The roar of the crowd was a tidal wave. It crashed over me, a physical force threatening to sweep me away. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence I desperately needed. Chalk dust hung thick in the air, illuminated by the harsh spotlights. I could taste it, gritty and dry, on my tongue.
This was it. The National Championships. Years of training, countless hours in the gym, every sacrifice my body had made – it all came down to this one routine. The floor exercise. My best event, my only event, really. I was… okay on the other apparatuses, but floor? That was where I flew. I could almost forget the grueling training, the injuries, the constant pressure to be perfect. Almost.
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. I could feel my coach, Mr. Ito's, gaze on me from the sidelines. He wouldn't show it, not outwardly, but I knew he was just as nervous as I was. Maybe more. This was his reputation on the line, too. He'd been with me since I was a kid, pushing me, believing in me even when I doubted myself. I owed him this. A perfect routine.
"Next up, representing Fujikawa Gymnastics Academy, Ryuji Kagami!" The announcer's voice boomed, echoing through the arena.
I stepped onto the springy floor, the familiar give beneath my feet a small comfort. The taped-off square felt like the only solid ground in the world. I could see the judges now, their faces impassive, their eyes sharp. They were waiting. Judging. Evaluating. Every single movement. My heart pounded even harder.
The opening music started, a driving, almost tribal beat that always got my blood pumping. It was the piece Mr. Ito had chosen for me, something that highlighted my power and agility. I moved without thinking, muscle memory taking over. The first tumbling pass – a double layout with a full twist – went off perfectly. The landing stuck. A surge of adrenaline, a tiny spark of triumph. The crowd roared, and for a moment, I let myself believe I could actually do this.
I flowed through the routine, each movement precise, each pose held for the required beat. I was telling a story with my body, a story of strength, agility, and grace. Or at least, that's what I hoped the judges were seeing. Every fiber of my being was focused on the next movement, the next connection, the next chance to impress.
Then came the triple twist. My signature move. The one that separated me from the rest.
It was a move I'd landed a thousand times in practice. But this time… this time, something felt off. Mid-air, I lost my sense of where I was. A moment of disorientation, a sickening lurch in my stomach. It was like the floor had shifted beneath me, like gravity itself had decided to play a cruel trick.
I knew, even before I hit the mat, that it was bad.
My left leg buckled under me. A sharp, searing pain shot up my ankle, and the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of white-hot agony. I heard a sickening crack, and then everything went sideways. The roar of the crowd turned into a distant, muffled hum. The lights blurred, spinning and merging into a blinding white.
Then… nothing.
When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Not the familiar scent of chalk and sweat, but something… earthy. Like damp soil and pine needles, mixed with the sweet fragrance of a thousand unknown blossoms.
The second thing was the light. Not the harsh glare of the arena spotlights, but a soft, filtered glow. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, casting long, dancing shadows. I opened my eyes, wincing at the sudden brightness, even though it wasn't harsh.
I wasn't in the gym anymore.
I was lying on a bed of… leaves? And not just any leaves. Huge, broad leaves, bigger than my entire body, woven together with an almost unnatural precision. The "bed" was nestled in the roots of an enormous tree, its trunk wider than a bus, its branches reaching up like gnarled fingers towards a sky that shimmered with colors I'd never seen before. The canopy above was a riot of colors I'd never seen before – vibrant purples, shimmering golds, deep, iridescent blues. It was like being inside a giant, living cathedral.
Where the hell was I?
Panic started to set in. I tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain in my ankle stopped me cold. I looked down. It was wrapped in some kind of… bandage? Made of woven vines and leaves, held together with a sticky, sweet-smelling sap. It looked… organic. And surprisingly effective.
Okay, not a hospital. Definitely not a hospital. And definitely not Earth.
"You're awake."
The voice startled me. It was melodic, almost… musical. Like a gentle breeze rustling through wind chimes. I turned my head and saw her.
She was… beautiful. Unbelievably so. With long, flowing silver hair that seemed to catch the light and shimmer like moonlight on water, and eyes that glowed with a soft, golden hue. She was wearing… well, not much. Just a simple tunic made of some kind of woven plant fiber, that clung to her form with an almost ethereal grace. She looked like a goddess.
"Who are you? Where am I?" I croaked, my voice hoarse and weak.
She smiled, a gentle, reassuring smile. "My name is Lyra. And you are in the Whisperwood. You were… injured. I found you."
The Whisperwood? Injured? The last thing I remembered was… the triple twist. The Nationals. The sickening crack of my ankle.
"The competition… my ankle…" I mumbled, trying to piece things together. My head was swimming, trying to reconcile the memory of the gym with this… this fantasy forest.
Lyra's brow furrowed, her perfect features creasing with confusion. "Competition? What is that? And what is an… ankle?"
I stared at her. It was becoming increasingly clear that I wasn't just lost. I was lost. Lost in a place that made no sense. A place with giant trees, glowing-eyed girls, and no apparent concept of competitive gymnastics. Or basic anatomy, it seemed.
This was going to be a problem. A big problem.
And then, just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder, a voice echoed in my head.
Welcome to Miloria.
It wasn't Lyra. Her lips weren't moving. The voice was… inside my head. Clear, and resonant, and utterly surreal.
You have died in an accident.
Died? I was pretty sure I'd just broken my ankle, not… died.
But the Goddess of Life and the God of War have taken an interest in you. Because of your dedication and perseverance, they have granted you their blessings.
A warm sensation spread through my body, starting from my chest and flowing outwards. It was… comforting. Like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold day.
The Goddess of Life has granted you Full Heal. This means you can fully heal your entire body, from any injury or ailment, without any problem. She has also given you an infinite amount of magical power. In your world's terms, you might call it 'mana'.
The warmth intensified, and I could feel the pain in my ankle… fading. It was like it was rewinding, the broken bones knitting themselves back together, the torn ligaments reattaching. It was… miraculous.
Then came the God of War. He has gifted you with a sword…
A sword? I blinked, and lying beside me on the leaf-bed was a weapon unlike any I had ever seen. It wasn't a crude, barbaric thing. It was sleek, elegant, and seemed to hum with a faint energy. The blade was a shimmering silver, and the hilt was wrapped in a soft, black leather that fit my hand perfectly when I instinctively reached for it. It felt… alive.
...crafted by the God of Blacksmithing himself. It is the most flexible sword, able to adapt to any fighting style, and unbreakable. He has also bestowed upon you his trait: the Blood of War. In essence, you are his son.
The voice paused, and then, almost as an afterthought, added:
Your stats have been adjusted.
Suddenly, my vision was filled with… something. Numbers. Words. It was like a video game interface, but… real?
Name: Ryuji Kagami
Level: 300
Strength: 10,000
Durability: 10,000
Agility: 10,000
Reaction: 10,000
I stared at the numbers, my jaw dropping. Ten thousand? That had to be a mistake. My reaction time was… ten thousand? I could catch bullets. I could… I didn't even know what I could do.
I was… I was a goddamn video game character.
I must have been standing there, frozen, staring at the stats display in my vision, because Lyra tilted her head, her golden eyes filled with concern.
"What are you doing? You are making strange faces."
Caution: This is an AI-generated work of fiction. I do not intend to make money off it; I only want to share the power of AI.