Clearing his throat, he returned to the text. His heart beat faster when Ayan read the notification's header, flashing blood-red before him.

  "Attention! You have accepted the global quest: 'The Final Game'

  Rank: Unranked

  Objective: Destroy the evil

  Description:

  'Greetings, players of Seratis.

  From the moment this quest activates, all exits from the world are blocked. Logout unavailable. You are trapped here—for thirty years by local reckoning.

  All pain limitation restrictions have been removed. You may now set 100% pain sensitivity to gain advantages. Be warned: your real body may die from anaphylactic shock!

  Racial bonuses that equalised differences between species have been cancelled. A dwarf no longer matches an orc. A human cannot compete with a dragon. Survival depends on your true capabilities.

  The task is simple: find and destroy the Evil trapped in Seratis with you. Its nature is unknown. Its form unclear. But it exists, and it is real.

  Reward for victory—freedom. Failure means death for all.

  Good luck.

  —Your Ilira.'

  Reward: Ability to exit the game

  Time limit: Thirty years

  Warning! In case of failure, death awaits! Make haste!"

  Warning—if your enemies learn of you before you learn of them, the quest will fail and your character will be deleted.

  His fingers clenched on the flatbread, crumbs scattering to the floor. Ayan slowly reread the quest description, trying to process what he'd read. The jug slipped from his weakened fingers, rolled across the floor and stopped against a sack of grain.

  He leant back against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes. The flatbread lay beside him, forgotten and crumbled.

  "Ilira's gone mad! Or she planned all this from the start? What evil? Why thirty years? But what difference does it make to me? What do I do?"

  Ayan's head spun from the rush of thoughts.

  Calming his racing imagination, the lad decided this global quest changed nothing in his plans. He intended to stay out of it and not get involved—let others play hero and tear their tendons. He'd had enough human contact to last two lifetimes, and he had no intention of seeking out player interaction.

  As for the time limit, thirty years in a mighty orc's body seemed not such an unbearable prospect. He didn't consider it punishment—rather, an unexpected reward for all his previous hardships.

  Picking up the crumbled flatbread from the floor, Ayan brushed off the dust and methodically finished the remains, doing without water this time. Then he leant back against the cold stone wall, uncertain what to do.

  "Perhaps I should meditate?" The thought flickered through his mind.

  But he immediately checked himself, remembering Zhalgaztur's words. The baksy had promised to return in six hours. "How much time has passed already? Four hours for meditation, plus probably another forty minutes—maybe even more—searching for food, eating and this reflection about the quest."

  Ayan grimaced, calculating the remaining time. "So I've got at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half."

  Realising there was absolutely no rush yet, the lad decided finally to look around properly and study the chamber where he'd have to spend more time. Enough minutes remained before Zhalgaztur's return not to sit idle, staring at one spot on the wall.

  Ayan rose to his feet, dusted off his palms and looked around with renewed, more attentive interest. The cave proved more spacious than it had first seemed—its walls receded into the depths, vanishing into the gloom, whilst the ceiling hung somewhere high above, hidden in shadow.

  His main discovery was a massive chest standing in the cave's far corner. He found it covered with a rough sheet. Pulling back the fabric, Ayan saw text appear before his eyes:

  'Chest of Etheric Metal'

  Personal

  Unranked

  Indestructible

  Not for sale.

  Ayan froze before the chest, not daring to touch the lid. Intuition told him this was his personal chest, issued by the system on character creation. Such gifts awaited every player whose account rank exceeded standard F. And his rank... his rank was so high the lad was almost afraid to imagine what lay inside.

  Conflicting feelings tore at him. One part of his soul demanded he immediately throw open the lid and discover what treasures Ilira had prepared for him. Curiosity scratched inside like a hungry beast. But another part—the part that still remembered his classmates' mockery, the part that had lived eighteen years in an immobile body—this part shrank from the chest as from red-hot iron.

  "If I open it... if I see all these goodies meant for me... I won't hold out," Ayan mentally admitted, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. "Won't be able to resist and will accept them. And Ilira's already given me so much my head spins just from the abilities and heritages alone."

  He took a step back, as though physical distance could weaken the temptation.

  Digging deeper into himself, the lad found the true reason for his fear. By accepting these starting gifts, he'd be admitting to himself he wasn't a full person. That he needed crutches even in virtual reality. That he... that he was still that same cripple who couldn't manage on his own.

  "No," Ayan sharply checked himself, shaking his head. "Not now. Won't think about it."

  He needed distraction. Urgently. Otherwise these thoughts would devour him alive, turning him into that very pathetic shadow he'd been in the real world.

  Feverishly glancing about seeking any activity, Ayan noticed in the cave's corner a simple wooden stick—apparently a fragment of some longer staff. Without hesitation, he grabbed it with both hands, enjoying the pleasant weight of wood in his palms. The timber was smooth, polished to a sheen from long use.

  Every movement with the stick echoed with sharp pain. The touch of rough wood on his palms scalded his skin as though he held not polished timber but red-hot metal. The sphere of perception, which he still hadn't learnt to control, overwhelmed his consciousness with a flood of information—he felt every irregularity on the stick's surface, every minute denseness in the wood fibres invisible to the eye, every microscopic crack.

  But strangely, this very cacophony of sensations became his salvation. Physical pain displaced spiritual pain. Concentration on simple movements left no room for corrosive thoughts about his own inadequacy. The burning in his ears drowned out fear of the future.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The lad began slowly spinning the stick before him, at first clumsily, then with growing confidence. Simple movements—rotation around the axis, hand-to-hand transfers, circular swings.

  And then, as though summoned by the movements themselves, Rotis's instructions surfaced in his consciousness.

  Ayan froze, closing his eyes. Before his inner sight came alive that very evening on the school sports ground—one of hundreds of such evenings spent with his instructor. The evening sun, declining towards the horizon, backlit Rotis's tall figure in golden-orange light, transforming it into a silhouette of living fire. The instructor moved with a staff in his hands—and it truly resembled dance more than combat training.

  Each movement flowed into the next with absolute naturalness, without the slightest hitch. The staff was not a weapon in Rotis's hands—it was an extension of his body, an additional limb obeying silent commands.

  "Polearms aren't just a stick with a sharp end, Ayan," the instructor's voice surfaced in memory, deep and calm. "They're an extension of your arms, your body, your will. You don't hold the staff—you merge with it as one."

  His fingers found the correct grip on their own—left palm closer to the centre of gravity, right slightly further. Ayan turned the stick horizontal before him, feeling how the wood settled in his hands with surprising naturalness.

  The first movement came out crooked, clumsy. Even such slight exertion responded with searing pain. The stick jerked in his hands, nearly slipping from sweat-dampened palms.

  "Don't force it. Slowly. Let the body remember."

  Ayan repeated the attempt. This time the stick traced a wide arc through the air—not as smoothly as Rotis's, but without the previous angularity. The wood whistled, slicing the air with a quiet hiss. Daggers seemed to pierce his ears.

  Transfer. Left hand releases the shaft, right catches at a new point, left returns already at another place. The movement seemed familiar, as though his hands remembered it independently of consciousness.

  Circular swing. The stick described a circle round his body, nearly grazing the stone floor. Ayan ducked, passing the shaft over his head, then straightened, continuing the rotation. His heart beat stronger. Something inside responded to the rhythm of movements—something ancient and forgotten, embedded deep in the spinal cord.

  "The staff is a circle. It knows no beginning or end. Each movement births the next."

  Vertical swing. Horizontal turn. Diagonal thrust into emptiness. The stick hummed through the air, gathering speed. His hands began moving faster, more confidently. Clumsiness retreated, yielding to coordination that shouldn't exist.

  The pain went nowhere. It pulsed in his palms, scorched his forearms, bit into his head with each sharp movement. But now it became not hindrance but compass. A guide pointing the right direction.

  Lunge forward. Roll back. Circular defence. Mid-air catch. Strike top-down—the stick crashed into the stone floor with a dull thud that echoed off the cave walls. A firework exploded in his head.

  His breathing quickened. Sweat appeared on his forehead, ran down his temples. His body burned, but Ayan didn't stop. Movements became ever smoother, flowing one into another without breaks. The shaft rotated round his body as though obeying invisible strings.

  "Don't think. Feel. Let the weapon lead you."

  Suddenly everything clicked. The transfer came out absolutely precise, without a single unnecessary microsecond of hesitation. The stick soared upward, turned in the air and descended along the perfect trajectory—the very one Rotis had demonstrated that distant evening.

  A sequence of five movements flew past like a single exhalation. Strike from the left. Turn. Defensive block. Forward thrust. Final circular swing, ending in a stance with stick pressed to his side.

  Ayan froze, breathing heavily. His palms trembled from tension. His forearms ached. His ears rang. But a crooked smirk crawled onto his lips of its own accord.

  "It worked."

  The body had remembered. After so many years of observation, analysis, mental repetition of Rotis's every movement—the muscles had finally received opportunity to embody theory in practice.

  He lowered the stick, feeling exhaustion spread through his body in a heavy wave. The cave stopped spinning before his eyes. The sphere of perception calmed, ceasing to bombard his consciousness.

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Stamina has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Agility has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Strength has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  "Attention! Congratulations! You have gained a new skill: 'Athletics'."

  "Attention! Congratulations! You have gained a new skill: 'One-handed Polearm Proficiency'."

  Ayan had no strength left for surprise—vigor had dropped below twenty points, and leaden heaviness spread through his body. Every muscle reminded him of itself with dull, viscous pain, as though his body had just passed through millstones.

  He set the stick against the wall and headed for the sacks of provisions. There, amongst neatly folded bundles, he found another couple of flatbreads—dense, smelling of wheat and something tart like herbs—and a new clay jug of water.

  Ayan returned to his place by the wall, lowered himself onto the cold stone and leant back. Pressing against the rough surface, he unwrapped the first flatbread and bit off a piece. The taste was simple but rich—grain, salt, slight bitterness.

  As he chewed, his gaze slid across the cave's dark vaults, across the flicker of reflections on the walls. His breathing gradually evened. Tension retreated, yielding to weary calm.

  "Not much time left before the baksy appears," he thought, washing down the last piece with cold water from the jug. "And I should rest before training with him. Zhalgaztur doesn't look like a lenient teacher."

  Sleep wasn't required in-game—nor, indeed, in reality. It wasn't needed in the full virtual immersion capsule. It independently maintained all necessary processes in a person's body: nutrition, blood circulation, lung ventilation, even muscle tone. The system took care of everything whilst consciousness wandered the digital worlds of the Ether or virtual school.

  So Ayan simply stretched out on the cold stone floor, tucking clothing from the sack rolled into a bundle under his head, and settled comfortably. His gaze turned towards the interface's emptiness—where slowly but surely crept upward the thin green bar of the vigor scale.

  Numbers blinked quietly, barely noticeably: 30... 35... 40...

  He observed this process with detached curiosity, as one might watch an hourglass. In reality his body lay in the capsule, connected to it via neurolink and ports. Here in Seratis, though, he felt every breath, every pulse beat—and it was strange to realise.

  "Just a parameter. Simply a number. Yet it feels... like real exhaustion."

  He half-closed his eyes—not sleeping, merely giving them rest from the interface's flicker.

  Ayan didn't notice the baksy's appearance.

  Opening his eyes once more to check the vigor scale—the numbers had already passed seventy-five—he suddenly discovered before him the figure of a massive orc with ash-grey skin. Zhalgaztur stood motionless as a stone statue, leaning on his staff. His blue eyes simply observed the prone youth, not blinking, not judging—simply watching. But it seemed to the lad the baksy saw through not only his body but his very soul with all his profile's parameters. As though peering into those corners of consciousness about whose existence Ayan himself preferred not to think.

  He hadn't even heard the old shaman descend into the hall. Not a single rustle, not a hint of movement.

  "I see you're ready to continue?" Zhalgaztur's voice sounded quiet but commanding.

  Without giving the youth time to recover or at least rise from the floor, the baksy raised both palms before him—and on each flared two bright, blinding lights. They burned with steady, almost white light, cutting the eyes.

  Ayan didn't even manage to squint.

  An explosion of pain crashed over him instantly—as though someone had driven red-hot needles straight into his eyeballs. The world plunged into absolute darkness. A message appeared in the interface:

  [You are blinded. Duration: 5 minutes.]

  Ayan groaned, pressing his eyelids shut with his palms, though he understood perfectly: it was useless. The pain slowly retreated, but in its place remained only impenetrable blackness.

  Without waiting for the debuff to fade, the baksy began clapping his hands.

  It seemed to the lad the orc's palms were made of metal—such was the force with which they created sound. Dull, heavy strikes, like hammer on anvil, rolled through the cave, reflecting off the walls. Ayan involuntarily flinched. Strike. Another. A third—and suddenly the world cut off.

  Silence.

  Absolute. Pressing. Frightening.

  [You are deafened. Duration: 5 minutes.]

  Now came the turn for smell.

  A sharp, acrid odour struck his nostrils—as though someone had hurled a handful of smouldering sulphur mixed with rotting carrion and something acidic that scorched the mucous membrane from within straight into the middle of his face. Ayan jerked with his whole body, trying to crawl backwards, but the smell didn't retreat. It clung to receptors, penetrated his throat, made him gag on emptiness.

  [You are afflicted with 'Anosmia'. Duration: 5 minutes.]

  And again darkness—but this time not visual. Smells vanished. All at once. As though someone had yanked out the wire responsible for this sense.

  Ayan sat on the floor, blind, deaf, deprived of smell. His heart pounded in his chest like a caged bird. His breathing faltered. He felt the cold of stone beneath his buttocks, the roughness of wall behind his back. Felt his own palms gripping his knees.

  "Don't panic. It's temporary. Just debuffs. They'll fade."

  But his body didn't listen to logic. Muscles tensed on their own. Breathing quickened to hoarse short gasps.

  He tried to recall something—any sensation from the real world, any anchor. But there... there it had always been the same. Darkness. Silence. Absence of smells. Of everything. Except pain.

  "Fine, five minutes, just five minutes and the Darkness will leave me alone..."

  As it turned out, Ayan was mistaken...