The Last Player: When the Game Became Reality

At 10:47 p.m., Ethan Vale was still at work.

The office had emptied almost an hour ago, leaving behind rows of dark monitors, vacant chairs, and the persistent hum of the air-conditioning system. Only the lights above Ethan’s section remained on. They cast a pale glow over the spreadsheet on his screen and the stack of documents beside his keyboard.

Another report. Another correction. Another task that had somehow become his responsibility despite someone else’s name being written at the top of the request.

Ethan rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock in the lower-right corner of the monitor.

10:48 p.m.

Ethan: Just one more.

There was nobody nearby to hear him. That was probably why he said it aloud.

One more report. One more correction. One more hour.

For the past three years, his life had become a collection of one-more-things.

He finished checking the final column, saved the file twice out of habit, then leaned back until the cheap office chair complained beneath him. His shoulders ached. His neck had stiffened hours ago. He had skipped dinner again, though he could no longer remember whether he had done so because he was busy or because he wanted to save the money.

His phone vibrated beside the keyboard.

Mom: Are you coming home?

Ethan stared at the message for several seconds before typing.

Ethan: Yes. Leaving now.

The reply came almost immediately.

Mom: Don’t forget to eat.

A faint smile touched his face.

Ethan: I won’t.

That was a lie.

There was barely anything left in the kitchen, and payday was still several days away.

Ethan shut down his computer, packed his bag, and left the office without looking back.

The summer night had cooled considerably by the time he stepped outside. The business district was still alive despite the hour, though it had traded its daytime crowds for delivery motorcycles, convenience-store workers, exhausted employees, and taxis waiting beside the curb.

Ethan pulled his jacket tighter and headed toward the train station.

Three years ago, he would never have imagined himself living like this.

Back then, his life had revolved around something else.

A game.

Eternal Ascension of Tower.

Fifteen years.

That was the number his memories always returned to.

Fifteen years of levels, equipment, guild wars, rankings, hidden quests, raid schedules, impossible bosses, and a Tower so enormous that millions of players had once treated reaching its peak as fantasy.

Some parts of those years remained perfectly clear.

Others were strangely difficult to arrange.

Ethan could remember overcrowded servers and ranking boards that changed by the hour. He remembered watching names rise, disappear, and return. He remembered guilds that had once dominated entire regions of the game.

But whenever he tried to place exactly where he had stood among all of that in the earliest years, the memories blurred around the edges.

It had never bothered him much.

People forgot things. Fifteen years was a long time.

What mattered was what he remembered happening in the end.

Players left. Guilds collapsed. Competition disappeared. The enormous communities that had once surrounded Eternal Ascension of Tower became smaller every year.

Millions became thousands. Thousands became hundreds. Hundreds became names Ethan stopped seeing.

And somewhere inside the version of the past that remained in his mind, the Tower had eventually become silent.

Everyone else had stopped climbing.

Ethan had not.

At least, that was how he remembered it.

He remembered logging in when there was almost nobody left to speak to. He remembered clearing areas whose guides had vanished from the internet years earlier. He remembered opening raid gates that had been designed for groups and finding ways to survive them alone.

He remembered becoming stronger because there was no longer anyone else he could depend on.

Global Rank #1.

Highest combat rating.

Largest personal treasury.

The player who knew more about the Tower than anyone still playing.

And, somewhere among those memories, the leader of a guild whose name should have meant something to him.

That part was strange.

Ethan could remember the feeling of standing inside a guild hall. He could remember chairs around a table. Voices. Arguments. Laughter. Sometimes even the shape of people standing beside him.

But whenever he tried to remember their faces, the images slipped away.

Eventually, he had stopped trying.

The ending was easier to remember.

Floor 1,000.

The final floor of Eternal Ascension of Tower.

Fifteen years after he had begun playing—or after the beginning his mind insisted belonged to him—Ethan had reached the place hundreds of millions of players had once dreamed of seeing.

He remembered the final battle.

Or at least he thought he did.

The details fragmented whenever he examined them too closely, but he remembered the exhaustion afterward. He remembered sitting in front of his monitor with shaking hands while the final enemy’s health disappeared.

He remembered silence.

Then the screen had gone black.

[CONGRATULATIONS, PLAYER.]

[YOU HAVE REACHED THE FINAL FLOOR.]

[DID YOU ENJOY THE GAME?]

After fifteen years, the question had felt ridiculous.

Ethan had laughed.

Then he selected:

[YES.]

Another message appeared.

[WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY ANOTHER GAME?]

There had been no explanation. No trailer. No description. No warning.

Ethan had stared at the two choices for several seconds before pressing:

[YES.]

The screen changed.

[UPDATING...]

[1%]

That was where the memory became irritatingly simple.

He waited ten minutes. Nothing.

An hour. Nothing.

He left the computer running overnight.

The next morning—

[1%]

Another day passed.

Still one percent.

Eventually, Ethan stopped watching the progress bar.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Life, which had somehow waited fifteen years for him to finish climbing an imaginary Tower, finally demanded his attention.

Three years later, he had nearly forgotten about the update.

Nearly.

The train arrived with a metallic screech.

Ethan stepped inside, found an empty seat near the window, and rested his head against the glass.

The reflection staring back at him barely resembled the man he remembered being. Longer hair than he preferred. Dark circles beneath his eyes. A face made thinner by missed meals and poor sleep.

He looked ordinary.

Painfully ordinary.

Once, millions of players had known his name.

Now most of his coworkers barely remembered to include him when ordering lunch.

The strongest player in the world, defeated by overtime.

The train announcement called his station.

He checked the time.

11:32 p.m.

His mother’s final message remained on the screen.

Don’t forget to eat.

Ethan slipped the phone toward his pocket.

The screen flickered.

Once.

Twice.

He stopped.

A tiny blue symbol appeared in the center of the display.

Ethan’s breath caught.

The symbol disappeared almost immediately. The phone returned to normal.

For several seconds, he remained motionless.

He knew that symbol.

There were things about Eternal Ascension of Tower he might have forgotten over the years, but not that.

A Tower surrounded by a broken ring.

The old launcher emblem—or something close enough that recognition reached him before reason did.

Ethan: No way.

The passenger across from him glanced up.

Ethan ignored him and unlocked the phone again.

Nothing.

No application. No notification. No symbol.

He searched installed programs anyway.

Nothing.

The game had never even had a proper mobile client.

Ethan slowly leaned back.

Ethan: I’m tired.

That explanation was convenient. It was also probably true.

He put the phone away, but during the rest of the journey home he could not stop thinking about the symbol.

By the time Ethan reached his apartment building, midnight was approaching.

He opened the front door quietly.

The living room was dark.

Ethan: Mom?

No answer.

He removed his shoes and walked toward his parents’ room. His mother was sleeping beside his father. The smell of medicine lingered in the air.

His father’s breathing had become heavier during the past few months. Not dangerously so, according to the doctor, but enough that Ethan noticed every change.

He stood beside the bed and adjusted the blanket over his father’s shoulders.

His mother stirred.

Mother: Ethan?

Ethan: Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.

Mother: What time is it?

Ethan: Almost midnight.

She looked at him more carefully.

Mother: You haven’t eaten.

Ethan: I’m fine.

Mother: You always say that when you haven’t eaten.

Ethan smiled.

Ethan: I’ll eat tomorrow.

Mother: Ethan.

The disappointment in her voice made him look away.

He checked the medicine on the bedside table instead. Only a few tablets remained. Ethan knew the price before he even counted them. He had already rearranged the week’s expenses twice.

Ethan: I’ll buy more tomorrow.

His mother reached out and caught his wrist.

Mother: You don’t have to do everything alone.

The words stopped him.

For one strange instant, Ethan felt something twist inside his chest.

A guild hall.

A table.

Several voices.

Someone laughing loudly enough that another person told them to shut up.

A girl leaning across the table.

A hand resting on his shoulder.

Then—

Nothing.

The memory vanished before he could grasp it.

Mother: Ethan?

Ethan: Sorry. I’m just tired.

Mother: Then sleep.

Ethan: I will.

Mother: And eat.

Ethan: Yes.

Mother: Properly.

Ethan: You’re negotiating too much.

His mother almost smiled.

Mother: Someone has to.

Ethan squeezed her hand gently, then left the room.

His bedroom had changed very little during the past three years.

A bed. A narrow wardrobe. A desk. An old computer. And a monitor he had deliberately avoided turning on since leaving Eternal Ascension of Tower behind.

Ethan set his bag down.

He should have gone directly to sleep.

Instead, he stood in front of the desk.

The blue icon from the train flashed through his mind.

Ethan: This is stupid.

He sat down.

The computer’s power button was covered with a thin layer of dust.

He pressed it.

Fans spun. The machine hummed reluctantly to life.

The old desktop appeared.

Ethan’s gaze went immediately toward one folder.

Eternal Ascension of Tower.

He had never deleted it.

He had told himself there was no reason. The servers were gone. The game was dead. Deleting several hundred gigabytes would not change fifteen years of his life.

His hand settled over the mouse.

He opened the folder.

There it was.

The old launcher.

Ethan hesitated, then clicked.

The launcher opened.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then—

[CONNECTING TO SERVER...]

Ethan stopped breathing.

Ethan: Impossible.

The servers had been dead for years—or so the current history told him. The official website was gone. The company responsible for maintaining the game had effectively disappeared.

There should have been nothing left to connect to.

The loading bar appeared.

[1%]

Ethan leaned closer.

His heartbeat began to quicken.

Then—

[2%]

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.

Ethan: No...

[3%]

The monitor went black.

Silence filled the room.

Then white letters appeared against the darkness.

[WELCOME BACK, PLAYER ETHAN.]

His hand froze.

A pressure he could not explain settled across his chest.

It was only a message. Text on a screen.

Yet for one moment, Ethan had the irrational feeling that something on the other side of the monitor had recognized him.

Not his account.

Not his username.

Him.

Another line appeared.

[PREPARING FOR THE FINAL UPDATE.]

Ethan stood so quickly that his chair rolled backward and struck the bed.

Ethan: Final update?

The screen flickered.

Then everything went dark.

The monitor. The computer. Even the small light beside the power button.

Ethan reached underneath the desk and checked the cable.

Still connected.

The room had become completely silent.

Then the monitor came alive for less than a second.

One final number appeared.

[1%]

Ethan stared at it.

Three years ago, the update had stopped there.

At least, that was what he remembered.

And somewhere inside a memory he could no longer properly reach, a voice whispered a warning he did not remember hearing.

Don’t press YES.

The screen went black.