"Neural link established," the system AI chimed, synthetic voice smooth, detached.
Data streams flooded his senses—sensory calibration, neural sync percentage, vitals check. His pulse slowed, body suspended in artificial calm. The hum of reality bled away, replaced by digital possibility.
Full-dive initiated.
Darkness engulfed him, weightless, absolute.
A blank, white void materialized around him—featureless, infinite, pulsing with soft light. His body rendered first—a wireframe skeleton, muscles and skin knitting into place, undefined.
A floating interface pulsed to life before him:
Welcome to Eidolon Gate. Initiating Character Creation.
Karl's eyes narrowed, scanning the panels with soldier's precision. Options fanned out—race, class, appearance, modifiers, alignment subtypes. Layers of fantasy window dressing for most players, but for him? Tactical choices.
Race: Human, Elf, Dwarf, Beastkin, Draconid, Synthetic Hybrid.
He selected Human—familiar, reliable. No reason to complicate interactions with unfamiliar cultural mechanics or hidden racial variables.
Class Selection:
Knight. Warlock. Vanguard. Assassin. Hunter. Engineer. Siren.
Karl hovered over "Hunter," reading the breakdown: ranged combat specialization, wilderness survival, tracking bonuses, flexible combat proficiency. A fantasy equivalent to recon infantry or a D&D Ranger—ideal for operating alone, adaptable, efficient.
Hunter selected.
A new set of sub-options appeared—specializations branching from base class: Beast Master, Shadow Stalker, Marksman, Warden.
"Warden," Karl muttered. Bonuses to survival, defensive tactics, territorial control. Perfect for navigating unknown systems without relying on allies.
Appearance sliders loaded next—height, build, skin tone, scars, tattoos, voice modifiers.
Karl adjusted nothing. His reflection solidified—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair, sharp jawline, cold, predatory eyes. Scarred across collarbone and forearm, lean muscle visible beneath minimal gear.
It was deliberate. Minimal fantasy disguise, minimal escape from self. This was infiltration, not indulgence.
Alias: Crescent.
He typed it with no hesitation. The system pulsed:
Identity Confirmed: Crescent, Human Hunter - Warden Path.
A faint shimmer washed over the void, textures materializing—stone pathways, faint echoes of distant cities, the hiss of wind across fields unseen. The interface faded, replaced by environmental boot sequences.
"Environment loading," the AI intoned. "Server: Kether's Descent. Adult-Only Access Confirmed. Safe logout permitted only at designated inns or owned residences. Unauthorized disconnect will result in neural feedback."
Karl's eyes narrowed.
Kether's Descent—one of the hardest servers on record. Brutal difficulty scaling, player-driven economies, social ladders rife with guild warfare and black market dealings. A breeding ground for Hollow's hidden agenda.
The interface flickered, revealing system integrity markers—fluctuations subtle, nearly imperceptible, but enough for a trained operative to catch.
Exploits existed here. Backdoors, code injections. Hollow's fingerprints were buried deep.
"Time dilation factor: 3:1," the AI confirmed. "Three hours in-game equals one hour real-world time."
Karl exhaled slowly, letting his mind align with the shift. Weeks of gameplay condensed into days—time enough to build connections, gather intel, manipulate the ecosystem from within.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. For all the tech, the neural mapping, the fantasy immersion—this was still a battlefield.
And Karl Crescent? He thrived in warzones.
The final confirmation prompt appeared:
Proceed to server entry?
His hand moved without hesitation, fingers brushing the glowing glyph.
Welcome, Crescent. Your journey begins now.
The void shattered into cascading light, digital reality consuming him whole.
Time to hunt.