ChronoQuest [Progression Fantasy]

[WhiteBlack]

1. Invitation

Eric gasped for air, but only blood filled his lungs. Three of his teeth were gone, and his skull was on the verge of shattering.
His opponent's titanium-knuckle implants and hydraulic-enhanced biceps were a deadly combination.
The bald man pummeled Eric relentlessly with powerful titanium fists. Eric's face was unrecognizable—a grotesque blend of blood and flesh. The punches came too quickly to dodge, and his swollen, blackened eyes offered no help.
"You were foolish enough to step into the ring without implants or gear? You're either broke or have a death wish. Don't blame me for this meat boy, but when I fight, I go all out!" The bald guy spat without stopping his torrent of punches.

Eric's body swayed like a ragdoll, barely able to stand on his feet. Each punch felt like an explosion inside him, and the crowd roared with every sickening blow. His knees buckled, but he forced himself upright, staggering like a drunk as his opponent circled him, grinning.
BAM!
The next punch sent him crashing to the ground. His cheek slid through the concrete, making bits of his flesh draw a line like chalk. His eyes were teary; it hurt like hell. He tried to rise again, but his limbs felt like lead. His opponent loomed over him, almost bored, watching Eric struggle.
"Stay down, fool," the bald man said, his voice dripping with disdain. But Eric wouldn't—he couldn't. He had no pride left, just a stubborn animal instinct to survive. His trembling hands pushed against the floor, his face a grotesque mask of pain and desperation.
"Ahaha kill him; don't leave us hanging here."
"Yeah, I want a climax worth my money's."
"Go Go Go, baldy, finish him."
"Kill. Kill. Kill."
The crowd of rabid audience wanted to see blood. Eric's heart sank at this. He looked at the baldy with the corner of his eye. He was scared—a bit of death but more of humiliation if this freak spared him.
BAM!
He didn't even see the final punch. It slammed into his temple with a sickening crunch, and the world went black. His body hit the ground like a sack of meat, unmoving. The fight was over before the referee could even step in.
"I don't kill on sundays." The baldy spat and left the ring.
The crowd's jeers were deafening. A few laughed, but most just laughed. No one cared about Eric, not after such a pathetic display. His opponent raised his arms in mock triumph, turning away from Eric's limp form like it was nothing.
"Pathetic," someone shouted from the stands.
Eric lay there, half-conscious, unable to move, the taste of blood and dirt thick in his mouth. This wasn't a defeat—it was humiliation.
Evening.
Eric stumbled through the dimly lit streets of the slums, his body broken, each step a reminder of his humiliating defeat. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows over the crumbling buildings and graffiti-covered walls. The stench of burning oil and decaying trash hung in the air, and the distant hum of machinery vibrated through the narrow alleys. No one paid him any mind as he limped past; in this part of the city, broken men were just part of the landscape.
"That fucker, what was that look in his eyes for? I didn't ask him to spare me. Fucking virtue signaler."
His head throbbed, his vision blurry, but he didn't care. The weight of the humiliation pressed down harder than any punch he'd taken in the ring. Without implants or gear, he was nothing here—just another nameless, faceless loser in a city where the strong crushed the weak without hesitation.
When he finally reached his tiny apartment, tucked away in a decaying highrise that groaned with the wind, he shoved the door open with more force than necessary. Inside, the space was cramped and suffocating, a single flickering bulb barely lighting the room. Rusted pipes rattled in the walls, and the faint buzz of malfunctioning electronics filled the air.
"Fuck this shit... Is this the place I have to come home to?"
With a guttural scream, he grabbed the nearest chair and smashed it against the wall. The cheap plastic and metal frame shattered on impact, pieces clattering to the floor. But it wasn't enough. Rage boiled inside him—rage at his pathetic weakness, at the system that kept people like him at the bottom, and most of all, at himself for thinking he could fight without enhancements.
"Fuck. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck him! All of this has been against me since birth."
He turned, his breath ragged, and swung his fist into the wall. The plaster cracked under his knuckles, pain shooting up his arm, but he barely registered it. He was already grabbing his small table, flinging it across the room, sending it crashing into the sink. It broke apart with a dull thud, leaving splintered pieces scattered everywhere.
Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the blood still crusted on his face. His chest heaved as he stood in the middle of the wreckage, fists clenched, teeth grinding. The silence that followed was deafening. The apartment was a ruin, just like him.
"What the fuck am I even doing?"
Eric collapsed into the corner, sliding down the wall, his breath shallow and uneven. The city outside continued its relentless hum, but inside his shattered apartment, everything felt still—like the end of something.
Slumped against the cracked wall, Eric stared blankly at the wreckage he'd made of his apartment. His body ached, but not nearly as much as the humiliation gnawing at him. His defeat had been inevitable, he thought bitterly. No one survived in this city without enhancements—cybernetic implants, exoskeletons, high-tech upgrades—anything to get an edge. He had none of that. Just his fingers. And they weren't nearly enough.
He cursed under his breath, blaming his poverty, his useless body, and the system that kept people like him buried under mountains of debt and desperation. If he had the money, he'd have been the one dishing out the punishment in the ring. But instead, he was just another punching bag.
"Had I won, I would have gotten 50 credits. But losing got me only 8.9 credits. I can't even buy a decent meal with this."
With a grunt, he pulled out his old, glitchy phone and swiped it on. His notifications immediately exploded. Dozens of messages flooded the screen: overdue bills, debt recovery threats, and failed payments. His rent was overdue by weeks, his utilities were close to being cut off, and the debt collectors were closing in. He had nothing left to give.
"These dogs might go after my organs if I don't hurry. They shoved a transmitter in my neck, so I can't flee either."
Eric's breath quickened, panic rising in his chest. He scratched his neck where the transmitter was thinking if an underground doctor could take it out for him. His eyes darted to the few remaining items in his apartment that hadn't been smashed—his phone, a single worn chair, and his tattered bedding. Everything he owned was worthless, much like his life right now. He needed money fast.
In a fit of desperation, he opened his browser, scrolling through cheap black-market enhancements and fighting gear. There were plenty of options—cybernetic limbs, neural boosters, tactical HUD implants—but all of them came with a price tag he couldn't dream of affording. The thought crossed his mind to take out yet another loan and bury himself even deeper in debt just to get one chance—one opportunity to fight back. Maybe, with the right gear, he could win. Just maybe.
"Sigh. If I could afford any of this, I would already have it. Should I take another loan?"
His fingers hovered over the loan application form, heart pounding. He knew this was suicide. Another loan meant more debt collectors breathing down his neck. It meant more sleepless nights, more fights just to stay afloat. He was about to submit the form when a notification popped up, catching his eye.
Blip. A new email.
It was strange—there was no sender listed, just the subject line: "Congratulations! You are invited to the ChronoQuest.".
Eric frowned, opening the message. Inside was a simple message:
Congratulations, Eric Marlowe. You've been selected for ChronoQuest beta testing. We are looking for people from all paths of life to test a VMMORPG our company has created. We know things aren't going well for you. Accept the invitation, and all your debts, your failures, and your past will cease to matter. You can earn your yearly income in just one night. A new future awaits you. Decline and remain shackled to this world.
Your next step is just a click away.
There was a single link at the bottom, glowing faintly. No details, no explanation—just an invitation. His finger hesitated over the screen.
"What the hell is this?" Eric muttered to himself. It had to be a scam. But who would know his name? His debts? Everything about him felt exposed, laid bare in that email. And despite himself, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest.
If this was real—if this ChronoQuest thing was offering him a way out—what did he have to lose?
With a resigned sigh."Someone is giving me a job. I am in no position to decline. Be it if it's a scam. Worst of all, I will end up in a freezer with organs removed. Better than my current state, to be honest.
Eric clicked the link. His phone screen flickered for a moment, and then a QR code appeared, accompanied by an address and a time: Midnight.
His heart raced, though he didn't fully understand why. This could be some elaborate trap or just a sick joke, but nothing else in his life was going anywhere. What was the harm? He stared at the clock—11:15 PM. He had just enough time to get there.
First, he had to make himself look like less of a wreck. He dragged himself into the grimy bathroom, flicking on the buzzing fluorescent light. The reflection in the cracked mirror was enough to make him wince. His face was a mess of dried blood, swollen bruises, and cuts that hadn't fully stopped bleeding. He stripped off his tattered clothes and stepped into the shower, wincing as the lukewarm water hit his battered skin.
The blood swirled down the drain, and for a moment, Eric just stood there, letting the water wash over him. He tried to shake off the feeling of hopelessness, but it clung to him like a second skin.
After cleaning himself up, he dabbed on some bandages from an old first-aid kit, though it was clear they weren't doing much. He wasn't sure why he even bothered—he'd probably just end up back in the same state soon enough. His stomach growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he last ate. All he had left was a stale piece of bread, which he wolfed down without a second thought.
Dressed in the least blood-stained clothes he could find, Eric stepped out into the slum's darkened streets. The city's cold air hit him, bringing with it the stench of decay and poverty that filled the underbelly of society. As he made his way through the maze of alleys, his mind wandered to the address he'd been sent—it was deep in the heart of the neon-lit district where the rich lived. The "good" part of the city. The part that mocked people like him every day.

"To think I'd have go there again. Fuck my life.."