How It Started

I should be dead.

A minute ago, I had been sitting uncomfortably in a strip club as my manager and some other people were having a good time. Why you might ask, was dear old John—which is me—not having a good time?

Because I didn't want to be in this hot, stuffy room with middle-aged men messing with girls around nineteen or so. My manager, Byron, always rented out these private rooms after I won one of my boxing matches. They came with leather couches, a bar, and a speaker that never played anything good.

If I had the choice, I'd skip the 'party' and head straight to my apartment, where I could be with my beloved cat, Chuffington.

Byron, came over, bringing a girl who was no older than fifteen with him.

"Johnny boy! I brought a little friend for you."

I sighed and slumped down on the couch. "Byron, I don't-"

"Come on, kid. This was a great victory for you. You should celebrate!" He motioned for the girl to sit on my lap, but I stood up. Sidestepping the two of them, I positioned myself towards the door.

"I just realized that I didn't feed Chuffington before I left. I gotta go...handle that."

Byron frowned and gave a little huff. "It's just a stupid cat, John. Stay here."

I rolled my eyes at him. "He's not stupid. I've had him for three months now. We're best friends."

"So what? You've got to-"

I quickly walked over to the door. "I'll be right back, Byron."

"John-"

I opened the door. "I promise."

Spinning around, I walked forward, preparing to make my daring escape only to bump into the giant man—he was at least 7'4—standing on the other side of the door, pointing a gun at my head. What happened next all went in slow motion.

The giant loomed me, his thin lips forming a creepy smile. I froze as he pressed the pistol against my forehead.

"The boss wanted me to tell you something," the giant said in a deep, rumbling voice.

I cleared my throat, trying to act calm even when my heart was ready to break out my chest, "What?"

His smile widened, becoming even creepier. "Boom."

That should've been the end of it. But instead of death, I found myself in a dark room with...was that jazz music? Is there jazz music is heaven? Probably, but I was no saint. And I doubt down there would be pleasant enough for the inhabitants to enjoy some smooth jazz.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and found I was in a room with a crackling fireplace. I sat in a chair with a lush carpet under my feet, facing a wall with a painting of a muscular man with a boxy TV for a head and nothing but a loincloth on. Leaning forward, I studied the painting. The man had the most refined pair of abs I've ever seen! Was it actually possible to have a ten-pack? Maybe not in real life, but this guy certainly has it.

The Rock might have impressive biceps, but the muscular man's muscles were the size of beach balls! You could crush a watermelon between those bad boys! The way he posed—hands on his hips, the Tv head of his tilted up to the sky, one humongous leg propped up on a boulder—made me think he was one cape-less, extremely toned superhero.

He was the kind of guy body builders dreamed of when they were kids.

He turned his TV head to face me. I lurched backward in my chair but the man only chuckled. He lifted his leg off the boulder and stretched, grunting softly as his body moved in positions that both flexed off his meaty muscles and showed off his amazing flexibility.

I felt something wet slowly crawl down my chin and I realized I was drooling. I quickly wiped it away and averted my eyes, focusing on a spot on the painting that didn't show the muscular man.

"Welcome, Johnathon," he said. He had a voice that kind of sounded like Jude Law with a touch of Benedict Cumberbatch and just a smudge of Tom Selleck.

"Um, hi."

He stretched his arms out to the sides, his pecs popping out of his chest. "Ah, it feels so good to move around again! I've been in that spot for too long."

I cleared my throat, forcing myself not to look back at him. "Yeah. Um, why am I here?"

He chuckled heartily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Silly, Johnathon. You've been transferred over to another world!"

"...Why?"

"You've been chosen to live through a player who failed to endure in a battle of PvP and therefore cannot continue on."

"Hold up, what?"

"You've been chosen to-"

"Yeah, I got that. But...I don't understand. He failed to endure in a battle of PvP and can't continue on? What does that mean."

"He's dead," he deadpanned.

"O-oh...so...I'm going to...live this guy's life? How does that work?"

"You don't get it? It's simple! Think of it as a basketball game. You play basketball, right?"

"I'm a boxer."

"Close enough. Anyway, the player world is the team that's actually on the court. Your world is the players on the bench, waiting for your turn fill in for a teammate."

"Okay..."

The muscular man cleared his throat and scratched his chest as he thought of a way to properly explain. "Look, Johnathon, it's as simple as it sounds. I'll explain: When someone in the substitute world dies, it's because a player in the main world has died and the player's body needs a replacement host. You get it now?"

"Yeah, I guess."

In reality, I was still confused. I've never heard of this 'player world' before. What's the point of it all? Is the purpose of life just to live until some player dies and we step in? Are we just lambs being led to the slaughter?

I sat back in my chair, pondering this. So I was shot and now I'm going to substitute for some 'player'. "Who am I substituting for?"

The muscular man waved a hand and said indifferently, "Don't worry about that right now. I need to figure out your character stats will play out."

"My what?"

He cocked his head to the side and made a disappointed sound. "Your character stats. You don't know what they are?"

"Is that, like, a video game thing?"

"...Yes."

Truth be told, I was too busy to be playing games. Ever since my dad died, I'd fallen into a crapton of debt—with interest, too. I had to train daily and have a match almost every night of the week. I couldn't afford to relax else I get off my A-game and lose a match. If that happened...

The man rolled his eyes and pulled a file out of thin air. "Don't worry about it. You'll find out soon enough."

"Your name is Jonathon Adair Adkins. Hmm. Interesting. 26-years-old...Not too young. A high school dropout. How disappointing. A boxer in an illegal, underground ring? Preposterous!"

I felt my face flush. How did this guy suddenly know everything about me? And does he have to narrate my life with such a disgusted tone?

He continued. "An only child but an orphan. How sad! Three aunts, two uncles, and forty-three cousins. Somehow you managed to ostracize yourself from all of them...Quite pathetic. An on-and-off girlfriend in high school who finally saw she was too good for you after you dropped out. Oh, dear. You're that bad...No girlfriend after that...It seems no woman would want to give a sorry wretch like you a chance."

I clenched my jaw and made a fist. "Dude. That's enough."

He wagged a finger at me in a disapproving manner. "Now, now, Johnathon. I'm not finished. Hmm. It looks like you have a very good immune system. That's an upside to your pitiful life. It seems you've got quite the thick skin. Not everyone can survive the pain of stepping on a Lego."

I furrowed my eyebrows. This guy...How did he figure out all this stuff about me? I've never told anyone about my dominance over Legos.

"And you're quite a good boxer. Training ever since you were 6. Very nimble, very strong. An undefeatable record of 25 wins in a row. I must say, for an underground boxer, you're quite skilled."

"Thanks. Anything else you wanna reveal about my personal life?"

He let out another 'tsk tsk'. "You act like I'm blaring your information to the entire world! Calm down, boy."

I sighed. No one knew this much about me. I kept everything about my past under tight wraps. The only thing I ever revealed to people was that I was a boxer. I couldn't risk them knowing anything else. The only person who knew so much about my personal life was my manager. He was known for having a big mouth…

The muscular man tossed aside the file, "I've decided that I like you. I'm going to help you out before you move on to the player world."

"What? Why?"

"Didn't you just hear what I said? I've become fond of you in this short time we've spent together."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Didn't this guy realize how weird he sounded?

He straightened and tapped his chin...Or wherever the chin area was on his TV head. "Perhaps I'll give you...A special treat."

If he climbed out of that painting, I decided I was going to make a run for it.

The muscular man chuckled, "Now, now, Johnathon. There's no need for you to look so nervous."

He took a step forward and I immediately stood up. Before I could book it, a mechanical arm shot out and pulled me back down. The muscular man skillfully exited the painting and stood before me.

With a broad smile, he reached out and said, "Be a good boy, Johnathon and hold still."

I froze again, just like I had been with the giant as he held the gun to my head. But this time, I faced a different problem. Not death, but…

The muscular man's hand touched my chest. He could probably feel my heart beating a million times under my skin. This was it. I was going to be forcefully taken and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I clenched my fists and shut my eyes tight, ready for the worst.

The muscular man huffed and pulled his hand away. "What are you closing your eyes for? You make it seem like I'm about to do something bad! I'm only handing over a System I personally crafted myself!"

I opened my eyes, confused. "What?"

He waved a hand and turned back to the painting. "Never mind. You'll figure it out in the player world."

"Wait, no-"

He snapped his fingers and everything went dark.