The Unchosen Path

There are really only two kinds of people in this world: those who get labeled “successful,” and everyone else. In his family’s eyes, Nozomu had always fallen squarely into the second category.

At twenty-six, Nozomu had graduated from one of Tokyo’s top business schools. But instead of following the path of  suits and stable corporate life , he’d chosen to chase his passion: gaming. To his relatives, it was as if he’d slammed the door on a promising career just to lock himself away in his bedroom. The golden child had turned, in their eyes, into the family disappointment.

For them, success was a checklist: degree, full-time job, marriage, kids. For Nozomu, it meant something else entirely. To him, success was living on his own terms, even if that meant going against everything the world expected of him.

His life was a whirlwind of frantic mouse-clicking and yelling into a headset. As a pro gamer and occasional freelancer between tournaments, he went by the name Ezrak Nocturne. The handle sounded dark and mysterious , at least, it was supposed to. His win rate, on the other hand, told a much less dramatic story.

He spent fourteen hours a day glued to a screen. His back and wrists ached for mercy, while a constant dread hovered overhead: the day his sponsor dropped him, he’d be back to square one. His daily routine was little more than snacks, lukewarm coffee, online matches, and the usual trolls in the chat.

His little brother? CEO. The guy had checked every box. The day before, he’d stopped by, not to catch up, but to deliver one of those fake-supportive jabs:

"You were always so talented. Shame you never did anything with it."

Nozomu didn’t bother replying. He just flashed a crooked smile, used to these little digs. Deep down, his brother only wanted him to fall in line. To go back to being the good son everyone expected.

...

One morning, nothing felt right from the start. He’d hardly slept and had missed his alarm, sunlight far too bright. At the convenience store, his reflection looked back at him: wrinkled hoodie, deep shadows under his eyes, worn out. At the register, he spotted a poster for an international tournament. Right in the middle, beaming, was an old college classmate , now an e-sports celebrity. Where Nozomu struggled, others seemed to soar.

He smiled, but not out of jealousy. That world never really tempted him. The real fight in gaming wasn’t about winning matches; it was about survival, not vanishing.

On the way home, an order was canceled. His account was locked. His parents, silent, had just cut him off without a word. The emptiness their silence left behind hurt more than any argument ever could.

...

He wandered all the way to a bridge, stopped, and stared into the abyss below. For a moment, a dark thought crossed his mind.

I wonder… If I just disappeared, would anyone even notice? All I ever wanted was to live my passion. Why do they all push me away, when I’ve never done anything to them? One step, and it’d all be over.

He hesitated, hands on the railing, but something stubborn inside him flared up , a last spark of defiance.

"No way. I’m not giving them that satisfaction. I’m not going down like that. That’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? They think I’ll break, that I’ll crawl back and beg for forgiveness. I’ll hang on, if only to spite them."

A sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. People passing by glanced away, uneasy, probably wondering if he was crazy.

Back home, he collapsed onto his bed. Eyes half-closed, he muttered,

"Alright… maybe tomorrow, karma will finally give me a break."

The next day, he was supposed to play in a small local tournament. Just a community center, a flimsy stage, a modest cash prize , barely enough to get by for another two months. Maybe a recruiter would be watching. 

He got on a bus, thinking it was the right line. Fate, of course, had other plans.

He ended up the only adult on a bus packed with high schoolers. Nerds, troublemakers, rowdy athletes, popular girls, an exhausted teacher. With his headphones on and his hood up, Nozomu faded into the background, just another ghost among them.

Then, everything changed.

A blinding white light. A screech of metal. And then, nothing.

...

When they opened their eyes, everything was gone: the bus, the road, the city. In front of them: polished marble, deep red curtains, enormous chandeliers. People were there, too, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, like they’d stepped out of a Victorian novel.

No one moved. This wasn’t Japan anymore.

A young woman entered, poised, graceful, a mysterious smile on her lips. Her dress was a blend of elegance and technology, tight corset, decorative gears. Every step echoed, measured and sure.

She stopped, bowed, and spoke in a clear, ringing voice:

"Welcome to the kingdom of Dravenfell, chosen ones. My name is Princess Mirell."

Everyone from the bus was there. All except for one: Nozomu.