Nyx Kaiser was born into a world that was cruel to him.
He never knew his parents—he had been left at an orphanage as an infant.
He lived in a small shelter on the outskirts of New York, a place where the scent of old furniture mixed with children's tears and rare laughter.
Nyx remembered it as a place of waiting—no one there felt at home. Everyone was just waiting: for the day they would be taken… or the day they would leave on their own.
Unlike many orphans, he was lucky—there was someone at the orphanage who cared for him.
The man's name was Mark Evans.
He was a former soldier—strict, but fair. He saw something special in Nyx.
> "You're not an ordinary child, Nyx. You think differently. But be careful—predators who never learn to love become monsters."
Mark didn't just offer warmth—he taught him.
Philosophy and history—to understand how the world works.
Martial arts—so Nyx could protect himself.
Knowledge—because power isn't just fists, but the mind.
But despite his cold logic, a fire burned inside him—a passion for another world, the world of fantasy.
He grew up on Marvel and DC comics, dreaming of universes where people could transcend their limits.
He admired the geniuses, the strategists, the ones who stood against the system.
Tony Stark—a man who turned weakness into strength.
Batman—a strategist capable of defeating gods, but bound by his code.
Thanos and Doctor Doom—those who didn't just seek power, but built ideologies.
But what fascinated him most were anime characters who grew stronger through battle.
Sung Jin-Woo from Solo Leveling—who turned weakness into absolute power.
Ainz Ooal Gown from Overlord—a genius ruler building an empire.
Madara Uchiha from Naruto—a man who saw the world more clearly than anyone, yet was rejected by it.
Nyx dreamed of being in a world like that.
A world where strength didn't need to be hidden.
Where one could move forward without the chains of morality.
But he never believed it was possible.
Even under Mark's protection, Nyx saw the cruelty of the world.
He helped the younger kids.
When older ones stole their food, he stood between them.
When someone got beaten, he defended them.
He never lost—he knew how to fight, how to intimidate, how to win.
And he thought he was doing the right thing.
But one day, when three guys attacked him at once—no one stepped in to help.
The same kids he had protected… turned away.
They didn't even look at him as he was beaten.
After that, he didn't feel anger. He didn't feel pain.
He simply understood a truth:
> "People don't want justice. They just want to be left alone."
After that, he stopped protecting others.
Mark didn't like that.
> "You're growing up too fast, Nyx. But even warriors need to believe in something."
Nyx said nothing, but he remembered the words.
At 18, he left the orphanage. Mark shook his hand and said:
> "I know you're not an ordinary person. I just hope you won't become a monster."
Nyx left without a word.
Years passed.
An ordinary life.
An ordinary job.
But that day, everything changed.
The night was cool and foggy. The narrow streets of the neighborhood were drowned in darkness, lit only by dim streetlights.
Nyx's footsteps echoed on the pavement as he walked his usual route home.
After his evening shift, he planned to just reach his apartment, make some tea, and, as always, dive into books about other worlds, heroes, and fates.
It was his little world—quiet, solitary, but familiar.
Then—
A scream.
He froze, turning his head toward a dark alley.
A teenager's voice, full of fear.
Nyx didn't believe in justice. He knew the world didn't value protectors.
The world had long shown him how blind it was.
But turning away from someone's pain—that would be a betrayal of himself.
He couldn't just walk past.
> "You're growing up too fast, Nyx. But even warriors need to believe in something."
He turned and headed into the alley.
Two teenagers—a boy and a girl—were surrounded by a group of drunk men.
> "Just leave us alone!" the boy's voice trembled, but he tried to shield the girl.
Nyx sighed.
He stepped into the dark alley, his movements precise, his gaze cold.
> "What do you want?" he asked in a flat tone.
Four men stood before him, barely able to stay upright.
They were drunk—heavily drunk—staggering, their eyes filled with a mix of aggression and senseless rage.
One of them, clearly the leader, smirked and stepped forward.
> "What, you some kinda hero? Get lost!"
Nyx didn't respond. He was assessing the situation.
All drunk. Dangerous, but slow.
The leader growled and shoved one of his men forward.
> "Go deal with him!"
The first one stumbled toward Nyx, but he was ready.
Nyx stepped forward, intercepted his wrist, stopping the punch.
A second tried to kick—Nyx blocked it and counterattacked.
The third hesitated, tried to grab Nyx's shoulder—Nyx elbowed him, sending him crashing into the wall.
The fourth, seeing his friends fall, pulled out a knife, waving it drunkenly.
Nyx realized things just got serious.
He caught the knife mid-air, shoved the man back, and lunged.
But in the chaos, he didn't notice another attacker behind him—
A shallow stab to his side.
The most unstable of them all tried to rip the knife from Nyx's hand—Nyx shoved him away with sheer force.
Pain pierced his side, but he didn't back down.
In a few quick steps, the drunken men were on the ground, unable to fight back.
One of the teens, trembling, pulled out a phone and yelled into it:
> "Please! He's bleeding! An alley near 5th Avenue! Hurry!"
His vision blurred. A strange heat flared in his chest.
He looked at his bloody hands, then at the teens.
> "Why… did I get involved…?" he whispered in pain and bitterness.
He collapsed onto his side.
Cold concrete pressed against his face.
> "But… I can't just watch someone suffer…" his voice faded.
Darkness closed in, swallowing his mind.
---
Nyx opened his eyes.
He was in an unfamiliar place—a room lit by dim light filtering through dusty windows.
The first thing he felt was a strange numbness, as if his body wasn't responding.
The pain in his side had almost vanished—only a faint tingling reminded him of the wound.
Nyx stared at the ceiling, trying to understand what had happened.
He was alone, and everything around him was unfamiliar.
Where was he?
He remembered the fight—the knife, the blood… then silence.
Now he was in a room resembling a typical apartment.
Dark walls lined with old books—forgotten novels, perhaps classics, even a few collector's editions on a shelf.
There was enough furniture to make it cozy in a simple way.
But something didn't add up.
He lifted his head and saw his body lying on a bed, partially undressed and covered with a blanket.
That was strange. If he had truly been wounded, this kind of care seemed… too gentle.
A memory flashed.
> "I should've died…"
His gaze shifted quickly—to the screen that now hovered in front of him, as if it had appeared from nowhere.
On the screen, numbers and words flashed:
[Welcome, Player. You have been chosen by the system: "Level Up Alone."]