I've never stood out. Not once.
Not for my looks. Not for my status. Definitely not for my last name.
In a school full of heirs, influencers, and the children of CEOs, I'm just that one fat kid on scholarship. My name's Haru Murata, and if there's one thing I've mastered… it's surviving in silence.
Every day is a routine: walk with my head down, avoid the elite kids' gaze, sit in the back of class, eat lunch where no one can see me, and pray I get through the day without becoming a punching bag.
But even with all of that—the isolation, the sneers, the bruises—I kept going.
Because I had one thing they didn't.
A dream.
Since junior high, I've poured everything I had into a single, battered leather journal. Dozens of pages filled with sketches, mechanics, lore, item stats, dungeon designs, and character backstories.
A game. My game.
A VRMMORPG like no other, where players would choose between light and darkness, align with goddesses, and forge their destiny across a world I built with love. Light and Darkness Clash.
I thought… maybe, if I worked hard enough, I could show it to someone. Get hired. Make it real. Change my life.
And then I heard the news: a major game company was attending our school's job festival. The moment I saw the name on the list, my heart practically exploded. They were legendary. If they saw my journal, maybe… just maybe…
I stayed up for three days polishing everything. The game systems. The main story arcs. The goddess factions. Even the starter classes. I skipped meals. I skipped sleep. I wrote until my fingers cramped.
And when I finished…
…I cried.
I walked to the temple where my parents are buried, bowed before their stone, and whispered, "I'm going to show the world what I created. Please… watch over me."
On the morning of the job festival, I was nervous but proud. Hope flickered in me for the first time in years.
But when I got to my desk—
The journal was gone.
At first I thought maybe I misplaced it.
Then my phone buzzed.
"Looking for something, fatass?"
—Takeshi
My chest tightened.
Takeshi Kuroda. The rich golden boy with a perfect smile and a perfect punch. He and his cronies treated me like I didn't belong—because I didn't, to them.
He told me to meet him behind the school.
I knew what I'd see. But I went anyway.
The afternoon sun glared above as I turned the corner behind the gym. Takeshi was already there, his arms crossed, surrounded by his laughing friends.
He held the journal up in one hand, smirking like he was holding a piece of trash.
"Yo, Murata. This your masterpiece?"
"Please… give it back," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "That book is everything to me."
Takeshi let out a loud, mocking laugh.
"Everything, huh? Wow. That's sad."
One of his friends snorted.
"Look at how he's shaking. He's about to cry already."
I took a step forward.
"I'm begging you. It's not just a book—it's my dream. I worked on it for years."
Takeshi leaned in, his face suddenly serious.
"You think anyone cares about your dream?" he said, low and venomous. "You think some fat orphan's gonna get scouted by Godmind Studios?"
My breath hitched.
He knew.
"You really thought you'd show them this crap," he continued, flipping the journal open and leafing through it. "Look at these scribbles. You actually think this'll impress anyone?"
"I don't care what you think!" I snapped. "It's mine! You don't have to like it!"
Takeshi stared at me for a second. Then slowly smiled.
"You're right. I don't."
And then—he struck a match.
"NO—!!"
I lunged, but one of his friends shoved me back.
The flame licked at the edge of the paper, and in moments, the fire was consuming page after page—my lore, my systems, my dreams—turning them black and curling them into ash.
"You should've known your place, Murata," Takeshi said coldly. "Trash doesn't belong in a palace."
They laughed.
And I stood there, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Something in me snapped.
I charged forward and punched him in the face.
There was a crack—his nose started bleeding. The laughter stopped.
He touched his face, stunned… and then looked at me with murder in his eyes.
"You're dead."
They beat me. I felt fists, feet, elbows—until everything went dark.
I don't remember how I got home.
My body ached. My vision was blurry. I don't remember what I said. What I did.
Just the pain… and the empty hole where my dream used to be.
That night, I curled into bed, shaking, broken, whispering into the silence:
"Why…? Why did it have to be me…?"
I clutched my pillow like it could hold me together.
I thought about ending it. I really did.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
I cried until sleep dragged me under.
Morning.
I opened my eyes. My body felt like it had been run over by a truck. My lip was split. My stomach ached.
The sunlight was too bright. The air felt too heavy.
I reached for my desk—out of habit—and then remembered: It's gone.
I sat there, staring at the empty space where my journal used to sit.
I was nothing again.
Listless, I grabbed the TV remote. Just needed noise. Static. Something.
"Breaking news—this just in!"
I blinked. I almost changed the channel.
"A strange structure has appeared downtown—a black stone building with impossible architecture and an eerie energy."
The screen cut to footage of a large obsidian gate surrounded by curious onlookers and emergency tape.
My breath caught in my throat.
No…
I knew that place. The chained gate. The sigils. The twin goddess emblem.
"This is… mine," I whispered.
It was my dungeon. One of the starter ones. The exact same layout.
"This can't be real…"
And then my phone buzzed again.
[NEW SYSTEM MESSAGE]: Welcome, Creator. Initialization complete. The world awaits.
My hand trembled as I stared at the message.
My game had come to life.
And in that moment, I knew—
The world was about to change.
And so was I.