I Became 1-Star Fodder In A Gacha-Game (Chapter 1) (Patreon)

I'm doing a soft-rewrite of the story. The beginning was too long-winded, and I made some bad decisions going forward. This particular chap doesn't have anything you guys didn't see before, but that won't be the case for CH2.

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On his way back after a long day, Al stared out of the bus's window.

It was already dark, the sun's last rays fading behind the horizon. Shadowed clouds rolled in over the mountains, their journey hastened by a strong, cold wind. Already, fine droplets of rain misted against the window—a portent of the coming downpour.

Grumbling to himself, Al shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could already tell he'd be soaked on his way back from the bus-stop. It reminded him of what he missed most about being an adult—owning a vehicle. Having turned sixteen at the end of last year, he could apply for a driver's license, but between the written and practical tests, it would take a month to pass.

With nothing else to do, he fished out his phone from his pocket, turning it on. It was a dozen-or-so seconds before the home-screen lit up, notifying him of a few messages.

After checking them and seeing nothing important—just some idle chatter from friends, and notices in his group-chats—he flipped through his apps, opening a mobile game called 'Heroes of Nexus'. It was somewhat embarrassing to admit, but since he'd gotten his phone around five years ago after being adopted by his current parents, he'd been addicted to it.

When it loaded, he immediately went to his inventory, clicking a few tabs. Finding what he was looking for, he hesitated, his finger hovering in the air.

Earlier today, during a lull in his afternoon sports-training, he'd messed around in-game. It was just running a random dungeon, the type he'd done a hundred times before to farm loot and materials.

However, toward the end, he'd encountered a unique enemy, a type of cultist. Judging by appearances alone, it didn't seem any different. If its name wasn't so messed up—a string of strange, jumbled characters—Al wouldn't have suspected a thing.

Since the game had permadeath, he couldn't help but worry, wondering if there was some hidden mechanic he didn't know about. Many players, including himself, had lost rare and powerful heroes to the game's 'surprises'.

Fortunately, that didn't seem to be the case. In fact, the thing was abnormally weak. After engaging in combat, his team had easily wiped all the enemies, leaving it as the last one standing. It had tried to run, but his mage had incinerated it in one spell, bringing the encounter to an end.

Al had waited for something to happen, but when nothing did, he continued with the rest of the dungeon. It had likewise been smooth-sailing, allowing him to breathe a sigh of relief.

It was only when he was done, having waited until the end to check his spoils, that he noticed something strange. That cultist had dropped a summoning crystal, used to summon heroes. However, not conforming to the usual five-colored rarity system, this particular crystal was black as ink. He'd never seen anything like it.

Attempting to access the details tab didn't help either. When Al tapped the item, wanting to at least see the name, his screen suddenly started flickering and glitching. A long string of unusual characters appeared there.

He'd wanted to take a screenshot and post it on the online forums, but his phone froze up entirely. After fiddling with it and managing to achieve nothing, he had to do a forced shut-down, unable to even exit the game.

After thinking it over, Al shook his head inwardly. Most likely, it was some kind of glitched item. Even if he did manage to use it without bricking his phone, it wouldn't even give him anything.

He put it out of his mind for now, exiting the game. The bus had almost arrived, and he was going to have to make a run for it if he didn't want end up soaked, and have to do laundry twice this week.

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"For fuck's sake…"

Stuck out in the driveway with the rain pouring down, Al fiddled with his remote. His parents had a new security system installed before leaving on their trip. A rather high-tech one, capable of activating on its own, and did so whenever the house was empty.

He'd tried to disable that particular feature, finding it a hassle whenever he returned from school, but hadn't managed to figure it out. The damn thing was too complicated, having about a bajillion buttons. Even turning it off was sometimes a coin-flip. Input too many wrong commands and he'd find himself locked out—just like today.

After trying and failing for about fifteen minutes, not managing to get the thing working, Al gave up. His hand going to his pocket, he decided to call his parents. They couldn't help him, but they could contact the security company. Being some kind of big-shot private firm, the place only communicated with direct clients.

While taking it out, he heard a car coming down the street. He didn't think much of it at first, only catching his attention because of the brights practically blinding him. But to his surprise, it headed directly for his house, slowing down and rolling up the driveway.

Al turned around, still clutching his phone. He didn't recognize the model. Certainly, his parents didn't own anything like it. Neither did anyone else in a rich neighborhood like this. Frankly, the trucked looked a little… beat up.

He wondered if the person was going to get out and ask for directions. Or maybe they hadn't noticed him, pulling over to answer a call?

Yet, as the seconds ticked by without anything happening, Al couldn't help discarding those ideas. He had no clue what the truck driver was up to but, he got the feeling he was being watched. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

If it were anyone else, they might've relegated the situation to the 'odd' category and leave it at that. However, Al had been through too much shit. His gut told him something fishy was going on, and he was inclined to trust it.

Dialling his father with one hand, he reached around to his back, grabbing the handle of a wooden rod with a cross guard. After finding out his private school had a course in swordplay, he enrolled immediately. What boy didn't secretly want to learn how to use one?

While the phone rang, Al stared piercingly at the windshield, his expression not exactly friendly. He didn't say anything either. If the person had business with him, they could damn well get out of the truck and say something.

It was an uncomfortable minute, waiting for an answer. To his dismay, the call eventually went through to voicemail. Al cursed inwardly. He didn't know what he expected. Even if they saw it, they wouldn't answer if they were busy.

Thinking fast, he brought the phone up to his ear, pretending to talk. He didn't want to give the impression he was out here alone, unable to contact anyone.

"Dad? Hi. Yeah, it's me. Oh, you were busy? Sorry for interrupting. No, I'm fine, and you guys? I just came home from practice. It went well. Yeah. Listen, it's raining and I'm outside. Can you-… Oh, okay. It's not a big deal, it's just been a few minutes. But someone pulled up-…"

Surreptitiously keeping an eye on the truck, Al continued his spiel. He hoped it would get rid of the creep, but unfortunately that didn't happen. The truck just idled there eerily in the rain, its diesel fuels stinking up the driveway. He could only continue talking to himself for was probably five minutes, though it felt like an eternity.

When the driver still didn't get out or leave, he was forced to end the call. He was running out of things to say.

"…they're around the corner?. Oh, I see. You're checking the feed? Don't worry, it's fine-… Okay, I guess I'll see them soon. Yeah, you too. Goodnight."

Speaking loudly, he made his message clear—it wouldn't be possible to pull something without being noticed.

Lowering his phone, wondering what to do next. The only thing he could think of was calling the police. However, he didn't know the number. He'd have to look it up-…

Before he could finish his train of thought, the truck's door clicked, swinging open slowly.

Al's heart skipped a beat. Tightening his grip on the rubber handle, he watched as pair of big, booted feet came down on the driveway, skipping the truck's single step.

Lowering his head under the frame, a lumbering man climbed out of the vehicle, coming to stand on the pavement.

Though he faced Al directly, it was difficult to see his face. Clad in a raincoat with the hood up, his only recognizable feature was a stubbled chin, the individual bristles reflecting the truck's headlights.

Al remained quiet. Not only did he have nothing to say, he didn't want to appear nervous.

The man likewise didn't seem to be in a hurry, looming silently in the driveway. The only movement was his hands, fiddling with something in his coat pocket. It bulged against the material, all hard lines and sharp angles.

Al narrowed his eyes.

He had no clue what was going on, why someone would want to have a standoff with him. He had confidence in his abilities, but if the man had a gun, his training sword might as well be a pile of sawdust.

He glanced at his phone, dragging his thumb across the screen. If he could get a web-link, he wouldn't even need to dial-…

"Put your phone away, Alistair."

Speaking for the first time, the man's voice gruff, sounding scratchy from disuse.

Al's lips twisted into a frown. His gaze flicking between the man and his screen, he spoke casually, pretending to be unconcerned.

"Who are you?"

The man's reply was a flash of silver, suddenly pulling a revolver from his pocket. He pointed it at Al's gut.

"I won't ask again."

Al's jaw clenched, his face turning somewhat pale. He'd been held at gunpoint before, but it wasn't any easier the second time around.

"Okay, okay. I'm putting it down."

Holding it outward, though with the screen facing toward him, he bent his knees as if to set it down. What the hell was this bullshit? Why was some random guy suddenly pulling a gun on him? Did they want to rob the mansion? If they did, this certainly wasn't a smart way to go about it.

Without breaking eye-contact, he secretly dragged his finger across the screen. If he had it right, the number was already dialing. Hopefully the police would overhear their conversation.

The man watched him for a moment, hesitating.

"…no. Walk over and give it to me. But drop that stick in your hand first."

Al's lip twitched.

"You have a gun, don't you? What I could I possibly do-…?"

The man clicked his tongue, cocking the revolver.

"There's that smart mouth of yours. Don't talk back. Do as I said."

At this point, Al was starting to have his suspicions. Obviously, the man knew who he was, but he hadn't seemed familiar.

He narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the hood's shadow. He felt his certainty growing, like a word hovering on the tip of his tongue.

And then it clicked.

"Wait. You're-…?"

His eyes wide, he stared incredulously at the man's figure. He couldn't believe it. But at the same time, he believed it entirely.

"What the hell are you doing here, Fred? Are you fucking stupid? You're out on parole, right?"

When the man didn't say anything, his stiffness all but confirming his identity, Al continued. Despite his situation, he wasn't going to back down. Certainly not in front of this scumbag.

"Hey, don't you think it's funny? Of all the people you screwed over—mom, my grandparents and everyone else—it was me who put you in prison. Your own son, when he was just seven-years-old."

Al snorted.

"Have some sense for once in your life and get lost. If something happens, you'll be the number one suspect-…"

While Al was in the middle of his sentence, there was a loud 'Bang!', followed by a flash of light. He felt something tearing through his thigh, almost taking his leg out from under him.

Stumbling backward, blood leaked down his trouser leg, dripping on the driveway.

Gritting his teeth, Al mustered all his scorn, plastering it over his face. The first time around, he'd been afraid to die. That wasn't the case anymore.

"Do it if you have the balls, you dumb fuck."

For a moment, Fred seemed if he would end him right there. However, showing uncharacteristic self-control, he breathed out slowly, relaxing his pull on the trigger.

"…you're still like this. I just wanted to see you after all this time. To talk. But you won't even give me the time of day."

Gesturing with his still-smoking gun, he pointed toward the back of the truck.

"Get in."

Al responded by baring his teeth, brandishing his wooden sword. It was somewhat pathetic, but it was all he had.

"Let's see if you can make me."

Fred's eyes flashed coldly in his hood. Still pointing his gun, he took a few steps closer, backing Al into the corner of the driveway.

"If I disciplined you properly, things wouldn't have turned out this way."

Al's reply was a glob of spit, hocked toward his face. Unfortunately, it missed.

"Kill yourself."

Fred didn't reply, inching a step closer. Then, when he was in arm's reach, he suddenly lurched forward, swinging the revolver's butt toward Al.

Al had expected something like this. Fred didn't want him dead. His intentions were far more nefarious, and had been since the beginning. He wanted to do things with him no father should want to do with his son.

He ducked, swinging the sword at Fred's head. Unfortunately, its tip was dulled. With a bit of luck, he hoped to crack his skull, or at least give him a concussion

However, what he didn't expect was for Fred to receive his sword directly. He practically blocked it with his face, the wooden edge smashing hard against his cheek.

Having put his weight behind it, and using his five years of training and experience, Al's hit was no joke. He could feel the force transmitting to his palms, along with the sensation of something cracking..

Both of them seemed equally shocked—him at Fred's 'maneuver', and the person in question at just how hard he'd been hit, or perhaps that his 'son' would dare fight back.

Though his leg was hurting intensely, Al didn't want to miss this opportunity. He knew very well how a single moment's surprise could reverse the odds.

Stepping inside Fred's reach, he pivoted his sword in an unconventional move. The damn thing was too blunt to deliver much aside from bruises and the odd fracture—everywhere except for the cross guard.

Twisting the handle, he shoved the narrow tip toward Fred's eye-socket. If possible, he wanted to stick it through the bastard's eye, all the way into his brain.

However, before he could get very far, there was another flash of light, followed by a 'Bang!'.

Briefly blinded, Al felt a burning line being drawn through his torso, almost coming out the other side. Feeling the strength leaving his body along with a rush of blood, he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. His wooden training sword flew out of his hands, clattering distantly against the pavement.

The pain was excruciating, almost robbing him of his senses. He could practically feel his eyes glazing over, his consciousness turning fuzzy.

He barely managed to claw his way back from the brink. However, by the time he regained clarity, it was already too late. Fred was looming over him with revolver in hand, gingerly touching the side of his face. Some swelling was already visible.

Looking down at Al, he grunted before bending over, picking up his phone. The screen was obviously cracked, though still on.

"Like I thought, you didn't call the police-… Huh, what's this?"

Hearing the confusion in his tone, Al's gaze moved from Fred's face to the screen.

That couldn't be. Of all things, why was 'that' open right now?

"…why won't it go out? Are you trying to hide your calls?"

Mumbling to himself, Fred swiped irritably, not accomplishing much. The phone was totally frozen.

Stuck on a familiar inventory screen of a certain mobile game.

Al couldn't make any sense of it. He didn't know whether he'd misclicked, or if he'd opened it on autopilot, guided by muscle memory.

He didn't think so. But that didn't matter to him right now. Neither did his situation, bleeding out on the ground.

Instead, his gaze was inexplicably attracted to the image of a rotating, black crystal, labeled in esoteric, blood-red lettering.

And Fred's thumb, squarely pressing down on top of it.

"Whatever."

Fred palmed the phone absentmindedly before bending over, grabbing Al's arm and dragging him toward the truck.

However, when he turned his head, there was no truck behind him. The streets, lights, trees and even the houses where likewise gone.

Everything was black.

Al stared in shock, his eyes wide as dinnerplates. But it was only for a moment. The darkness shrunk inward like a black hole collapsing. The next moment, Fred was gone. Even he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

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