A dull ache throbbed in his temple as he blinked against the harsh light. He struggled to lift his head, the concrete floor rough against his skin.

His vision swam, but a sneering face came into focus—a familiar face, but he couldn't remember the memory.

He blinked in confusion.

Wait, he was alive? How did he– oh–

A boy of seventeen years old loomed over him. Anger etched into every line of his face, his hands covered in cigarette ash that smeared his cheeks as he wiped away his hair. Looks that screamed that he was a bully.

Yet it was the uniform that captured Zain's attention: Ridgewood Academy, a private school for troubled kids in northern Serendale.

Oh god, this is highschool, isn’t it?

A heavy hand shoved him back against the wall. The hallway's familiar yet hauntingly empty atmosphere sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn't just disoriented; he was in a place he thought he'd left behind.

And it was with a sinking feeling in his gut that Zain realized exactly where he was. He slunk down on the floor and closed his eyes, letting his brain concentrate.

But how though? Am I in a dream? Or is this some kind of torture? Did someone captured his soul?

Or… had he survived?

"Back where you belong, huh?" The boy's voice was a grating snarl, which snapped Zain's attention back to the moment.

The boy's fists clenched and unclenched as if eager for the next blow.

Zain groaned, trying to gather his bearings. The deserted corridor stretched out on either side, the silence amplifying the tension between them. He forced himself to sit up, his movements slow and cautious. Pain throbbed through his ribs, each breath a reminder of the beating he had taken.

The bully's eyes tracked his every motion, lips curling into a mocking grin. "Don't think you can stand up just yet."

A brutal kick landed on his side, knocking the breath out of him and sending him sprawling back to the floor. Again. The world spun, a cacophony of pain exploding.

At least the pain feels real enough. Maybe that would work better with torture.

Zain shuddered at the thought. He was certain he had been captured. Given his current situation, there was no other explanation.

After a barrage of insults on his pathetic life, Zain finally remembered the man. Bob, Brett or something equally stereotypically white; a pompous school bully who’d always been on his ass.

"What do you want, Brad?" His voice was hoarse, confusion clouding his eyes as he looked up.

The boy grin vanished, replaced by a look of contempt.

Maybe the wrong name…

"Are you stupid or something? Who's Brad!" he barked, his voice echoing off the empty walls. "Hand over the money."

His mind raced. Money. What Money? System Coins?

Strange, I can’t see my System bar. How do I transfer him?

Or maybe he wanted some Essense Core?

The not Brad wanted money. Better to give him something before he broke his body.

Digging into his pocket, Zain felt nothing other than folded paper in his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled wad of green papers but no essence core. Before he could search his backpack he noticed not Brad's face.

The boy's eyes lit up with greedy anticipation, snatching the green papers, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face.

Zain blinked as he realized it was a wad of cash. Huh? How many years had it been that he has used the damn things? Useless paper.

After giving money to not Brad, Zain finally had a moment to orient himself and take stock of his body. His ribs ached, and each breath sent waves of pain through his bruised muscles. He winced as he moved, but his mind was already racing, trying to make sense of his situation.

"Pathetic," not Brad muttered, counting the bills with a greedy glint in his eye. "But at least you know your place." not Brad sneered and moved to give him a kick.

This time, Zain was already observing his surroundings. He blocked the blow with a quick shift of his arm, locking eyes with the bully. Pain shot through his arm, but he refused to flinch. The tension between them was palpable.

"Want to fight?" not Brad taunted, his voice dripping with contempt.

Zain glared back, not willing to back down but also not eager for another round of pain.

A look of irritation crossing not Brad's face. "Tsk, grow a spine did you? Better meet at lunch. I don't have time for a poor you now." With that, he turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps fading into the distance.

Zain lay on the cold floor, relief mixing with the lingering pain.

For now, the immediate threat was gone, but the realization hit him hard. He didn't dare to hope. Hope that he was ba–

He lay there, breathless, the ache in his side a cruel reminder of the present.

When was the last time a bastard non-player hit him so hard? High school? No, it had to be the streets before he got smart about his moves, before he learned to be quicker, to anticipate.

This wasn't supposed to happen, not here, not now. Do I have to kill myself to end this nightmare?

A deep breath. He tried to calm his racing thoughts. The walls around him were familiar, too familiar, as if mocking his confusion. How was any of this possible? The sensation of his soul sucked into the core lingered in his mind, but his body was undeniably here.

None of it made sense. If the integration with the core had worked, he should have died. Was that a dream? Or is this a dream? He racked his brain, desperate for an explanation.

He took another breath, and steadied himself.

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They felt real, solid. "How?" he muttered to himself, the word hanging in the air like a ghost. No immediate answer came, only the echo of his own voice.

Shaking off the daze, he fumbled for his phone, the familiar weight of it both a comfort and a curse. His fingers trembled as he pressed the button, the screen flickering to life and a wallpaper of him with a middle aged man and woman appeared, startling him.

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It took Zain a moment before he was ready to remember.

Mom and Dad.

A whirlwind of emotions swirled in his stomach as he looked at the faces of his mom and dad on the screen. Those familiar expressions, the comforting smile of his mom and his dad's reassuring gaze—every detail brought an overwhelming surge of memories. Since Earth's fall, he hadn’t been able to find a single picture, and the one he once had was lost...

The thought faded as a realization struck him. Whether it was a dream or not, Earth hadn’t fallen here. The Integration hadn’t even begun—

But… but they would have been dead for five years…

Zain lurched. Whatever excitement he’d been beginning to feel soured as another realization dawned on him. All the pressure he had endured for the years let loose in those moment.

Soon tears steamed down his face as he checked the date, checked it again, and then checked the time. August 22nd, 2024. 6:57 pm.

The date glared back at him, stark and unyielding. A day he would never forget—that no one could forget. He only had half an hour. But it's not the date want.

Fuck.

Why couldn’t he have just had a normal existence-less afterlife? This timing… it was too much to be a mere coincidence! Was he trapped in his mind after all?! Couldn't he experience his life before his parents death??

After sheding a few tears he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Thirty minutes," he whispered, the realization sinking in. Only thirty minutes before the Apocalypse.

Real or not, he was never one to take it lying down. The very thought was absurd, yet here it was, a ticking bomb counting down to oblivion.

A laugh bubbled up from his chest, hysterical and uncontrollable. It echoed through the empty corridor, bouncing off the walls like a twisted symphony of despair and disbelief. The irony of it all was too much.

Beaten down by a bully from his past, only to face an end he'd never anticipated. He clutched his phone, laughter spilling from his lips even as tears filled his eyes.

"Thirty minutes," he repeated, the words a bitter mantra. How could everything come to this? He forced himself to sit up, his mind racing, heart pounding.

If there was anything left to do, any last act that mattered, he had only moments to decide. And in those fleeting thirty minutes, he vowed to make them count, no matter how futile it seemed.

He staggered to his feet, the pain in his side making every step a reminder of his vulnerability. Damn weak body…

The bathroom was just down the hall, a sanctuary where he could gather himself. He stumbled inside, the flickering fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on his bruised face reflected in the cracked mirror.

His youthful features, now marred by cuts and bruises, reminded him of his 17-year-old self—back when the biggest concerns were bullies and friends, not survival and secrecy.

But his bright blue eyes has changed. Now dull with fatigue, stared back at him, haunted by the memories of the future he had seen.

He grimaced, touching the swelling on his cheek. "You look like hell," he muttered, turning the faucet on and splashing cold water on his face. The shock cleared his mind, the icy droplets bringing a semblance of clarity.

He returned to the small pile of belongings he’d left by the sink. Heavy with books, his backpack seemed like a relic of another life. Another waste of paper.

He unzipped it, pulling out the textbooks and notebooks, each a testament to a mundane past that no longer mattered. One by one, he dumped them into the trash bin, the sound of their weight hitting the bottom oddly satisfying.

With the load lightened, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to formulate a plan. He needed to be in a public place, either classroom or cafeteria, somewhere with people—potential safety in numbers and a chance to blend in if things went south.

But more importantly, he needed to think strategically. The countdown to the Apocalypse meant that power dynamics were about to shift dramatically.

He straightened, his eyes widening as a thought struck him. The misfit school was notorious for its future players, individuals who would go on to become legends. He remembered their faces from countless news articles and videos. They were here, now, as vulnerable as he was, but with the potential for greatness.

His heart raced as he considered the possibilities. If he could control one of them, he might stand a chance. He racked his brain, trying to recall the names and faces, the quirks and strengths of those who would rise to prominence. This was his opportunity, not just to survive, but to secure a future amid the chaos.

He pushed off the wall, determination setting his jaw. He had a plan. Almost. He would find one of these future players, gain their trust, and try to lead them or at least form an alliance. In the ensuing chaos, he'd need allies more than ever, and he was determined to be indispensable.

He grabbed his backpack, now significantly lighter, and stepped out into the corridor. The school, once a place of dread, now felt like a battleground, every corner hiding potential allies and threats. He took a deep breath and set off, each step filled with renewed purpose.

With time ticking away, he couldn't afford to waste a second. He needed to find someone whose abilities would be crucial immediately, someone who could amplify the group's potential and turn the tide in their favor. Someone who could be easily manipulated.

He knew it was wrong, but after the betrayal, trust was a luxury he couldn't afford. The only ones he could trust in this life were either the dead or system indentured slaves.

Then it hit him—the girl with the saint's heart. Natalie. Her power was legendary in the future: amplification of others' abilities and various support skills. But what made her invaluable was her personality. She led with kindness, inspiring loyalty and unity. Easily controllable.

And most promising? She was friends with everyone. Especially him.

Natalie’s leadership would draw people to her, creating a stable base while he pursued strength. It was a symbiotic relationship waiting to happen.

He knew from his past mistakes that securing a strong, loyal following was critical. This time, he wouldn't let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

He moved quickly through the halls, his mind racing as he pieced together his plan. Natalie should be in the library during this period—studying, always studying. He navigated the maze of corridors with purpose, his footsteps echoing. The students in this misfit school didn't have punctuality in their blood, so it was almost empty.

He burst into the library, scanning the room. There she was, a halo of light from the window casting a glow around her as she bent over a book, completely absorbed. Her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face marked by delicate features and intense focus.

She wore the school's uniform: a crisp white blouse and a navy skirt, neatly pressed, with a matching blazer draped over the back of her chair. Her green eyes fixed on the pages in front of her.

“Natalie,” he called softly, approaching her table.

She glanced up, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Zain? What happened to you?”

Before he could respond, she stood up, her eyes flashing with anger as her eyes focused on his bruised face. "Did Baxter do this? Do you need help?"

Her fierce protectiveness caught him off guard. "No, it's not Baxtor," he started.

So his name was Baxtor… Maybe he'll pay the bastard a visit.

But she cut him off. "It's not Baxtor?" Natalie looked confused for a moment, "Someone else started to beat you up in the morning?"

Seriously, Natalie? Was he a punchbag in the past that anyone could beat him up? He mentally kicked her for getting sidetracked. Of course, she jumped to conclusions—her imagination always ran wild. But why couldn't she wait for him to get his point across without interruption?

He raised his hands, trying to calm her. "Natalie, listen to me. This is bigger than the fight. We don’t have much time,” he said, urgency coloring his voice. “And I need your help.”

She paused, her anger cooling as confusion crept in. "Help you? With what?"

He paused, reconsidering his approach.

How do I explain this without sounding crazy…

He couldn’t. But without much of a choice, maybe he could trick her. Hoping that, at the very least she would understand in the future.

What he needed most was for Natalie and her two trusted friends to make a specific choice when the time came. He needed to ensure they wouldn't choose the tutorial. Maybe a favor?

"Natalie," he continued, his tone serious. "In the next thirty minutes, something's going to happen. You'll be given a choice. Whatever you do, don't choose the tutorial."

Her eyes narrowed with skepticism. "The tutorial? What are you talking about?"

"Just trust me," he insisted. "The tutorial will isolate you, limit you. You’re needed here, in the main scenario. You, Rachel, and Ben—don’t choose it."

"Well, I don't what prank you are pulling," Natalie crossed her arms. "But what do I get out of this?"

Prank? Really? Zain thought, frustrated but also somewhat amused by her reasoning. He paused, thinking quickly. "What do you want?"

She tilted her head, pondering. "I want... more volunteers for the community shelter project. And help organizing the food drive next month. Are you willing to do that?"

Zain's mind briefly drifted back to his own time. As someone who knew the future, he had faced problems far beyond what an eighteen-year-old should ever have to endure. Survival, loss, and the constant struggle against a collapsing world had hardened him.

The simple community issues Natalie dealt with now seemed almost quaint by comparison.

He nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely. I'll help with the community garden, the food drive, whatever you need. I'll even help you create your own shelter." —Just it would be under my command.

Her expression softened,"Just help, no big promises. I'll believe it when I see it. I'll tell Rachel and Ben. But you better stick to your word."