The Last Hero

The computer screen glowed in the dimness of the room, a sanctuary of organized chaos. Tangled cables snaked across the floor, empty energy drink cans teetered in a precarious pile on the desk, and the hum of the PC’s cooler droned like a mechanical chant. Athos, slouched in a creaking swivel chair, stared at the interface of ATHOMIS, the game that had conquered the 21st century. It was more than a pastime—it was a digital battlefield where kingdoms rose and fell, and only the strongest ascended to the pantheon of the seven heroes.

ATHOMIS was a titan of strategy and RPG, a world carved into seven kingdoms, each with its own fortresses, cultures, and conflicts, alongside the dreaded Desolate Continent, home to demons. Each kingdom could crown only one hero, a player who proved themselves the pinnacle of skill and cunning. The competition was brutal, with millions vying for the title in packed servers where alliances formed and betrayals were as common as the sunrise.

Athos, however, didn’t play by the rules. He was a programming prodigy, a master at unraveling systems. With a hack he’d crafted himself—an intricate code that bent the game’s mechanics—he climbed the ranks like a phantom, untouchable. The Elysium Corp, the company behind ATHOMIS, tried to ban him. First with automated suspensions, then with teams of cybersecurity experts. But Athos always returned, a shadow that refused to be dispelled. Eventually, they gave up. Not because they were weak, but because Athos was a force of nature, a living glitch in the system.

Why did he do it? It wasn’t for glory or recognition. Athos simply craved power. Dominating a virtual world, being the untouchable god of ATHOMIS, made his pulse race. Deep down, perhaps it was an escape—from the monotony of his life, from a gray world where he was just another face in the crowd.

But that night, everything changed. Athos logged into the game, as he did every night, and was greeted by a cold, final message: “Dear players, we announce the shutdown of ATHOMIS servers. After seven years, Elysium Corp declares bankruptcy. Thank you for your journey.” The community erupted in fury online. Forums burned with protests; the game’s final arc, the ascension of the last hero to face the Desolate Continent, would never be completed. Athos just laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Game over, huh? Time to find a new toy,” he muttered, unfazed.

On the final night of the servers, the community gathered for a collective farewell. Thousands of players flooded the servers, some fighting final battles, others simply gazing at the digital landscapes they’d called home. Athos watched, detached. At midnight, the screen went black. ATHOMIS was dead.

Exhausted, he went to bed, but something woke him in the dead of night. A hollow feeling in his chest, maybe, or just thirst. Shuffling to the kitchen, he noticed a faint glow from his room. “Forgot to close the launcher?” he grumbled, returning to his chair. The screen was on, displaying an impossible message: “Dear players, the last hero has ascended to the Desolate Continent.”

Athos frowned. “What the hell? The servers are offline.” He checked the launcher, still running his hack, flickering with connection errors. “Did I glitch the system again?” Before he could click to close it, a blinding light erupted beneath his chair. Pulsing runes, etched in crimson, formed a circle around him. The air grew heavy, charged with a low hum, as if space itself was folding.

“What the fuck is this?” Athos stood, heart pounding. The runes glowed brighter, and in a blink, the world vanished. No pain, no sound—just absolute void. Then, as quickly as it faded, he reappeared.

The floor beneath his feet was cold stone, carved with symbols that echoed the runes from before. The air smelled of mildew and ash, and faint light came from flickering torches fixed to the walls of a cavernous hall. Athos blinked, trying to make sense of it. “A summoning? Seriously? Like some cliché anime?” He laughed, but the sound came out shaky, echoing in the emptiness.

From the shadows, two figures emerged, kneeling in reverence. They were women, clad in black robes embroidered with silver threads, their faces half-hidden by hoods. The one on the left, with ebony hair cascading in curls, spoke first, her voice steady but laced with devotion: “Welcome, Master Athos, Hero of the Desolate Continent.”

The other, with silver hair and eyes that gleamed like moons, continued: “The fate of the Seven Kingdoms now rests in your hands.”

Athos stood frozen, the laugh caught in his throat. “Okay, this is a prank, right?” But the weight of the air, the chill of the stone, and the intense gaze of the women told him otherwise. He wasn’t on Earth anymore. He was the last hero.