1 Transported into a cave
Eamon's small apartment was a study in neglect, its walls adorned with peeling paint and its furnishings worn and weathered from years of use. The single window, grimy with dust, offered a dismal view of the alley below, where stray cats fought over scraps of food in the dim light of dawn.
In one corner of the room, a threadbare couch sagged under the weight of Eamon's tired frame, its cushions flattened and shapeless from years of use. A rickety coffee table stood nearby, cluttered with empty mugs and crumpled tissues, a testament to Eamon's solitary existence.
Opposite the couch, a small kitchenette nestled against the wall, its countertops cluttered with unwashed dishes and half-empty cans of food. A small refrigerator hummed softly in the corner, its contents sparse and unappetizing, a reflection of Eamon's meager budget.
In the center of the room, a worn rug covered the cracked linoleum floor, its faded colors a stark contrast to the drabness of the rest of the apartment. A few scattered throw pillows lay haphazardly on the floor, their once-bright patterns now faded and worn.
Near the door, a battered alarm clock sat on a makeshift nightstand, its digital display glowing faintly in the dim light of dawn. With a harsh buzz, it shattered the silence of the room, jolting Eamon awake from his fitful slumber.
Groaning, he reached out a hand to silence the alarm, his movements slow and sluggish from another restless night's sleep. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face in a futile attempt to wake himself up.
Dressed in yesterday's clothes, he made his way to the kitchenette, where he poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee from the pot that had been sitting on the counter since yesterday morning. The bitter liquid provided a brief jolt of energy, but it did little to dispel the fog of exhaustion that hung over him like a heavy blanket.
Eamon found himself suffocating not only under the weight of his circumstances but also the burden of a slight pulmonary condition that had plagued him since childhood. Each breath felt like a struggle, a reminder of his own fragility in a world that seemed determined to crush him at every turn.
His lungs, already strained by the polluted air of the city, protested with each inhale, sending sharp stabs of pain through his chest. Despite his efforts to hide his condition, the persistent coughing fits and wheezing breaths betrayed his struggle to anyone who cared to listen.
In the heart of the bustling city, amidst the cacophony of honking horns and hurried footsteps, lived Eamon.
Eamon was a man in his late twenties, with weary eyes that bore the weight of the world. His once vibrant spirit had been dulled by the monotony of his existence.
As a teenager, he had dreamt of a bright future, but now he felt as though he had failed miserably.
Despite his diploma, he had struggled to find a job that suited him and had ended up working as a clerk in a little office, where the hours stretched endlessly like a barren desert.
He lived alone, his only distractions being devouring novels, primarily of the fantastical genre.
Eamon trudged through the bustling streets of the city, his worn shoes scraping against the pavement with each weary step.
His clothes, faded and frayed, spoke of countless days spent toiling under the unforgiving sun. Each threadbare patch told a story of hardship and struggle, a testament to a life marked by poverty and deprivation.
As he made his way to his underpaid job, Eamon couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over him.
Another day, another dollar earned - barely enough to put food on the table, let alone provide any semblance of comfort or security.
Eamon was crossing the pedestrian crossing, lost in his thoughts, when suddenly, the roar of an engine made him jump. A car, speeding recklessly, was about to hit him.
Eamon leaped backward, narrowly avoiding the car's hood. His heart was pounding as he turned to the driver, his face pale with anger and fear.
"You could have killed me!" he exclaimed, fists clenched.
The driver stepped out of his car, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch where you're going, you idiot! Didn't you see the light turn red?"
Eamon felt rage building inside him, but just as he was about to retort, reality seemed to shift around him.
The familiar sights and sounds of the city melted away, replaced by an eerie stillness that sent a chill down his spine.
Eamon suddenly found himself deprived of any sensation, like floating in the void with absolutely nothing.
No sight, no sound, no scent, no touch.
He floated in the abyss, a solitary specter drifting through dreams and nightmares of oblivion for several painful minutes.
Each moment seems an eternity in this dimension.
Suddenly, a powerful and mysterious voice resonated within his mind, shattering the deafening silence. "You are chosen to participate in the Tournament of Worlds, will you survive?"
A thrill of fear and excitement ran through the man.
Suddenly, before his eyes, a strange system interface materialized, displaying a series of attributes:
[Eamon's Attributes Panel - Follower of Malakai]
- **Strength**: 3 (Below Average)
- **Stamina**: 2 (Weak)
- **Agility**: 3 (Below Average)
- **Intelligence**: 5 (Average)
- **Charisma**: 3 (Below Average)
- **Special Power**: None
Confusion swept over Eamon as he tried to comprehend the meaning of these strange messages.
« It's like the status screen in video games » Thought Eamon.
His mind raced as he tried to make sense of the values displayed beside each attribute.
Charisma seemed straightforward enough – the ability to charm and persuade others.
For Intelligence, it probably measures his problem-solving skills, his knowledge, or maybe something else entirely.
Stamina encompassed overall resilience, both physically and mentally.
Agility brought to mind speed and dexterity, while Strength hinted at physical prowess.
But what was the significance of the special power? Probably a hidden ability that certain person could have.
His strength, agility, stamina, and charisma - all ranked disappointingly below average, if not weak except for his intelligence and he didnt't have any special power.
And the detail - " Follower of Malakai " - Eamon didn't have any idea about what it meant.
Suddenly, the background began to shift, and Eamon felt the ground beneath his feet.
His vision adjusted, and in a vast cavern dimly illuminated by fluorescent moss, he noticed the presence of four other individuals.
