I had never been one for video games in my youth—not out of any disdain for the medium, nor because I believed them to be a lesser form of storytelling or artistic expression. No, my indifference had never been rooted in arrogance or ignorance. It had simply been a matter of circumstance.
The truth was, I had never been able to afford them.
Growing up, the idea of owning a PC or a gaming console was something akin to fantasy—an idle dream glimpsed through shop windows or in the cluttered pages of catalogs we never ordered from. My grandfather, bless his soul, did everything he could to support my education and nurture my curiosity. He worked tirelessly to ensure I had what I needed—not what I wanted, but what was essential. And I, perhaps out of instinct or quiet understanding, never asked for more.
From a young age, I had come to terms with the idea that certain luxuries simply weren't meant for people like us. But I had never felt truly deprived. Instead of controllers and cartridges, my grandfather placed books in my hands—grand, beautiful things full of ancient horrors and distant lands. Through him, I met the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft, not as substitutes for more expensive distractions, but as companions on the road to becoming someone who thought deeply, asked questions, and searched for meaning in the inked pages of a book.
He didn't just fill the gap—he built a cathedral of wonder in its place.
And in the end, he succeeded. I earned a full scholarship to my dream university, complete with early admission. It was the kind of thing I knew made him proud, though he never said it aloud—just smiled that small, knowing smile of his and handed me an old, battered smartphone as I left for the dorms.
It was nothing special, just a hand-me-down model, outdated and scuffed, but it was mine. It was also the first device that opened the door to the world of video games. Not in any grand or cinematic fashion—there was no headset, no high-end graphics card—but through the humble, often frustrating world of mobile gaming.
Most of what I encountered on that tiny screen was uninspired at best. Mindless tapping, garish interfaces, shallow gameplay loops meant more to drain time than offer anything of substance. I was unimpressed, almost disappointed.
That changed when my roommate introduced me to a peculiar little title: *Dungeon and Stone*.
At first glance, it was nothing remarkable—just a 2D, single-player RPG ported from PC to mobile. But beneath the surface was something richer: dense mechanics, branching storylines, and a world that rewarded thoughtfulness over brute force. It had depth. It had lore. And it was a soul crushing experience.
I won't lie—I nearly missed a few deadlines trying to beat it.
There was something maddening and beautiful about it. Every floor deeper felt like peeling away another layer of mystery, and each failure made me want to understand more. But by the time my second semester rolled around, frustration began to replace obsession. I had hit a wall. I couldn't push past the fifth floor. I had exhausted every combination of race and class, and though I tried everything I could think of, progress eluded me.
Still, the love for the world lingered.
It was during that lull that I received an unexpected email—from that same roommate, now working on a mod for *Dungeon and Stone*. He asked for my help: not just as a player, but as a lore consultant and early playtester.
He remembered my obsession with the game and, more importantly, my love for the dark and dreadful mythos of Lovecraft. His goal was to craft a new race and class—a mirror-dark reflection of humanity, twisted by ancient knowledge and unknowable power.
Together, we created the Occultist class and the Homunculus race.
And that is how I ended up here.
*「Gate of the Abyss」*
Now, my Occultist stands at the threshold of the final boss room—a gaping void framed by curling shadows and ancient glyphs.
This is it.
Not just the end of the game, but the culmination of months of effort. This boss, this final gate, represents more than a victory screen. It's the last barrier before our mod goes live. It's also the final step in a journey that began with a hand-me-down phone and a quiet longing for something I never thought I could have.
I can feel the tension in my body—my fingers are stiff, my breath caught.
"…The final boss," I murmur aloud.
It's hard not to get sentimental. This is the first game I've ever truly come close to finishing. And this moment—the one just before the leap—is heavier than I expected.
On the screen, my character draws near the swirling gate of light and darkness. A prompt appears:
[Do you want to enter?]
I click *Yes*.
But the game isn't finished yet. Another message flickers onto the screen, this time slower, like a whisper through static:
> "You may not be able to come back."
> "Do you really want to enter?"
A final warning. A last invitation.
*「Yes / No」*
I don't hesitate. I press *Yes*.
A blinding white light bursts from the screen, so sudden and intense that I instinctively shut my eyes. My phone grows hot in my palm—unbearably so—and I let it fall from my hand.
When I open my eyes again, the world is no longer my dorm room.
I am the Occultist.