Omni Gamer in Streetball Rumble (KnB Fanfic)

"It's better to walk a thousand miles than to read a thousand books, for true wisdom comes from experience. And remember, every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" — Anonymous

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Shibuya's restless hum filled the night, the neon glow reflecting off rain-slicked streets. Belial walked briskly, his breath uneven from the earlier encounter. His ribs still ached from the beating, and his mind buzzed with exhaustion. He just wanted to find somewhere safe, somewhere to disappear.

Then, something caught his eye.

A man slumped on a nearby bench, his shoulders heavy with despair, a shadow of Belial's own hopelessness.

The man's face was etched with deep lines of worry, his eyes hollow, as if burdened by a lifetime of hardship. He looked like a ghost of Belial's future, a cruel reflection of his deepest fears.

Belial hesitated. "Huh?" he murmured, intrigued.

The man had long, unkempt hair tied back with an old hair tie, his figure sagging under an invisible weight.

"Hm?" The man turned slightly, his expression wearied. Their gazes met, and for a fleeting moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them—two lost souls drowning in the same abyss.

The man let out a tired chuckle. "Oh. You're the kid who always sits here. Sorry for taking your spot." He shifted to stand, his small smile tinged with sadness.

For a second, Belial felt warmth—a flicker of connection in his otherwise isolating world. But it faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by the weight of reality pressing down once more.

Belial swallowed hard. "Hey," he rasped. "You alright?"

The man didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the ground. A pang of empathy jolted through Belial. Even in his own misery, he had always tried to be kind. He had learned that kindness, no matter how small, could be a beacon in the darkest of times.

Reaching into his pocket, Belial pulled out a cheap calorie bar he'd found earlier.

"Here," he said, holding it out. "You look like you need it more than I do."

The man, a foreigner judging by his features, looked up with wide eyes, startled. His clothes were ragged, his hair tangled, and his expression flickered between confusion and fear.

For a long moment, the man stared at the calorie bar as if it were a foreign concept. Then, hesitantly, he reached out, his hand trembling. "Arigato," he mumbled, barely audible.

Belial managed a small smile, a tiny spark of hope igniting in him. Maybe there was still good left in the world. Maybe, despite everything, there was still a chance for him to find his place.

Struggling to communicate, he clenched his fist in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture and said in broken English, "Fighting."

But the man's reaction was not what he expected.

The foreigner's face twisted, his eyes narrowing as his posture stiffened. His breath hitched, his fingers curling into fists.

A cold chill ran down Belial's spine. What?

"You think you can just give me something and make me feel better?" the man snarled, his voice laced with bitterness. "You think you're better than me?"

Belial's eyes widened. "Wait, no, I—"

Before he could finish, the man lunged.

Pain exploded through Belial's body as fists rained down on him. He barely had time to shield himself before he crumpled to the ground, his breath knocked from his lungs. The man's strikes were brutal, relentless, fueled by something far deeper than just this moment.

Belial tasted blood on his lips, his vision swimming. He tried to curl into himself, his arms instinctively wrapping around his head as the blows continued. He wanted to fight back, but his body refused to move.

The distant rumble of traffic felt like a cruel reminder of how indifferent the world was to his suffering. No one would help him. No one ever did.

He squeezed his eyes shut as a whirlwind of memories crashed over him. His father's voice, sharp and unrelenting:

"You're a loser, Belial. You'll never amount to anything."

He had spent his whole life searching for a place where he belonged. A world where his passion wasn't mocked, where he wasn't just another disappointment. In the digital world, he was something—someone. There, his victories mattered, his skills had value. But here? Here, he was nothing.

He coughed, blood pooling in his mouth. His body convulsed with pain, yet somehow, he found the strength to look up.

The man now stood over him, fists clenched, his face contorted with regret.

*Cough cough

Belial spat out blood and forced himself to speak. His voice was weak, but his words carried a surprising conviction.

"How unexpected… for you to be so strong despite not having a profession." He coughed again, then, with the last bit of strength he had left, clenched his fist and whispered, "Fighting."

The words hung in the air, an irony neither of them could ignore.

As his vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges, he thought, 'If I could just be the best gamer in the world... even for a moment...'

'This isn't going to break me,' he thought to himself 'I'm going to find a way to fight back.'

His body was giving out, but his will refused to break. He wasn't done yet.

Belial slammed his fist into the ground, his breath ragged. "I'm going to be the best," he whispered. "No matter what."

Before blacking out, the ground seemed to shudder beneath him as the truck roared pass, its headlights slicing through the darkness, blinding him with their fury. The roar of the engine, a deafening crescendo filled his ears, growing larger and larger as the truck bore down on him, was the last thing he heard before the world went black.

The world around him faded.

Then, just before everything went black, a strange tingling sensation shot through his fingertips.

The ground trembled beneath him.

Blood pooled beneath him as the world darkened. But just before everything went black, a strange tingling sensation shot through his fingertips. Something was happening... something that might just change everything.