Hello, guys.

Are you coming here to see the interesting battle between me and that idiot streamer?

It’s kind of you to do so, but… no, we don’t fight.

Oh? You ask why?

Ha ha, it’s just a little mistake, a really tiny one.

“Slam!”

Not even closing the plastic box containing the electrical fuse with all my strength can cool down my fury now. It also has my finger stuck for a second, thrusting my nerves, and I just can’t hold back all my bad words like any other normal person. Of course, the one in the fire of anger.

“I’m gonna hang that guy! Holy shit! Why the hell does he shut off my circuit? Today is damn hot and you come to switch off the others’ power?”

And… yeah, you know the reason. An irritating event called artificial power cut, with an informal way to explain that phrase: there was a damn miserable guy coming to my family’s fuse box, turning off the power at noon, right at the moment I was about to take a serious fight. The capitalized ‘serious’.

Like eating a delicious hamburger every day for a century, winning ten thousand matches is absolutely boring. Or it’s maybe even guilty while fighting against the ones I knew they would never defeat me as well.

At first I could console myself that there would be a big gift from Rhoha after gaining this result, such as ten thousand dollars, like what players had rumored on forums. But nothing appeared after I got the 10000th victory. Rhoha just played the fool to encourage people to play Sky Force for many years without being revealed—because no one can reach and break my record.

Then, in shock and disappointment of being cheated, I posted on the Sky Force’s global forums that I got ten thousand dollars as a gift, spreading the fake news with a picture of payment from my damn rich friend and…

Nah, there was no ‘and’. No matter how I cheated on other players, I lost the feeling for Sky Force.

Till the day I got cursed.

For my title’s sake, that dunderhead still wants to be a famous player on Sky Force after yelling at me and pointing at my nose? Ridiculous! If some guy didn’t interrupt my battle, I could destroy the opponent in fifty different ways, without doubt.

But why? Why is everyone stopping me from playing just a match?

“Electric! Big brother! Electric!”

While I am still sighing in boredom and a bit of anger, a little ‘cannonball’ comes from the opened door, targeting at me, shouting in joy. I don’t know where that joy comes from, but my weak heart immediately jumps up to my throat when I see both his trembling legs running as if his fragile face will slam the front steps anytime. He is going to break his head! My Goodness…

“Dude, why do you run this fast?” Thanks to my long legs, I hold his shoulders when he is about to reach the stairs. He himself can’t fall now, but to make sure, I sit down and try to hold him while my heart is still racing. “Why don’t you take a nap? Seeking a chance to kill your brother with a heart attack, huh?”

I have always been full of anxiety since three years ago—the day this kid was born. His appearance also played a role when I gave up playing games, because he always cried and my parents were busy all the time. I used to hope that he would be a good boy in the future, but now, except for causing me more heart attack because of his stupid actions, I can’t find anything else.

To respond to my worry, this little bastard just laughs and catches my clothes with his tiny, soft hand, and of course, not answering my question.

“Brother! Electric! Purple electric!” Sir, it’s a grammatical mistake. And I don’t know what you’re saying, either.

“It’s ‘purple electricity’.” I correct his mistake, “Now get back to your room and I’ll turn on the electric fan. If you don’t sleep, you’ll see the electricity in at least seven colors.”

“Purple…” He looks back at me, a hilarious smile showing up, “… electric!”

This creature is my little brother, three years old, named Nhật Anh (sunlight). Err you shouldn’t care about these words’ pronunciation as well, because even I usually call him ‘little bastard’ as another solution. About the nickname, I have to clarify that I don’t hate my brother. He is cute instead. But it’s likely that our signs don’t get along with each other (mine is Aries and his is Capricorn), therefore, I can’t love him for over three seconds.

Such as this case.

“Brother, pick me!”

I literally look down on the ‘mushroom’ grasping my clothes, and my black eyes bump into those exactly same ones, splashing lots of pieces called ‘speechlessness’.

“Dude, you’re heavy like hell.”

Nah, nah, it’s my imagination, not the actual speech. He will burst into tears if I do so.

I can’t handle anything heavier than five kilograms. I might have been much healthier in the past, but now it’s the limit. A three-year-old boy is approximately fifteen kilograms, then you can realize one thing without using your brain. How the hell can I pick him up? The last time I tried to carry a five-kilogram-rice-bag, I couldn’t breathe for a while. Now if I carry him, my heart will stop beating, I swear.

“Can you go back to the bedroom yourself, little bastard?” The sun keeps shining on his sensitive skin, so I turn my back to the heat and try to push this troublesome thing into the bedroom.

And of course, this guy never listens to my words. 

“Nope, brother, pick me!” He stands with arms akimbo, looking up at me and pointing his little finger at my leg—it is his height limit now, “And I am not the little bastard! Don’t call me ‘little bastard’, I know what it means. I am three now and you can't yell at me like this.”

Wow, you know you’re three? I’m eighteen here, kid.

“No, I am not.” I answer while slowly pushing this thing back to the bedroom, with a hilarious face turning away not to let him see, “Oh, how can you say that to me? Who told you that? I’m your brother. I will never yell at you. See, I am now protecting you from the sun. I love you like hell, so how can I yell at you, little bastard?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m your dear brother, taking care of you since the day you were born and now you don’t trust me? ‘Little bastard’ means ‘little buddy’, believe in your brother.”

The kid stares at me without a word, as if he was thinking about whether I was true while letting me take him back to the house. It is the only thing I don’t like about my brother. Why? He doesn’t act like a three-year-old kid at all. This little bastard is not ordinarily intelligent but something greater, always suspended and looking for the real answer to all the questions!

Oh yeah, okay, you’re a curious boy, interested in new knowledge, and I take the responsibility of responding to your concerns as a brother should do. But everything has its own limit, like your height, dude. I’m not an encyclopedia.

Yesterday, this hateful bastard bombarded me by asking where to find an alien in Vietnam and with tons of related questions. Can you see his swollen eyes from crying? He also cried and shouted when I sighed in helplessness, begging him to set my poor brain free because I knew nothing about this nonsense topic!

Can my answer be ‘at the mental hospital’? It cannot, of course.

I am just an ordinary person, and I will meet no aliens in my whole life, thanks.

“Brother, the aliens…” Oh my goodness, again?

With the speed of light, I reply without hesitation, “Nope, I am human, not Martian. I know nothing.” And don’t make my head more painful, dear.

When I put my troublesome brother into the bedroom, turning on the electric fan and luring him to sleep, it’s 2:00 PM and I get a call from Long—the billionaire—right before I go to sleep. For God’s sake, I am furious and feel like I can grasp a knife to kill him anytime. My lifelong headache only gets better in my sleep, so I have to sleep twice a day to be normal.

I don’t hide my anger as well. “You’d better find a rational reason or I will kill you.”

“People rumor there are aliens in our neighborhood. Do you know that?”