Forty Thousand Years of Gaming

The wind, carrying a putrid stench, blew ceaselessly. In the shadowy corner where moonlight could not reach, a handful of stray dogs rummaged through a towering mountain of garbage, searching for tonight’s meal. Occasionally, the wind would pick up bits of trash, hurling them against the ancient, dilapidated city wall nearby, producing a cacophony of metallic clinks.

Suddenly, faint groans emerged from the furthest corner of the rubbish heap. A young man in his twenties, gritting his teeth, clawed his way out from beneath the trash.

He looked utterly disheveled; his face bore several wounds, their origins unknown. His thick black hair appeared as though it had been scorched, and his clothes, shredded beyond recognition, barely concealed his muscular frame. Yet the pallor, tinged with blue, of his skin revealed the severity of his blood loss.

Barely escaping the main pile, he managed to turn over, half-reclining against a greasy heap of metal scraps, gazing up at the sky.

After a long while, he spat out blood-tinged saliva, his voice weak and cold as he muttered, “Damn it. This isn’t a game.”

Perhaps his movements were too vigorous, or perhaps the garbage heap had long since been hollowed out. The pile of metal parts supporting him soon gave way with a creak, collapsing with a loud crash.

The young man, just barely free from the garbage, fell once more into the trash. The noise drew the attention of nearby creatures.

From not far away, came the sound of something slithering across the ground. The dogs, who had been scavenging near