Thrash glared at the floor, his eyes burning holes through the stone panels beneath him. His wrath had never been stronger; his fury more astronomical. Yet, in his passionate rage, his ability to act on those emotions had been completely shut down. There was absolutely nothing he could do. His lips were covered, his body bound in steel rope. Thrash, son of Thron the Conqueror, was finished.
He looked up at the five men seated before him, his eyes narrowing. He hated them all - how weak and pathetic they were, how little they knew after dozens of years spent training new Adventurers. Most of all, he hated how ridiculous they looked in their skin-tight spandex uniforms. They looked like human condoms. He’d never noticed it before. He snorted, catching their attention. Thrash allowed his eyes to dart toward the door. Surely, his father would arrive soon? The top Adventurer across Starr Galaxy would never allow his son - his prodigal son - to be detained like this.
The men were talking sullenly among themselves, each one a high-ranking member of Starr Training Base 1. Thrash couldn’t hear them; his Starr Chip had been disabled, though the interface loomed on the screen behind them, visible to him. They’d shut off his hearing, his voice, his movement. He could only watch as they discussed his fate.
Thrash fumed in place, forced to stand and wait while they deliberated on his future. He looked up at the interface. He had reached Training Level 188 after ten years of training through the galaxy - the highest anyone his age had ever reached. He was due to graduate in less than six months, leaving the safety net of the training base to enter the real Starr Galaxy Entertainment System, where one death would mean the end of his career. He would’ve graduated and almost immediately been on the leaderboards, his Training Levels nearly equivalent to a Level 20 Adventurer. The thought made his rage tremble through him.
Eventually, on the opposite side of the large, metallic table, the old man at the centre of the group exhaled, clearing his throat. Simultaneously, all five looked at Thrash.
Thrash glared back, seething.
‘You’ve not left us with many options, Thrash,’ the leader said. The other men nodded along like chickens at feeding time.
Thrash could agree with him on that point, at least. He had lost consciousness when the incident happened, waking up in a dark room that smelled like blood and rot. His mouth had been bound then, too. He hadn’t been allowed to speak since.
The man continued, his face heavy with stress. ‘Over ten years of your life, Thrash - of our lives and your crew’s lives. You could've left this establishment with the biggest head start anyone has had in over fifty years. 188 levels, Thrash. One hundred and eighty-eight,’ he repeated dramatically. ‘Everyone was watching you - every network, every sponsor - waiting for your first real adventure. And now, we have to break the news that you were expelled.’
Thrash stared, his eyes brimming with loathing. How dare they betray him like this. Surely, his crew would fight for him? Surely, someone out there knew that their next star was being thrown away? Somebody had to be in his corner. He had led his crew to victory, championed quests, raided dungeons, and brought new levels of respect to Starr Training Base 1. And now he was being sent away like cattle to slaughter?
‘As you’re aware, the Starr Chip in your head is with you for life. We can’t remove it, and we can’t kill you. But we can dismiss you from training and impose upon you our choice in class, career, and location,’ the leader added. ‘It’s all in the fine print.’
Thrash’s confusion flickered across his face. The men caught it, glancing at one another like they had just won a victory. He had been certain death was on his doorstep. A grim smile crept over his lips. If they weren’t going to kill him, that meant he could exact revenge. These men would fall before him like ants before rain, like wood before the flame.
The old man gestured to the shortest of the group, who held a device emblazoned with the Starr Galaxy logo. His squeaky voice cleared itself before speaking. ‘Before your sentencing, Thrash, you’ll require a reset.’
No, Thrash swore in his head. That was the one thing he couldn’t lose. He was nothing without his levels. He’d spent nearly fifteen years perfecting his classes and skills, optimising his weapons and gear, training his beasts and crew. He would rather die than lose it all.
‘Your father would be ashamed, Thrash,’ the man added, inputting commands into his device.
Thrash looked up to his interface on the screen, each of the men staring up in unison. They wouldn’t dare. They shouldn’t have the power to do that. Yet, the interface flashed white, and big bold letters appeared in red:
Training Level: 188
Thrash squirmed, his metal bounds tightening. A rumble stirred deep within him, something gnawing at his bones. He felt faint, his knees starting to shake.
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Training Level: 150
His eyes, storming with terror, locked onto the leader’s face. How dare they.
The man sighed. ‘It’s for the best, Thrash.’
Training Level: 125
Thrash’s keen vision blurred. The power of the men in the room seemed to drown him, their auras pressing down like lead. He grasped desperately at his own strength. I am the son of Thron the Conqueror. I am power.
Training Level: 100
The metal rope loosened slightly around his shrinking muscles, but as soon as he tried to move, his body recoiled, fat clinging to his bones like ivy to brick.
Training Level: 50
His breath grew shallow. The interface flickered and whirred, various icons and panels removing themselves from view. Items in his inventory vanished one by one. His hard-earned achievements turned from gold to grey, locked behind bars before disappearing entirely. His stats - his precious stats - bled away, each removal feeling like a stab in his gut.
Thrash fell to the floor with a convulsing thud, his head pounding with loss. The dark room felt colder, the air thinner. Worst of all, the power that once filled him was gone - replaced by a void of insecurity.
Training Level: 25
Thrash gurgled, choking on his fury. I will kill you all, he screamed internally. I will burn your bodies and desecrate your graves. I will hunt you down to the ends of the universe. Your lives are now forfeit.
Without a single hint of recognition or fanfare, the screen dinged.
Training Level: 0
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Thrash was given a moment to acknowledge the horror, to familiarise himself with the new void in his soul. He wasn’t sure how long he had passed out for, but nobody had saved him. Nobody even tried to defend him. He had thought that at least… No, why would they? His thoughts paused as one of the men picked him up and placed him on a chair. All he wanted to do was tear out throats, to summon his pets and have them claw the skin off these hypocrites. But he had nothing. Even his clothes had been replaced with rags. He looked up, frothing at the mouth.
The men didn’t seem to care, or even notice his anger. This made Thrash angrier. The leader held out a piece of paper, sliding it across the table.
His head fell more from gravity than intent, his body drained of power. The words on the paper were blurry. He forced himself to focus, each letter painfully sharpening into view, revealing the words he had never wanted to read. His body began to tremble. No, no, no. He couldn’t - he wouldn’t. He was an Adventurer - a hero among men. He was supposed to lead quests, destroy kings and sorcerers, raise beasts of divinity, and perform feats that would leave the galaxy in awe. Not this. This was for amateurs, for people who lacked ambition.
Thrash wanted to jump at the men, to make them see how wrong they were. This could not be his final fate. Not Thrash, son of Thron the Conqueror.
After a moment of silence, the leader sighed. 'You leave instantly. Your sentence is twenty years, after which you may appeal our decision.'
Thrash’s life was forfeit. An emptiness overwhelmed him, his body numb with grief. He was going to be just like everyone else in the galaxy - normal. A single human in a billion was lucky enough to join as an active participant in the Starr Galaxy Entertainment Corporation. He had been that one, thanks to his father. Now, he was nothing.
One of the other men spoke, the one Thrash had once considered reasonably kind. 'You'll still have some years ahead of you,' he said, his eyes softening. 'Your grandiose dreams have a chance of fruition yet, lad. And this place…’ he tapped the paper. ‘Well, it's not comfortable, but it can be good for you. You may not deserve such a positive outcome, but it has been awarded to you nonetheless.'
Thrash had no faith in the man’s optimism. He and his crew had visited that place long ago, assessing potential careers and dungeons. The thought of working in such a bleak environment had never crossed his mind. He was born for open fields and stormy skies, not underground caverns.
‘Don’t be too down, lad. You’ll still have the opportunity to level up, make your mark on the world. Repentance is the path to success, of course. Besides…’ The man paused, a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘The position is newly open. Brigwell fell asleep for the last time two evenings ago.’
Thrash didn’t care. The old master was dead? Who gave a shit. An eternally ancient dwarf had finally keeled over - did that change anything? Of course not. The only title worthy of him was Combat Hero, Champion of the Starr System. Not ‘Dungeon Master’.
The men all stood, the leader shutting off Thrash’s interface. The room was dimly lit by a single candle. ‘As a Dungeon Master, you will have a rudimentary AI assistant, the same one that worked with Brigwell. It will replace the standard AI in your own gear. It’s less sophisticated, but it’s been tested and found acceptable.’
He paused again before continuing. ‘You will forget almost everything that you’ve learned here, I’m afraid. You’ll know that you were here, and you’ll remember names and faces, and your instincts will likely survive, but consider it a fresh start. Spells, skills, quests, cheats… all will be forgotten. You will also be equipped with a pacifier. You will learn more about that upon arrival.’
Thrash twisted and wriggled, a final attempt to show his distress.
The leader opened his hands toward the ceiling, a hatch forming above them. Starr Training Base 1’s AI descended - a floating robot shaped like a square, shimmering and golden. Its display featured two silver balls as eyes, and it had two extendable arms with claws at the end. It chirped as it landed beside the old men.
‘Thrash, son of Thron the Conqueror,’ the leader began, ‘descendant of the human realm Earth, you are hereby released from your training.’
He released his palms, and Thrash attempted to squirm, his body glowing softly. An orange light emitted from his skin as his eyes widened in a silent plea.
The AI chirped, its robotic voice echoing through the chamber. 'You are hereby admitted as a full member of the Dungeons and Miners Association, to submit to twenty years as the sole proprietor of Starr Eternal, Mines for the Everyday Hero. Congratulations for graduating Starr Training Base 1. You are now being transferred into the Starr Galaxy Entertainment System.'
The man clapped, and the AI’s screen blinked. Thrash felt his insides collapse and vision disappear entirely. His mind switched off.