III

The unfamiliar hallways felt like they stretched on forever. I had no idea where the CEO’s office was, but I couldn’t afford to look like an idiot wandering aimlessly. After a few minutes of walking, I spotted a patrolling guard and stopped him.

“Excuse me, where can I find the CEO’s office?” I asked, doing my best to sound confident.

He gave me a blank stare before pointing to the elevator. “You’re on the wrong floor. CEO’s office is on the 86th.”

I blinked. The 86th floor? Not the top floor? That seemed… odd.

“Thank you,” I muttered and hurried back to the elevator.

The building’s layout was a mystery to me despite working here for a while. I rarely ventured beyond my designated floor, and now I was regretting my lack of curiosity. When the elevator doors opened, I stepped in and pressed the button for the 86th floor.

The ride felt endless, the hum of the elevator doing little to calm my nerves. When the doors slid open, my heart skipped a beat.

Waiting just outside was the janitor.

“Finally,” he said, sounding annoyed. “You’re late.”

I glanced at my phone, my stomach dropping. It was already 5:30 PM. Where had the last 30 minutes gone? I thought back—panicking over Charlie, eating overpriced sushi, aimlessly wandering around. Apparently, I’d wasted more time than I realized.

No.

To be honest, I did it on purpose.

“Sorry,” I stammered.

The janitor didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured for me to follow him.

“Follow me,” he said.

The walk was slow and excruciating. Every step echoed in the eerily quiet hallway, each sound amplifying my anxiety.

“So, uh… what’s your name?” I asked, hoping to fill the oppressive silence.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “You can call me Cleaner.”

That didn’t help my nerves.

I mustered some courage and asked, “How did you hide your Level from me earlier?”

The Cleaner shrugged, his tone casual. “I have a SKILL for that. Simple enough.”

Of course, a SKILL. The fact that I couldn’t even tell what Level he was—until he let me—was proof of how far out of my league he was.

After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at a massive door. It towered over us, at least twelve feet tall, with intricate carvings depicting a battle. A child hero was etched into the wood, defeating monstrous creatures with ease.

I gulped. The imagery alone was intimidating.

The Cleaner pushed the door open with little effort, though the size and weight made it feel more like a gate than a door. I followed behind him meekly, each step heavier than the last.

The room beyond was vast, dimly lit, and foreboding. At the center of it all sat a boy on what could only be described as a throne. His blonde hair gleamed in the faint light, and despite his youthful appearance, the air around him radiated power.

The Cleaner walked to his side and stood there silently.

“Kneel,” the boy commanded, his voice calm but carrying undeniable authority.

I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees and lowered my head, not daring to meet his gaze.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice the display above him:

[Level ???]

It was the first time I’d ever seen a Level hidden so completely. Even the Cleaner hadn’t done that.

My hands trembled, my mind racing. What kind of power could someone like this possess? And more importantly… what did he want with me?

The boy on the throne looked down at me, his sharp eyes practically dissecting me where I knelt.

“What is your name?” he asked, his voice smooth and calm, yet laced with an authority that made it impossible to disobey.

“Owen Hart,” I replied, my voice steady despite the lump forming in my throat.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“I am Kristof,” he said. “CEO of Works Amway.”

I blinked in surprise. Of course, he was. The throne alone should have tipped me off, but hearing it confirmed sent a chill through me. He looked no older than twelve, yet his presence filled the cavernous room.

In this world, age had long since become irrelevant, especially to those with power and wealth. The Weave didn’t just preserve appearances; it rewrote them. For all I knew, Kristof could have been centuries old. Just as advertsied, your life could become anything you wanted. Well, as long as you could afford it.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Kristof asked, his piercing gaze fixed on me.

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

“You’ve been chosen,” he said simply.

My heart sank. Chosen? That didn’t sound good. My mind raced with worst-case scenarios—was this some corporate punishment? A dangerous assignment? Or worse, some kind of experiment?

“Chosen… for what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Kristof leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests of his throne. “Tell me, Owen, do you know how to level up?”

I hesitated before answering. “From what I know… people level up through repetition. Doing the same task repeatedly until it refines their abilities. Some say it can also happen naturally, just by living a long life.”

Kristof nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re not wrong. But there is another way.”

Another way? My brows furrowed. I didn’t like where this was going.

“What… other way?” I asked cautiously, my stomach churning with unease.

Kristof’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. His next word was calm, deliberate, and utterly chilling.

“Murder.”

The word echoed in my head like a thunderclap. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt an involuntary shiver crawl down my spine. “But… that’s impossible,” I stammered. “Isn’t it? Here in the Weave, we’re just data. People don’t die here. The worst anyone experiences is a dent in their wallet, right?”

Kristof didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his throne, his smile deepening. “Let me show you,” he said softly, his tone as playful as it was ominous.

Before I could react, Kristof stood and raised his hand. A blade materialized in his grasp, its shimmering surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly light. He swung the sword lazily through the air, and a golden arc of energy erupted from its edge.

I froze, helpless, as the glowing arc flew toward me. Time seemed to slow as it approached, and I barely had a moment to process what was happening before it passed through me.

For a split second, there was nothing. No sound, no sensation. Then the pain hit.

I screamed, clutching at the stump where my left arm had been moments ago. Blood poured from the severed limb, pooling on the pristine floor. The pain wasn’t just sharp—it was overwhelming, all-consuming, as though my very existence were being torn apart.

This… this couldn’t be real. Pain like this wasn’t supposed to exist in the Weave. Yet it did.

Through the haze of agony, Kristof’s voice cut through, calm and almost amused. “It feels genuine, doesn’t it?”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think beyond the blinding pain. But deep down, I knew he was right. This pain wasn’t a simulation. It was real. It was ironic, considering how I shoudln’t know what ‘real’ felt like.

Kristof continued, his tone colder now. “The people of the Weave have lived without this kind of pain, Owen. They’ve never known what it’s like to suffer, to fear, to truly live. That’s because they’re cattle. And cattle must be protected.”

I barely heard him. My mind reeled as I pressed my trembling hand against the bleeding stump, trying to stop the flow of blood. The room spun, and I felt like I might pass out.

Then, as suddenly as the sword had appeared, it vanished. In its place, Kristof held a staff, its surface glowing with a soft, ethereal light. He pointed it toward me and made a sweeping motion.

Warmth surged through my body. I watched in stunned disbelief as flesh began to knit itself back together. Tendons formed, muscles wrapped around bone, and finally, skin covered it all. My arm—my arm was whole again.

The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me gasping for breath, my mind racing to process what had just happened.

Kristof lowered his staff, looking down at me with a mixture of amusement and condescension. “This is the reality you’ve been shielded from, Owen. Welcome to the cruel truth.”

Cattle.

The word echoed in my mind, growing louder and heavier with each repetition. Kristof’s conviction was chilling, and it felt like a blade pressed to my throat.

I rose to my feet, trembling but unwilling to cower any longer. Fury burned in my chest, raw and untamed. For a moment, it was as if my entire being was consumed by a hatred so foreign and absolute that I barely recognized myself.

“What do you want from me?” I spat, my voice betraying the resignation I didn’t want to admit.

Kristof’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned forward in his throne. “I am old,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “I am one of the first settlers who arrived here in the Weave. Time has made me… reflective.”

He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching into a cruel smile. “I suppose I wanted to hear the perspective of someone I’m about to kill.”

So blatant. So final. Yet the way he said it left no room for doubt. Resistance was futile, and we both knew it.

“You’re a monster,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.

Kristof chuckled. “Perhaps. But it is brave of you to stand there, hatred burning in your eyes, refusing to kneel. I thought you’d at least beg.”

“Never,” I growled, defiance thick in my tone.

Kristof sighed, leaning back in mock boredom. “Enough prattling. This is getting irksome. There is a new SKILL I’ve learned, and I would love to use it on you.”

The words sent a jolt of panic through me. Survival instinct kicked in, and I bolted toward the towering doors, adrenaline surging through my veins. I didn’t care that escape was impossible—I had to try.

But Kristof’s voice followed me, sharp and commanding, freezing me in my tracks.

“Become elixir that shall raise my soldiers!”

A flash of golden light erupted behind me, swallowing the room in its brilliance. I turned, horrified, as my body began to dissolve. Pieces of me broke away into shimmering cubes of blue and gold, disintegrating into the air.

“No! No! NO!” I screamed, clawing at the remnants of my form as my vision shifted. I could no longer feel my body—only the sickening sensation of being torn apart and reduced to nothingness.

From some distant corner of awareness, I saw the Cleaner approaching, carrying a dustpan as if this were just another chore. He crouched, scooping up the blue liquid that was once my body, his movements deliberate and methodical.

“Please…” I whimpered, though I wasn’t sure if the sound escaped.

The Cleaner paid no attention. He poured what remained of me into a vial, sealing it tightly. My consciousness flickered, fading like a dying ember, until there was nothing left but darkness.

That day, I died.