Chapter 12: Can I Just Have Normal Dreams?!

That night, Gen drifted into an uneasy sleep, his body exhausted from the day's relentless training. But instead of sinking into the comforting void of deep rest, he found himself in a different place entirely.

A dimly lit room.

The air was thick, stagnant, carrying the faint scent of something metallic—blood? The only source of light flickered above a single wooden chair, casting erratic shadows on the cracked concrete walls. Gen's breath hitched as he took in his surroundings. The silence was deafening, save for the occasional buzz of the faulty lightbulb swaying overhead.

"The hell is this?" he muttered under his breath, his voice unnervingly small in the vast emptiness of the space.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached the chair, each footstep echoing unnaturally. He swallowed hard before lowering himself onto it, the creak of the old wood sending a shiver up his spine.

Then, from the shadows, something moved.

A figure emerged—tall, imposing. Dressed in a pristine suit with a bowtie, gloves, and dress pants, but where a face should have been, there was nothing. Only an abyss of black smoke, curling and shifting like it was alive. Gen's stomach dropped, his muscles tensing as he shot to his feet.

"What the fuck!?"

The figure didn't move aggressively. Instead, it chuckled, a low, velvety sound that somehow felt more unsettling than outright malice.

"Calm down," the entity spoke, its voice smooth yet inhuman, reverberating in the empty space. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Gen took an instinctive step back, his fists clenching despite his better judgment. "Yeah? 'Cause usually, when faceless guys in suits show up in horror movies, it doesn't end well."

The figure chuckled again and gestured toward the chair. "Sit."

Gen hesitated, his pulse hammering in his ears. But something about the sheer confidence of this entity—the casual authority it exuded—made him realize that running or fighting was pointless. Slowly, he lowered himself back onto the chair, every muscle still coiled, ready to spring.

"Who the hell are you?"

The figure dipped its head slightly, as if in amusement. "I am Creator. You can call me Crexa for short."

Gen frowned. "Creator?" He scoffed. "What, like some god or something?"

"In a way," Crexa mused. "But let's not get caught up in semantics. What matters is that I created your account."

Gen stiffened. "Wait… you mean the status menu? That's you?"

"Yes," Crexa replied simply.

Gen narrowed his eyes. "Okay, so—first of all—why do I have to do these missions? Why can't I just keep my body and live my life? Seems like a pretty sweet deal."

Crexa let out a soft sigh, stepping closer. The room felt smaller, suffocating. "Because, Gen, you are my source of entertainment."

The words sent a chill down his spine. "What?"

"No matter where you are, what you do—I am always watching," Crexa continued, tone calm yet brimming with something dangerous. "What would be the fun in giving you all this power, this… second chance at life, without making you use it?"

Gen gritted his teeth. "So what—you just toss me into fights like I'm some fucking gladiator for your amusement?"

"In a way, yes." Crexa folded his gloved hands behind its back. "Wouldn't want you getting too comfortable, would we?"

Gen clenched his jaw, his fists shaking with restrained fury. "And if I refuse?"

Crexa tilted its head. "You won't. Because if you do… well, your account will be terminated."

Gen swallowed hard, the memory of the warning flashing in his mind. Termination. What did that even mean? Would he just lose his strength? His appearance? Or… something worse?

"Fine," Gen spat, venom lacing his voice. "But just one more thing. You said 'account.' That means… there are others?"

A slow nod. "Yes. I have granted a few others this gift as well."

Gen's blood ran cold. "And they… have abilities too?"

"Of course," Crexa said matter-of-factly. "No two abilities are the same. Some are more strategic, focused on cause and effect. Others are purely cerebral, allowing the user to manipulate probability or perception. Yours, however… yours is pure brute force, amplified by instinct and emotion. Fitting, don't you think?"

Gen's nails dug into his palms. "And what happens when we meet?"

Crexa chuckled, turning away slightly. "That's the fun part, isn't it?"

Gen exhaled sharply, his mind reeling. "So what, you give everyone the same rundown like this?"

"No." Crexa's voice took on a playful lilt. "Put it this way. In a game show, there might be fifty contestants. At the start, the producers give them all equal screen time. But as the show progresses, certain contestants stand out—the ones who captivate the audience, who are willing to put everything on the line. Those are the ones who get the spotlight."

Gen's breath caught in his throat as Crexa leaned in slightly.

"I like your style, kid. You've got fight in you. That moment—you, covered in blood, breaking free from defeat and giving Isamu that final stomp? Absolute cinematic perfection."

Gen's stomach twisted. He felt like he was being dissected under a microscope, his life nothing more than a spectacle.

"So what now?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Crexa straightened. "I'll give you a head start. If you choose the 'Defeat a Ranked Opponent' mission, I suggest you head to Shibuya Station. There, you'll find someone with headphones named Johnny. He should be… an interesting challenge."

"Wait—" Gen started, but suddenly, the room began to shift. Darkness bled into the corners, consuming everything in its path. Crexa's form blurred, dissipating like smoke as the last words echoed in Gen's mind.

"Tis all."

And then—

Gen shot up in bed, drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room was dark, familiar, the rhythmic ticking of his clock grounding him back in reality. But the weight of Crexa's words sat heavy on his chest.

There were others.

And they were waiting for him.