Emmanuel surged forward through the heaving corridors of his old high school, a sea of desperate survivors pressing in on him. The claustrophobic crush made it almost impossible to flick through the options on his MetaTEC watch. He had witnessed Warren conjure searing flames to incinerate the outside horrors with mere words, but Emmanuel knew there had to be more to the incantation. Buffeted and jostled, he finally managed to select a spell named Lightning Fist and slotted it into the active spell slot.
He recalled the day six months prior when the MetaTEC had arrived. He and his friends—Sid, Warren, and Jenny—had eagerly set up their devices together. Unlike his friends, who were avid LARPers and tabletop RPG enthusiasts, Emmanuel had been drawn to the MetaTEC's pedometer leveling mechanics, thinking it would gamify his cardio workouts.
When it came time to choose their virtual elemental aspects, Warren had gone for fire, Sid for dark, and Jenny for ice. Emmanuel had chosen lightning, inspired by the Raikage from his favorite anime, Naruto. Plus, the idea of being a light-based demon slayer made it easier to convince his mother, who was wary of anything involving magic or the occult.
The thought of his mother jolted Emmanuel back to the present. She was still in the school kitchen, and those creatures were breaching the building. As if on cue, a woman's scream echoed from an adjoining hallway, near the kitchens. Was it his mother? Emmanuel couldn't be sure. He broke away from the panicked mob stampeding toward the main exit and dashed down the other hallway. Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass erupted from the floor above, followed by cries of terror filling the atrium. Emmanuel remembered that there were still innocent people trapped upstairs in the library.
Emmanuel’s decision came in the span of a heartbeat. His mother, steadfast and unyielding, would be eternally disappointed if she ever discovered he had forsaken a room full of innocents to save her. That was her essence, her moral compass. And in this crucible of chaos, Emmanuel would rise to become the man she had always hoped he would be.
With a silent prayer for forgiveness, Emmanuel turned his back on the kitchen and sprinted toward the stairs. Within moments, he was at the threshold of the school library, its glass doors wide open. The cool night breeze swept through shattered windows, caressing his face and carrying the unmistakable metallic scent of blood and death. Mist seeped in through the broken panes, pooling on the floor and cloaking the grisly scene. Cloaked monstrosities hovered above their fallen victims, leering.
Emmanuel’s breath caught in his throat as he witnessed one of the creatures plunge a viscous scythe into Mr. Smith’s chest. The elderly man bellowed in agony but retaliated with a powerful right hook, sending the creature reeling. But Mr. Smith’s resilience was marred by his brutal disfigurement; his other arm had been cruelly severed below the elbow. Pressing his back against the library cupboard door, Mr. Smith slid slowly to the floor, leaving a dark, crimson trail on the white laminate.
Emmanuel’s heart pounded as he faced the nightmare. His old teacher lay bleeding, and the monsters turned their malevolent gazes toward him.
“Gheist,” the MetaTEC intoned. “Level one apparition. Although physically frail, their limited flight provides a substantial mobility advantage. Be wary of their scythe-type weapon, as its edge is deathly sharp despite its well-worn appearance.”
“Fulgur manus,” Emmanuel muttered, stepping into the room. Lightning wreathed his fists, crackling with a ferocity that mirrored his inner turmoil. He had arrived too late to save anyone, dooming his mother as well. This realization stoked a storm of retribution and contempt within him, yet outwardly he remained a model of calm stoicism. The slow, rhythmic breathing exercises from his vis training kept his seething emotions in check. Each step into the library was deliberate, his eyes assessing the scene like a seasoned boxer sizing up an opponent.
The gheists, eyeless masks turned toward him, were also appraising, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Emmanuel suddenly threw his arms wide, exposing his chest to the sprites.
“Come on then,” he goaded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”
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Meanwhile, Jennifer Carmichael was taking center stage in the drama studio. The large rectangular room, designed with tiered seating on three sides, provided an open floor space for performers. Black curtains hung asymmetrically, dividing the space between the performance and backstage areas.
She had connected her phone to the speaker system and was leading the group in a sing-along of Disney songs saved on her phone. They had just finished belting out "Let It Go." Despite being over two decades old, Frozen remained a favorite, and the cathartic release of shouting the chorus brought the audience together. Jenny added to the fun with a partially improvised dance routine inspired by the movie.
Jenny thought she heard some commotion outside, but the drama studio’s insulation and the loud music drowned out most external noise. As the next song, “Hakuna Matata,” began to play, an unmistakable pounding came from the stage door behind her. The door, located in the backstage area, led out to the car park, used for loading props and theatrical equipment.
Another loud bang echoed through the room, and Jenny faltered in her song. An unsettled hush fell over the audience as the speakers began to hiss and crackle. A louder bang followed, and Jenny turned to face the dark curtain behind her. Then came an almighty crash as the double doors backstage were torn from their hinges, unleashing a torrent of nightmares into the drama studio.
The crowd erupted in screams of terror as robed, scythe-wielding spirits slashed their way through the curtain. Jenny’s MetaTEC emitted a series of alerts, but the cacophony drowned out its warnings. All Jenny could do was recall what Sid had told her earlier that day.
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Twelve hours earlier
“It’s happening, Jen,” Sid had said.
“What is?”
“The end of the world. The other side is breaking through. I read about it online.”
“Stop, Sid. I’m already freaked out enough with the Mist crossing the Channel. I don’t need your conspiracy theories making things worse.”
Sid had looked as if he hadn’t slept for days, which, knowing him, was likely. He seemed about to protest but then relented, conceding the argument—uncharacteristic for him.
“Okay,” he said plaintively. “What’s your plan?”
Jenny paused. She didn’t have a plan exactly. Her dad had mentioned that several families were going to head to the school to foster a sense of community or something like that.
Jenny relayed her dad’s plan to Sid. He nodded but looked unsure. “That might be okay, especially if you’re there. Just promise me you’ll keep the lights off.”
Sitting in darkness with scared families hardly seemed conducive to creating community spirit. Besides, Jenny wasn’t planning on being the weirdo suggesting they do so.
“Sure, Sid, I’ll do that,” she said ironically, knowing he wouldn’t pick up on her tone.
“Good,” he replied. “Another thing. Have you updated your MetaTEC yet?”
“Yeah, it updated this morning. Why?”
Sid ignored her question. “I want you to load a spell and keep it ready, in case you need it.”
“Sure, Sid. I’ll do that later,” she said dismissively.
Sid shook his head in disbelief and nearly grabbed her wrist but stopped himself.
“Please,” he implored. “Do it now, and then I’ll go and find Warren.”
Jenny rolled her eyes in thinly veiled frustration. Sid was a nice guy and a supportive friend, but his social awkwardness could be irritating.
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Now
With the spirits tearing through the studio, Jenny regretted her dismissiveness. The crowd’s terror surged as the robed figures advanced, and she could only hope Sid’s dire predictions hadn’t come too late.
Awakening the MetaTEC, Jenny ignored the stats and notification icons, navigating swiftly to her spellbook. She selected her single spell and loaded it into the active slot. Unlike her friends, who had chosen a more versatile skill spread, Jenny had opted to min-max her stats. This choice limited her to only one spell at level one, but the trade-off was that the spell would be significantly stronger when cast.
Sid had informed her that activating the spell required a verbal command, advising her to speak the words only when in dire need. At the time, Jenny couldn’t fathom a situation where a videogame spell would save her from real harm. She had dismissed Sid’s earnest intensity as a sign of him cracking under the stress of Europe’s escalating ecological crisis. But now, as a flood of bladed death surged toward her, the spell seemed her only hope.
Jenny raised her hand toward the oncoming horde of scythe-wielding monsters and uttered the words that would seal her fate. Somewhere beyond the boundaries of space, time, and sanity, she thought she could hear wicked gods giggling.