《Edge of the Void: An Inmate’s Handbook to Ruling the Galaxy》


 Chapter 1 : Dreaming Big

    The day started the way all my days do¡ªwith my alarm blaring like a siren calling me to war. Only this war was fought with spreadsheets, fluorescent lighting, and a dress code that screamed, "Give up, you¡¯re middle management now."


    I slapped the alarm off, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stared down at my socks¡ªone white, one gray. I briefly considered finding a matching pair but decided that would require the kind of effort that, frankly, this day didn¡¯t deserve.


    By the time I shuffled into Whitford Tech Solutions, coffee in hand, I was already running on autopilot. I scanned my keycard at the revolving doors, the same way I¡¯d done every day for the last five years, and headed to my cubicle. It¡¯s not like I was late. No one at Whitford notices when you¡¯re late, or early, or alive, for that matter.


    My workspace greeted me like an old, indifferent friend: a nine-by-nine box of gray walls, a creaky chair, and the pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance¡ªa fake potted plant named Greg. I named it Greg because I felt like even plastic plants deserved names, and Greg seemed like the kind of guy who¡¯d also end up trapped in an office job.


    I slumped into my chair, took a sip of my coffee, and grimaced. Whitford¡¯s coffee machine wasn¡¯t so much a dispenser of liquid energy as it was a source of moral dilemmas. Drink it and suffer, or don¡¯t drink it and suffer worse. Today, I drank it.


    Emails started flooding in¡ªeach one a masterpiece of corporate nonsense. ¡°Action items,¡± ¡°synergy,¡± ¡°bandwidth¡±¡ª they all blurred together into a soup of words that meant nothing but took up space. I could practically feel my brain cells filing for early retirement.


    My boss, Mr. Greenwood, passed by my cubicle at one point, his loafers squeaking ominously. ¡°Don¡¯t forget, Parker, the quarterly efficiency report is due by five,¡± he said, smiling the way people do when they want to sound encouraging but are secretly hoping you¡¯ll quit so they can replace you with someone younger and cheaper.


    ¡°Of course,¡± I said, matching his fake enthusiasm. In my head, I was already picturing him as a villain in one of my doodles¡ªa gelatinous blob monster devouring helpless office workers.


    The day dragged on, and I found myself doodling again. A spaceship here, an alien planet there. Little escapes from the crushing mediocrity of my existence. The funny thing is, I used to dream of this stuff as a kid. Space, adventure, heroism. Now, I¡¯d settle for a lunch break that didn¡¯t involve eating a soggy chicken wrap on a bench that smells faintly of exhaust fumes.


    Speaking of which, lunch arrived with all the fanfare of a deflating balloon. I grabbed my chicken wrap¡ªbecause apparently, I hate myself¡ªand headed outside to my usual bench by the loading dock. The bench overlooked a patch of grass that was so yellow and scraggly it might as well have been an art installation titled Corporate Despair in the Modern Age.


    I stared at the city skyline while chewing through the wrap, each bite a reminder that I needed to start cooking my own meals. The skyscrapers glinted in the sun, and I imagined what it¡¯d be like to be up there, in some corner office, making decisions that mattered. Then I laughed. Who was I kidding? People like me don¡¯t end up in corner offices. People like me end up staring at spreadsheets until our eyes glaze over.


    After lunch, it was back to the grind. Numbers. Emails. A report about productivity metrics that no one but Mr. Greenwood would ever read. The highlight of my afternoon was when the vending machine ate Vijay¡¯s dollar and he spent five glorious minutes trying to shake it loose.


    As five o¡¯clock finally rolled around, I shut down my computer with all the enthusiasm of a man escaping a burning building. The subway ride home was its usual symphony of overcrowding and human misery, and by the time I reached my apartment, I was too tired to do anything but collapse onto the couch.


    My apartment was¡­fine. Small, dingy, and the kind of place you don¡¯t bother decorating because you know you¡¯ll never have guests. The couch sagged in the middle, the TV remote had a piece of duct tape holding it together, and the ceiling fan made a noise like a dying blender. It wasn¡¯t exactly inspiring, but it was home.


    I tried heating up a frozen pizza, but naturally, I forgot about it until smoke started pouring out of the oven. As I fanned the smoke alarm with a dish towel, I couldn¡¯t help but laugh. Burned pizza. Another culinary masterpiece by Ethan Parker.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Eventually, I gave up and ordered takeout. While I waited, I slumped onto the couch and flicked through channels, landing on a documentary about black holes. There was something poetic about it¡ªan endless void consuming everything in its path. Kind of like my job.


    As I watched, my mind wandered. I started thinking about those doodles again¡ªthe spaceships, the planets, the idea of just leaving everything behind and going¡­somewhere else. Anywhere else.


    But that¡¯s all it was: a fantasy. The kind of thing you dream about when you¡¯re stuck in a life that feels too small for you.


    The takeout arrived. I ate it in silence, staring out the window at the city below. Cars honked, people bustled, and neon signs flickered like they were winking at me. It was a reminder that the world kept spinning, even if I felt stuck.


    That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I had the same thought I always do before I fall asleep:


    Maybe tomorrow will be different.


    The muffled hum of the city outside was like white noise as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I¡¯d eaten too much takeout, the faint ache of regret settling in my stomach. Sleep didn¡¯t come easy these days¡ªnot with the nagging thought that life was passing me by, one burned pizza and boring day at a time.


    I must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing I knew, a sound snapped me awake.


    A creak.


    Not the usual kind, like the building settling or my upstairs neighbors dropping something heavy. This one was different. Deliberate.


    I sat up, heart hammering, my brain struggling to catch up. Shadows danced across the walls as the streetlights outside flickered. My apartment wasn¡¯t exactly Fort Knox, but I¡¯d never felt unsafe before. Now, every instinct I had screamed danger.


    Then I heard it¡ªthe soft shuffle of feet.


    Someone was in my apartment.


    The realization hit me like a freight train, and my pulse spiked. I tried to steady my breathing as I reached for my phone on the nightstand, but before my fingers could wrap around it, my bedroom door creaked open.


    Two figures stood in the doorway, backlit by the faint glow from the hallway. One was tall and wiry, the other stocky, their faces obscured by masks. My chest tightened as the taller one stepped forward, the glint of a handgun catching the dim light.


    "Stay where you are," he hissed.


    My hands went up instinctively. ¡°Okay, okay,¡± I said, trying to keep my voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through me.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the cash?¡± the shorter one growled, his voice rough and impatient.


    ¡°Cash?¡± I blinked. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t have much. Maybe twenty bucks in my wallet.¡±


    The tall one let out a frustrated sigh. ¡°Check the dresser,¡± he said to his partner, keeping the gun trained on me.


    The shorter guy rifled through my drawers, tossing socks and crumpled receipts onto the floor. My mind raced. Should I make a move? Stay still? Beg? None of those options felt particularly good.


    The tall one¡¯s attention flicked away for a split second, and before I could think better of it, I moved.


    I lunged forward, grabbing for the gun.


    ¡°Don¡¯t¡ª!¡± he yelled, jerking back, but I was already too close. My hand grazed the barrel, and for a moment, I thought I might actually disarm him.


    Then the gun went off.


    The sound was deafening, a sharp crack that left my ears ringing. Pain bloomed in my chest, hot and searing, and I stumbled back onto the bed.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± the shorter guy shouted. ¡°Why¡¯d you shoot him?¡±


    ¡°He grabbed for the gun!¡± the tall one snapped. ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡±


    Their voices faded as the world around me blurred. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, each thud weaker than the last. Warmth spread across my chest, and when I looked down, I saw red soaking through my shirt.


    This was it. This was how it ended. Not with some grand adventure, but in my crappy apartment, shot by a couple of losers over nothing.


    My vision dimmed as the edges of my consciousness began to unravel. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I saw light¡ªsoft and inviting, like a doorway opening to¡­what? Peace? Nothingness?


    Then, just as quickly as the light appeared, it twisted and changed, pulling me in with an unnatural force.


    I gasped, jerking upright.


    My chest wasn¡¯t burning anymore. In fact, I felt¡­fine. Better than fine. But as I looked around, confusion set in.


    I was no longer in my apartment.


    I was in a cell¡ªa sleek, sterile cube made of smooth, dark material that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The walls and floor pulsed with a strange, otherworldly energy, their surfaces frozen in time.


    I say "frozen" because that¡¯s exactly what it looked like. A faint ripple in the air hung suspended, like someone had paused reality itself. Objects beyond the cell¡ªchairs, a desk, even the faint silhouette of another figure¡ªwere trapped mid-motion, as if someone had pressed pause on the universe.


    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± I muttered, my voice echoing slightly.


    The air around me was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness. It felt like time itself had stopped, leaving everything in a state of eerie, lifeless suspension.


    Then, in front of me, something flickered.


    A glowing screen materialized out of thin air, hovering a few feet away. The light it cast was warm and golden, starkly out of place in the cold, dark cell.


    Words began to appear on the screen, crisp and clear:


    WELCOME TO THE COSMIC MASTERY SYSTEM


    Beneath it, a smaller line blinked into existence:


    Please Begin Character Customization.


    I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.


    ¡°What¡­is this?¡±


    No answer came, only the gentle hum of the glowing screen, waiting for me to make my move.


    For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn¡¯t bored.


    I was terrified.


    But damn if I wasn¡¯t curious.

 Chapter 2 : From Prey to Predator

    The glowing screen hung in the air, casting a golden light that seemed to hum with its own energy.


    WELCOME TO THE COSMIC MASTERY SYSTEM.


    Please Begin Character Customization.


    I blinked, my breath shaky as I stared at the words. This had to be a hallucination, some wild fever dream as my body bled out on the dingy carpet of my apartment. But the screen felt real. The smooth, otherworldly hum wasn¡¯t just something I was hearing¡ªit thrummed through my bones.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I muttered, forcing down the panic that threatened to swallow me whole. ¡°Let¡¯s see what we¡¯re working with.¡±


    The letters shimmered and rearranged themselves, presenting the first choice:


    SELECT YOUR RACE.


    Below it, a list of options appeared, and I scrolled through them, wide-eyed.


    Terran: Versatile and adaptive.


    Kyr¡¯vox: Hive-minded insectoids.


    Plasmonic: Living plasma beings.


    Auralisian: Luminous entities fueled by starlight.


    I kept scrolling, my pulse quickening as I read through the possibilities. Each race sounded like it had been ripped straight out of a sci-fi RPG. And then I saw it:


    Cyberian.


    The description hit me like a lightning bolt: A cybernetically enhanced humanoid species, their bodies augmented with advanced tech for unparalleled efficiency.


    The perks sold me immediately:


    <ul>


    <li>Integrated Systems: +10% efficiency with tech weapons.</li>


    <li>Neural Uplink: Faster skill learning.</li>


    <li>Combat Modifications: Increased critical hit chance.</li>


    </ul>


    My gaze lingered on the words "cybernetically enhanced." I wasn¡¯t sure what that would mean for my body, but if I was going to survive whatever this was, I¡¯d need every edge I could get.


    ¡°Cyberian,¡± I said.


    The text rippled, dissolving as the screen pulsed with light.


    RACE SELECTED: CYBERIAN.


    SELECT YOUR CLASS.


    Another cascade of options unfurled:


    Starblade: Cosmic melee warriors.


    Voidstalker: Masters of stealth and shadows.


    Solar Warden: Guardians powered by starlight.


    Cyber Hunter: Tech-savvy marksmen specializing in precision and gadgets...


    I stopped scrolling the moment I saw it. Cyber Hunter.


    The description practically screamed my name: Tech-savvy marksmen who combine precision with advanced gadgets, turning the battlefield into a playground of destruction.


    The perks were perfect:


    <ul>


    <li>Targeting Precision: +5% critical hit chance with ranged weapons.</li>


    <li>Holo Distraction: Reduce enemy accuracy after deploying gadgets.</li>


    <li>Energy Optimization: Reduce the energy cost of all abilities.</li>


    </ul>


    It was a no-brainer. My entire life, I¡¯d been good at thinking on my feet and adapting to the chaos around me. Cyber Hunter sounded like the perfect class for someone who didn¡¯t need brute strength¡ªjust strategy and a bit of tech.


    ¡°Cyber Hunter,¡± I said firmly.


    The screen acknowledged my choice with a flash of light.


    CLASS SELECTED: CYBER HUNTER.


    SELECT YOUR BACKGROUND.


    A new list appeared, each background tied to a planet and loaded with unique perks.


    Terra (Homeworld Survivor): Earth-like, adaptable.


    Crytharix (Frostborn): A frozen tundra.


    Exarion (Technocrat): A high-tech planet ruled by AI¡­


    I hesitated, scrolling through names and descriptions until one stopped me cold:


    Nexar Prime (Urban Inventor).


    The description read like it was tailored for me: A sprawling mega-city world, home to constant innovation and brutal competition. Survival there requires ingenuity and quick thinking.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The perks were exactly what I needed:


    <ul>


    <li>Tech Savvy: +10% efficiency with gadgets.</li>


    <li>Hacker¡¯s Edge: Decrypt systems faster.</li>


    </ul>


    It was perfect.


    ¡°Nexar Prime,¡± I said.


    The golden screen displayed my final choices:


    RACE: Cyberian.


    CLASS: Cyber Hunter.


    BACKGROUND: Nexar Prime (Urban Inventor).


    I exhaled, bracing for whatever came next. For a moment, everything was still. Then the screen dissolved into cascading light, and the walls of the cell trembled. A low, electric hum filled the air, vibrating through my body.


    That¡¯s when the pain hit.


    It wasn¡¯t sharp, like the gunshot¡ªit was deeper, like every nerve in my body was being rewired. My vision blurred, my limbs stiffened, and then I was on the floor, convulsing.


    I could feel it happening. Metal tendrils snaking through my veins, circuits fusing with muscle, my mind stretching to accommodate something bigger than itself.


    My body became a battlefield, torn between agony and raw energy, until finally, the transformation stopped. I lay there, gasping, my mind buzzing with¡­something new.


    Slowly, I pushed myself to my knees. My body felt lighter, faster, more precise. My vision was sharper, and as I flexed my fingers, I saw faint lines of circuitry glowing beneath my skin.


    Before I could fully process what had happened, a voice echoed through the room, rich and mechanical:


    ¡°Customization complete. Welcome, Ethan Parker, Cyberian Cyber Hunter of Nexar Prime, to the Cosmic Mastery System.¡±


    I stared into the glowing void, adrenaline pumping through me.


    I was still flexing my fingers, marveling at the faint blue circuitry pulsing beneath my skin, when I heard it. A groan.


    My head snapped up toward the top bunk. The mattress creaked, and fabric rustled as whoever was up there stirred.


    ¡°Ugh¡­ where¡­¡± A deep, gravelly voice muttered, followed by a sharp intake of breath. ¡°The hell?¡±


    I shuffled back instinctively, pressing myself against the wall. My attention locked on the top bunk as a man swung his legs over the edge. For a second, I thought I might be hallucinating. He was huge¡ªbroad shoulders, military buzz cut streaked with gray, the kind of guy who could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat. But his expression wasn¡¯t exactly reassuring. His eyes were wide, darting around the room with a mixture of confusion and rising panic.


    He glanced down at his hands, and his jaw dropped. ¡°What the¡­?¡±


    I didn¡¯t blame him for freaking out. His hands weren¡¯t normal¡ªthey glinted faintly in the dim light, metallic and segmented like advanced prosthetics. His arms followed suit, cybernetic plating gleaming with precision-engineered joints.


    He muttered a string of curses under his breath, flexing his fingers and staring at them like they might bite him.


    ¡°Uh¡­ you okay up there?¡± I asked cautiously.


    His head snapped down, his steel-gray eyes locking onto me like twin searchlights. For a second, he just stared, his brow furrowing. Then he dropped from the top bunk with a thud that shook the cell.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± he demanded, his voice sharp.


    ¡°Ethan,¡± I said, raising my hands in what I hoped was a non-threatening gesture. ¡°Ethan Parker. I woke up here, same as you.¡±


    His eyes narrowed, but he didn¡¯t move. ¡°Where¡¯s ¡®here¡¯?¡±


    I hesitated. ¡°Your guess is as good as mine. But judging by the high-tech d¨¦cor and the fact that neither of us look¡­ normal, I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s not Kansas.¡±


    He didn¡¯t laugh. Instead, he took a step back, holding his metallic arms out in front of him like they were some kind of alien artifact. ¡°This¡ªthis isn¡¯t right,¡± he muttered. ¡°I saw a screen. It asked me all these questions. Race. Class. Background.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, nodding. ¡°Same here.¡±


    He looked up sharply. ¡°You saw it too?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± I gestured to myself. ¡°Cyberian. Cyber Hunter. Nexar Prime.¡±


    The man¡¯s eyes widened slightly. ¡°Cyberian? Is that what this is?¡± He flexed his hands again, shaking his head. ¡°Goddamn it. This is just like the crap my kid plays on his computer. That screen looked just like one of his games.¡±


    That caught me off guard. ¡°Your kid?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he said, his voice softening for the first time. ¡°My youngest. He¡¯s into those¡­ role-playing games. The ones with the stats and levels. I used to watch him sometimes. Thought it was all nonsense. Now¡­¡± He trailed off, staring at his arms.


    ¡°Well,¡± I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ¡°It looks like we¡¯re in one of those games now. Guess we¡¯re both players.¡±


    The man let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. ¡°Lucky me. The name¡¯s Milo, by the way. Milo Carver. Retired military, fifty years old, father of three, and apparently some kind of¡­ space cyborg now.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help but smile. ¡°Nice to meet you, Milo. Ethan Parker. Office worker, twenty-nine, no kids, and apparently not built for combat.¡±


    Milo snorted, finally looking around the room. His sharp gaze lingered on the smooth, metallic walls, the shimmering air rippling faintly like a paused video feed. ¡°This place,¡± he said, his voice low, ¡°it looks like a prison.¡±


    I swallowed hard. Now that he said it, the thought hit me like a punch to the gut. The bunks. The locked door. The sterile, suffocating atmosphere.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I admitted. ¡°It does.¡±


    Milo crossed his arms, his metallic fingers tapping rhythmically against his bicep. ¡°Alright. First things first. If this is a prison, we¡¯re getting out.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± I said quickly. ¡°Any ideas on how?¡±


    Milo looked at me, then at the door on the far side of the room. It was sleek and featureless, with no obvious handle or keypad. ¡°We need information,¡± he said. ¡°If this place runs on systems like that screen you mentioned, maybe we can hack into something. Or find someone who knows what the hell¡¯s going on.¡±


    I nodded, relief flooding through me. Having someone like Milo here¡ªsomeone who seemed to know what he was doing¡ªwas more comforting than I cared to admit.


    Then a loud click echoed through the room, followed by the low hum of machinery. Milo and I both froze, our eyes snapping to the door as it slid open with a mechanical hiss.


    Beyond it was a corridor, dimly lit and stretching into the unknown.


    ¡°Well,¡± Milo said, his voice dry. ¡°Looks like they just rolled out the red carpet.¡±


    ¡°Do we¡­ go?¡± I asked.


    He gave me a sharp look. ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice, kid. But stay close. If this really is a prison, it¡¯s not just us in here.¡±


    I nodded, my stomach churning as I followed him toward the open door.


    Whatever was waiting for us out there, it couldn¡¯t be worse than staying here.


    Right?