I was sitting in pain on a pile of trimmed pine trees that had received my glorious anger. The shabby looking shed gave me some meager tools. That, and a head full of spider webs, dust and a fine assortment of dried up leaves. One of these meager tools was a molded and rusted looking ax about half a meter high. With a blade as large as my head. Its wooden grip had splintered at various locations. Which brings us back to the pile of scrap wood and me being in pain rather than raging towards my goal.

Staring at my bloodied hands I scowled, cursing the thing I used to categorize as a source of joy. Realism was a bitch, that tenderized you real good, before cooking you medium rare. Who would have thought me lumberjacking the shit out of some trees would be this fucking painful?

I tried to make a fist and regretted it the moment I did. Grimacing, I stood up to look at the dozen tree logs it piled up on the mush brown clay. The only thing left of my former glorious companion. Thank god they piled up by themselves. Realism had its boundaries so it seemed. Even though those boundaries seemed to be a bit too close to game efficiency. While it was shocking to me how low comfort was on that list of boundaries.

“The Game Overlord” had explained somethings when I first arrived at the shed. Or at least that was the name I had given it when it scared the fuck out of me in the shabby shed. I had opened the door and stormed into the shed in full-fledged, adrenaline pumping, rage. While the creepy little fellow, sitting on a steel bucket, had greeted me with a wave of his small childlike hand. I had almost soiled my favorite chair in real life. I was almost certain that the effort it took to keep it in had created more burn work for the doctor. The child in a sleeveless hoodie, short shorts, and knee socks was unaware of my ultimate save. As it continued its rambling about levels, tools, and other necessities to become the best.

I didn't understand a thing of what he was going on about. Game mechanics, levels, experience points, method packs. It kept on explaining and I kept further zoning out, wondering if I could get a quick smoke in before it finished. Not that I didn't want to understand. I could tell someone they should play on the edge of offside. But if that person didn't know what offside meant it had no meaning to him or her. The same went for wathever game overlord was on about.

I was thus thankful when it arrived at a part I did understand. In his high pitched voice, it squeaked “We won't allow you to spend the money of the real world anymore. From here on out everything you do will be build from scratch. Everything you earn, only to be used in this world. You will have to work your way up to become the best and join the ranks of the celestial. Now, I have explained some of the basic mechanics to you so I can give you the options on how you want to play.”

His youthful enthusiasm had rubbed me in the general direction of interest when in front of me four buckets appeared. They were all identical to the one the child was sitting on. Grey steel, with orange tinges of rust and green brownish patches of moss underlining its years of inactivity. They adorned all the buckets with a small metal chain that wove through the bucket. The metal chain held a rotten wooden sign with black painted words in place.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I looked at the buckets and then at the youth. It smiled like I knew what to do while giving me the most worn looking football I had ever seen in my life. its pentagon shaped patches of leather gone. It only showed its vulnerable rubber insides while being way too soft to survive any real kick.

I did the sensible thing and read the words on the planks, and bit by bit I got the message. It was another choice. This time I could decide to either go full on game mechanics and get battered with reward messages, experience points, and level ups. The outmost right bucket. Or I could go full immersion mode and not get bothered by all the fake shit the developers thought of as external motivators. The outmost left bucket. For the pansies who couldn't decide the inner two buckets were filled with compromise.

I wasn’t big on compromise. Thus five minutes later I was standing outside, fuckie ax in hand, ready to vent on some trees and start my adventure. Shorty had told me some other stuff I didn't make much sense out of. It didn't matter. My brain was busy making plans on how to get my love back in shape. That and how to smoke while inside the game and not light the flat on fire.

left bucket for life.

Now though, two hours later, standing in front of the pile of wood, I felt uncertain. Some indicators of how the fuck I would use all this and how I could use it, could have been nice.

As the initial rage was calmed by the ache in my hands, I felt tired. It should be around midnight by now I realized. I didn’t smoke in hours and my brain was cramping. Sighing I told Little human, who was still floating around in my blind spots, to log me out.

I half lifted the helmet on top of my head, wearing it like the most expensive top hat ever created. Left shoulder protesting after the hours of inactivity, I opened my eyes again to bright light. Which made my tired eyes squint and hurt like hell.

Still, there was a small smile on my face. This would take a while. But it was something I could get used to. All it would take was time. God knows I had enough of that two-faced bastard as I had no other responsibilities. Not anymore.

I was deep in my musings when the pizza activated emergency exit protocol. With my digitize helmet still half on my head I had to wobble my way towards the bathroom.

At least some things didn’t change.