Gradus Ascensionis XVII

Pinchitavo lay on the ground, paralyzed by a crushing weight of fear and sadness. The shadow of his wheelchair seemed to stretch across the battlefield, looming over him like a phantom of the life he could never escape. His head hung low, his vision blurred with despair as he watched the chaos unfold around him. Players screamed, ran, and lunged in every direction, their movements an embodiment of the freedom he had craved his entire life—a freedom he had never known.

Memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden and merciless. He saw himself again, a boy trapped behind the glass of a classroom window, watching his peers play, laugh, and live with a vibrancy he could only dream of. The sounds of their joy, once distant, now roared in his ears, blending with the frantic cacophony of the battlefield. The rhythm of his own heartbeat—steady, oppressive—pounded like a drumbeat of his isolation, each thud driving him deeper into the pit of his own limitations.

With a sudden burst of frustration, Tavo slammed his fist into the sand. He clawed at it, grasping for something solid, something real, even as it slipped through his fingers. "Why?" he choked out, his voice a tremulous whisper swallowed by the chaos. "Why do I have to be tied to a chair? Why was I born to watch instead of live?"

The battle raged on, indifferent to his anguish. The players with original devices moved as if nothing could hinder them, their strategies sharp and their actions fluid, while his pirated DRD lagged and sputtered like a rusted machine. His mind drifted back to the day his father had handed him the device, his eyes alight with hope.

"Look, Gustavo," his father had said, his voice trembling with the weight of a wish too fragile to say aloud. "This game is called 'Embers of a Wish', a modern odyssey. The creator, Argus Corbyn, named it after the Argonauts' ship. Maybe there, you can do what you can't here. Maybe you'll finally have your Argo."

That memory, once a comfort, now cut deeper than any blade. His father's smile had been a beacon, a promise that in this digital world, the chains of his reality could finally be broken. Yet all the game had offered was a cruel mirror, reflecting the same limitations, the same barriers. Even here, in the realm of fantasy, he was reminded of everything he wasn't.

His fingers tightened around the sand, the grains spilling through like the dreams he'd once dared to hold. His wish wasn't embers, wasn't ashes. It was nothing. Less than nothing. The universe had denied him even the chance to dream. He stared down at the ground, his breath shallow, his heart heavy. There was no god here. No hope. Just the cold, solid truth of his isolation.

Overwhelmed by despair, Tavo's gaze lifted, and through the chaos, he found Fernanda. She was on the other side of the arena, her silhouette framed by the storm of conflict, her bow a lifeline stretched taut with determination. Her arrows flew with precision, carving paths through the chaos despite the relentless push and shove of other ranged damage dealers. She was a sentinel standing alone, her every shot a demonstration of her skill, her will, and her undying love for him.

Tavo's breath caught. As he watched her, a wave of sorrow, sharp and unforgiving, washed over him. Fernanda had always been his shield, his steadfast protector in a world that seemed determined to break him. How many times had she chosen him over herself? How many times had she stayed behind, forsaking laughter with friends, just to ensure he wouldn't feel alone?

The memories surged like a tide, unrelenting. He saw her, younger but no less fierce, defending him at school, her spirit blazing against the cruel taunts of others. He saw her hands, steady yet weary, gripping the handles of his wheelchair as she pushed him through the broken streets of their city—streets cracked and uneven, never meant for people like him. She was his anchor in the tempest, his constant in a world of relentless unpredictability.

But now, for the first time, he saw her through a different lens. The universe had chained him to this chair, had denied him the freedoms others took for granted. But he—he had chained her to him. Her love, so selfless and pure, had become a shackle, binding her to a life of quiet sacrifices. He realized with crushing clarity that while he had spent years resenting the universe for his limitations, he had tethered Fernanda to his pain, to his immobility, to his inability to move forward—not just physically, but in every way that mattered.

Tears stung his eyes, blurring the chaos around them. He could still see her desperation in every move she made, every arrow she shot. Her precision, her focus, was born of something far more profound than skill. It was born of love—love that had endured countless struggles, borne countless burdens.

"I'm sorry, Fernanda," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his realization. "I'm so sorry. You deserve better. You deserve to enjoy this game, this life...not to carry my chains with me."

The battlefield raged on around him, a symphony of chaos and violence. Yet for Tavo, it all fell away. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the lone figure of his sister, a beacon of unwavering dedication shining through the storm. Her presence was both a lifeline and a mirror, reflecting back the truth he had refused to face.

He wasn't just fighting against his limitations. He was fighting for her—for the freedom she deserved, the life she had sacrificed for him. His heart ached, the pain excruciating and raw. It wasn't just despair that coursed through him now—it was the weight of love, guilt, and the faintest glimmer of something he hadn't felt in a long time. Anger.

The anger simmered within him, a restless storm brewing in his chest. It wasn't a clean, righteous rage—it was messy, multifaceted, and sharp-edged. It turned inward, lashing at his own perceived inadequacies, at a lifetime of moments where he felt less than whole. It struck outward, toward a universe that seemed intent on keeping him on the sidelines, relegating him to the margins, a spectator in his own life. And it smoldered against his own body, a vessel that felt like a prison, its limitations mocking his every dream.

The digital battlefield stretched before him, a brutal reflection of the world outside: competitive, inflexible, dismissive of those who couldn't keep up.

But then, he saw her.

Tenza.

She stood alone, a solitary figure in the storm of attacks. Blows rained down upon her, yet she remained unbroken. Each hit threatened to knock her out, but none succeeded in erasing her presence. She was defiance personified, a force that refused to be silenced or diminished. Where others saw fragility, she built strength. Where the system sought to erase her, she inscribed herself into the fabric of the fight, her every move a declaration of existence.

Tavo couldn't look away. His anger flickered, then faltered, replaced by something raw and unsettling: a witnessing.

Tenza's fight wasn't just about survival or victory. It was a rebellion against every unspoken narrative that had tried to render her invisible. She fought not only against Ardor but against the jeers and scorn of other players, against a system that tried to write her out. She endured the onslaught, each hit striking her like a hammer against an anvil. And yet, she remained—absorbing, resisting, striking back.

"Why do you keep fighting?" Tavo thought, his heart aching with the echoes of his own doubts. He had heard it all before. "Disabled. What can he possibly contribute?" The words clawed at him, familiar wounds that never truly healed. He grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it aside in frustration. His voice was low, bitter, trembling with self-loathing:

"They're right. Latin America doesn't win. We never win. This is just another moment where they look through me, not at me."

But Tenza answered without words. She fell, and rose. Fell again, and rose once more.

Each time the ground seemed to claim her, she transformed it into a platform of defiance. The jeers of other players became meaningless static, their mockery dissolving in the face of her persistence. Where others saw defeat, she built resilience.

Something inside him cracked, then shifted.

His clenched fist tightened around his staff, the polished wood warm against his palm. What had been a symbol of his limitations now felt...different. A spark ignited deep within him. He glanced at the corner of his HUD, seeing the names of his friends:

Firelez, Marksman.

Woomilla, Archer.

Tenza, Undefined.

And then, his own name: Pinchitavo, Sorcerer.

For the first time, he truly saw it. Sorcerer. He had an entire repertoire of spells, untouched and unexplored—not because he couldn't cast them, but because he had let the voices of others define his potential. His rage turned inward once more, not with self-hatred. Why have I let them dictate my limits?

He looked at Tenza again. She wasn't fighting alone because she wanted to; she fought alone because she had to. Her struggle was a mirror, reflecting not what he lacked but what he had never dared to attempt.

His voice, trembling but steady, broke the silence.

"My limitations aren't my disability," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "They're my belief in my own constraints."

This wasn't just a game anymore. This was about reimagining what was possible. Tenza's battle wasn't hers alone—it was his too. It was all of theirs. She had shown him that even in the darkest moments, resilience wasn't born of strength but of defiance.

He lifted his staff, his hand trembling with something new—not anger, not despair, but resolve. He would rise. Not in spite of his limitations, but because of them.

Pinchitavo lay sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving as his gaze lifted to the stars above the arena. The tears that spilled from his eyes were not soft or quiet; they were volcanic, forged from years of pent-up frustration and unspoken defiance. Each tear burned like molten lava, a rebellion against a universe that seemed engineered to shackle him.

He clenched his fists, his voice rising in fury. "You thought you could chain me with this body? You thought I'd accept the narrative you wrote for me, the role of a spectator, a background character? NO MORE. I am not just a player. I am the most powerful sorcerer in this server, and I challenge your very design!"

His cry echoed across the arena, a declaration that transcended the game's digital borders.

He shifted his focus to Tenza. She was faltering, her movements slower, her healing items nearly depleted. Ardor and the other players relentlessly pressed their attacks, their assault like a tidal wave intent on sweeping her away. Pinchitavo felt a visceral, wrenching need to act. But the tools at his disposal—the light-based healing spells preordained by the game's mechanics—were insufficient.

And then, inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. The Hexcrafting System, an obscure and rarely used feature of the game, flashed in his mind. It was a tool for creating spells from scratch, limited only by a player's imagination and mastery of magic. Most players ignored it, seeing it as cumbersome and impractical. But Pinchitavo saw something else: a way out.

Sitting up, he focused on his spellbook, his mind a whirlwind of emotion and clarity. Traditional healing magic relied on the light affinity—a mechanic as rigid as the societal narratives that had tried to bind him. But what if he rejected those conventions? What if his magic was born not of a universal order but of something deeply personal, deeply human?

His fingers trembled as he began crafting the spell. He poured into it every ounce of his pain, every moment of joy he'd shared with Fernanda, every tear and scream and fleeting glimpse of hope. The spell's essence shifted and coalesced, not around divine light but around the raw, unfiltered power of connection. He named it Hjärta, the Swedish word for "heart," a spell that healed not through divine favor but through emotional resonance.

Pinchitavo raised his staff, slamming it into the sand. A shockwave rippled outward, shimmering with iridescent hues that danced like a halo around the sun itself. The battlefield seemed to pause, every combatant frozen in awe as the spell unfolded.

"Hjärtaja!" he roared, his voice carrying across the arena like a battle cry. "My limitations will become my power!"

The spell surged toward Tenza, a radiant beam of energy that rivaled the life-giving brilliance of the sun. It struck her just as her HP neared zero. The server's mechanics struggled to process the event—Pinchitavo's spell had reached her before the damage calculation could finalize, defying the rules that governed the game.

Tenza's avatar glowed with renewed vitality as Hjärta lingered, its restorative energy suffusing her like a protective shield. Not only did it heal her wounds, but it amplified her resilience, her strength, and her will to fight. The players at the back of the arena gasped, some murmuring in disbelief.

Far above the arena, in the real world, something extraordinary happened. Argus' streaming account, dormant for over a decade, flickered to life. The game's creator had always intended for the game to be more than a digital battleground; it was meant to be a platform for liberation, a canvas where players could transcend the constraints of their real lives. Argus had once dreamed of such moments, but in the years since, the game had devolved into mere entertainment, its revolutionary potential forgotten.

Now, the world watched as Pinchitavo's spell reignited that vision. For only the second time in the game's history, the Hexcrafting System had been used to create magic born not from strategy or amusement, but from raw, desperate need.

Players from all over the world tuned in, their holographic screens and glass devices flooded with the light of Hjärta. For a moment, even Ardor hesitated, his confidence shaken by the sheer magnitude of Pinchitavo's defiance.

Pinchitavo, still kneeling in the sand, felt the spell's power coursing through him. His eyes, once clouded with doubt, now burned with determination.

"My avatar is not a static object," he whispered to himself, the realization dawning like a sunrise. "It is a dynamic field of potential and perception. And so am I."

The battle wasn't over yet, it was the beginning of Ardor's second phase. But for the first time, Pinchitavo wasn't fighting just to play the game. He was fighting to rewrite the narrative.

Pinchitavo watched the players around him, their movements effortless—leaping, striking, weaving through chaos with precision and grace. They fought as if unburdened by the weight of existence itself. Fury surged within him, an inferno fueled by the betrayal of his own legs, by the silent mockery of a world that seemed to take such freedom for granted. He slammed his fist into the ground once again, the impact reverberating through his arms as if trying to awaken a strength he knew lay dormant.

The burning desire to stand—to fight, to be more than just the healer at the backlines—consumed him. His chest heaved with the raw agony of his limitations, but his defiance burned brighter. "I am a sorcerer in this realm," he hissed, the words trembling with volcanic intensity. "I do not obey physical laws here. I can create them."

The hexcrafting interface shimmered before him, runes glowing with a fierce, unrelenting light, as if responding to his very soul. The system was alive under his touch, a silent witness to his fury and determination. His title beside his name flickered, glitching erratically, as if even the game itself trembled at his rebellion.

Pinchitavo's fingers moved with purpose, each trembling stroke across the interface a declaration of war against the universe. "This world," he growled, his voice rising in defiance, "thinks it can define me. My disability was never a condition—it was a challenge. Every limitation you imposed on me will become the very fuel of my power!"

He etched the first runes, and Kraft, a Basic Physical Enhancement, emerged. He cast it on himself with a burst of hope—but his legs remained still, unyielding as stone. The spell fizzled, but his resolve only grew sharper, more focused. He gritted his teeth and tried again.

"Kraftare." Enhanced Physical Capabilities.

"Kraftast." Peak Physical Performance.

Each new spell flickered into being, only to fall short, unable to overcome the weight of a lifetime of limitations. His legs mocked him, refusing to heed the raw force of his will. But his heart did not falter; he would not be denied.

Pinchitavo's gaze darted to Tenza. She was fighting with everything she had, her screams tearing through the storm of battle like a cry from his own soul. She was the anchor, the fire. She needed him. No, he corrected himself, she deserves me to be more.

With a growl that rose to a roar, he returned to the interface, his trembling hands now steady with an unshakable purpose. The runes burned brighter, almost too bright to look at, as if his emotions were searing them into existence.

And then it happened.

Kraftaja.

The spell erupted from his hands like a supernova, the battlefield itself shuddering under the sheer force of his defiance. The raw energy tore through his staff, splitting it in two as tendrils of light coiled around his legs. The earth beneath him cracked and trembled, reverberating with the promise of something unprecedented.

Pinchitavo's legs, once lifeless, now surged with unrestrained power. He gritted his teeth as the tremors coursed through him, each quivering muscle struggling to align with the overwhelming force of his will. For the first time, his legs moved. He swayed, his body unsure of its newfound freedom, but he did not stop, he did not fall.

Every moment of balance was a triumph, every shaky step a defiant roar against the cosmos, each quivering muscle was a middle finger to every system that had ever tried to contain him. The spell's energy surged through him, not as a mere buff, but as a revolution. It wasn't just his legs that moved—it was him. His determination. His rage. His hope.

The transformation did not go unnoticed. Across the server, the system itself seemed to respond, as if Pinchitavo's defiance had awakened something dormant within the game's very code. Far above the arena, Argus' streaming account broadcasted the moment to the real world. For the first time in a decade, the eyes of a global audience were fixed on a simple boss raid.

A message appeared on the stream: "Transcendence. Let the world witness the power of a soul unbound by its chains."

The players that knew him gasped as Pinchitavo stood, his figure illuminated by the lingering light of Kraftaja. It was not just a spell—it was the birth of something unimaginable, something that transcended the game's limitations.

Pinchitavo staggered, then steadied himself, his head lifting to meet the onslaught of reality. His legs, trembling but steady, carried him forward. He tried to laugh, but the sound was broken by his own unsteady breaths. He didn't care. He was standing.

For the first time, he wasn't just the healer in the backlines. He was an Astral Warlock, named by the game as Magus Astralis.