Victor shifted into a more relaxed position in his chair and added, "And even fewer have realized what you did. That increasing your stats actually affects your real body."
Adyr went quiet for a moment, then asked, "It's insane. What kind of game alters your physical body just by playing it?"
Victor shrugged. "I don't know. Even my father was shocked when he found out yesterday."
"Even your father?" Adyr asked, not hiding his surprise.
"Yeah. And he said not even the Twelve City Lords fully understand what this game really is." He paused for a beat. "He said it felt like something... touched by alien hands."
A tense silence settled over the room for a moment before Victor spoke again, his voice lower, now more serious.
"Look, Adyr. I know I'm the one who dragged you into this game, but I had no idea how deep it went, or how dangerous it really is. You're not just my best friend. You saved my life once, and I brought you in because I wanted you to have a real shot at what this world could offer."
He paused, took a breath, then continued.
"But that's not why I asked you here today. You need to see the full picture now. This isn't just a game—it's something much bigger. And the risks? They're real."
His words were as heavy as his tone, and he made no effort to soften them. He needed Adyr to truly understand the weight of the situation.
But there was another reason behind his insistence: he knew Adyr too well. He was the type who'd go out of his way to help others, yet never ask for help himself. Even if something went wrong, he'd deal with it quietly, carrying the burden alone.
And that was exactly what frustrated Victor. The idea of Adyr facing something serious in silence, without reaching out, was something he refused to let happen.
"I understand, don't worry," Adyr said with a light chuckle, playing his part flawlessly. "And you know better than anyone—I like risks."
"Yeah, I know," Victor replied, letting out a deep breath. "That's exactly why I'm being this serious." His mind drifted, just for a moment, to that night—staring down the barrel of a gun, his life hanging by a thread—and the guy who came out of nowhere, risking everything to save him.
"My father is setting up a new division outside the STF (Superhuman Task Force)," Victor said calmly. "He's planning to recruit third-generation mutants for it."
"Third-generation mutants?" Adyr repeated, raising an eyebrow.
As far as he knew, there were only two kinds:
The first were natural-born mutants, those who had lived outside the cities, exposed to extreme radiation. Their altered genes were passed down over generations. The second were measured ones, engineered under strict clinical supervision, usually commissioned by the wealthy and powerful within the cities. Victor and the other rich students belonged to this second group.
"Is he planning to recruit surviving players?" Adyr asked directly, taking a wild guess.
Victor nodded, then continued, "The facility will be ready in a few days. The government's pouring money into it—no expense spared. I'm thinking of joining the division myself, and I want you to be part of it too."
He paused for a moment, then quickly added to prevent any misunderstanding, "Don't worry—it's not something that'll tie you down. I promise, on my father's name, there won't be any assignments that go against your principles. This is strictly for your benefit."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone more focused now. "From what I've seen in the initial plans, the facility offers way more than what an average player needs. It'll be a place for information exchange about the game—maybe even deeper things. And most importantly, they're planning to grant official status to players who join."
Victor's eyes met his. "In other words, if you accept… you'll have the chance to earn a surname."
Adyr fell into deep thought. The offer was intriguing, especially the part about earning a surname. He'd never been particularly fixated on having one, but the advantages that came with it were far from insignificant.
"You can think about it and let me know later," Victor said with a laugh. "I'm not pushing you on this one."
"Yeah, just like you didn't push me into playing the game," Adyr replied with a smug grin. "You always know how to dangle the right candy."
"That…" Victor froze for a second, his lips twitching. "That wasn't my intention, okay?" He looked genuinely guilty, cornered by the truth.
"I'm just messing with you," Adyr said, letting him off the hook. Then, checking his watch, he added, "We don't have much time before class starts. Let's get going before we're late."
As he got up and was about to leave the room, something crossed his mind. He turned back and asked, "Any chance you've heard Latin before?"
But Victor just looked at him, clearly oblivious—no idea what it even was.
—
After the first class—History—where Adyr failed to get the answers he was looking for about Latin, the rest of the day's lessons felt dull and pointless.
At one point, he considered skipping the remaining classes and heading home to dive back into the game. But the next shuttle wouldn't come until evening, and skipping classes was a dangerous move for someone in his position. Losing his scholarship would jeopardize more than just his education—it would damage the identity he had carefully built.
He also noticed fewer students in class than usual, which made him wonder about the game's growing impact. Some were probably still playing. Others might've stayed home, trying to recover from the all-too-real trauma the game had inflicted.
By the time the day was over, he was running low on patience. He boarded the shuttle and finally made his way home.
At last, he'd get to see the outcome of where he'd left off in the game.
***
The moment the shuttle doors slid open, a giant of a man stepped out. He didn't waste a second—his long, purposeful strides cutting through the street like he was racing against time.
As the evening sky darkened, the few people still lingering on the sidewalks instinctively turned to look. By now, they were used to the sight.
And so was Eren. He didn't slow down. Didn't say a word. He moved through the dimming streets, reached his worn front door, and stepped inside without a pause.
"I'm home," he said, his voice soft—softest than anyone would expect from someone built like him.
He stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. Somewhere deep down, he was still waiting—still hoping—for a reply.
But once again, he was reminded that hope had died long ago, buried in silence.