Chương 120: Warm Welcome

Let me tell you a secret: life isn't a journey, or a bowl of cherries, or whatever other garbage they put on motivational posters with sunsets. Life is a prison. There, I said it. Again. Honestly, I've repeated that line so many times I should probably start charging myself royalties. My internal monologue is basically just a broken record playing a heavy metal song about nihilism. Allow me to introduce the man, the myth, the absolute nobody: Arthur Gray. That's me. A name so bland it's practically beige.

Growing up, I didn't just march to the beat of a different drummer; I was playing a kazoo in a completely different zip code. I had enough "autistic flair" that the other kids treated me like I was radioactive. I wasn't just the weird kid; I was the Final Boss of Social Awkwardness. By the time I hit school, I had evolved into a Grade-A, premium-label otaku.

Turns out, shockingly enough, that the general public doesn't actually have much appreciation for a kid who performs a full-speed Naruto run down the hallway to get to Algebra. And who knew that letting out a guttural, vein-popping Super Saiyan scream in the middle of a casual conversation about lunch Lady Martha's mystery meat wouldn't win me any popularity points? My social life was deader than a secondary character in a horror flick. I spent my high school years as a solo act.

I was a lone wolf, if that wolf was allergic to sunlight and spent its time arguing about power levels on internet forums. I even went to the prom alone. Just me, my ill-fitting suit, and the crushing realization that "The Power of Friendship" was a blatant lie marketed by Big Anime to sell more figurines. Fast forward to the ripe old age of eighteen, where most people are out discovering themselves or getting driver's licenses. Not me.

I had successfully transitioned into my final form: a world-class, professional-grade shut-in. My bedroom was my kingdom, and my subjects were a pile of empty snack bags and a glowing monitor. My daily routine was a rigorous cycle of grinding for legendary loot and inhaling manga chapters until my eyes felt like they were vibrating. I was basically a modern hermit, except instead of a cave and spiritual enlightenment, I had high-speed internet and a crippling addiction to gacha games.

As for my siblings, they treated me like a strange, glitchy NPC that wandered into the wrong game. We didn't talk. They decided long ago that I was "too weird" to be associated with, probably fearing that my lack of social grace was contagious. If I stepped into the kitchen for a tactical soda refill, they'd clear out like I was a stink bomb with legs. Then there were my parents. They had officially entered the "acceptance" stage of grief regarding my future.

They mostly left me to my own devices, though they still hit me with "The Look" whenever our paths crossed. You know the one. It's that heavy, silent gaze that says, "We expected a doctor, but we got a guy who knows too much about elven lore." Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

I'm convinced that deep down, in the dark corners of their minds, they were probably wondering if there was a way to quietly drop me off at a fire station or trade me for a medium-sized goldfish. But alas, they were cursed with these things called "morals" and "hearts," so they were stuck with me. I was a total lost cause, a glitch in the family tree, and honestly, I was doing a pretty spectacular job at it.

There I was, hunched over in the glorious, cave-like darkness of my room, illuminated only by the neon blue glow of my monitor and the flickering embers of my last shredded dignity. I was currently deep in the trenches of an epic MMORPG raid, my fingers dancing across the mechanical keyboard like a caffeinated spider. My character was a Gunner, which is objectively the peak of human imagination.

While everyone else was swinging oversized compensatory swords or waving sticks to make sparkly lights, I was there with dual pistols and enough gunpowder to make a Michael Bay movie look like a silent film. In my head, I was a god of lead and chrome. Then, the universe decided it hadn't bullied me enough for one day. The screen froze. My cool, high-octane Gunner stuttered in place like he was having a mid-battle existential crisis.

The dreaded "Connection Lost" icon popped up, spinning lazily as if to mock my very existence. The internet was dead. I stared at the black screen for a solid ten seconds, waiting for my heart to resume its normal rhythm.

"The hell?" I shouted.

"What on earth just happened! I was about to loot a legendary chest!" Determined to find the culprit of this digital homicide, I emerged from my sanctuary like a startled mole blinking at the sun. I shuffled into the living room, and there they were: the parental units, parked on the sofa. Immediately, I was hit with "The Look." It was a synchronized, high-definition version of the classic disappointment stare.

My dad looked at me like I was a bill he'd forgotten to pay, and my mom had that expression people usually save for when they find a mysterious stain on the carpet. Honestly, I was so used to it by now that I felt like I should be wearing a target on my chest. It was the silent, living-room version of a standing ovation, except instead of applause, there was just heavy, judgmental silence.

I stood in the center of the living room, blinking like a startled cave-dweller suddenly exposed to the sun, and let out a howl of pure, unadulterated agony.

"What is going on with the internet? My guild is in the middle of a massive boss fight and I am the primary damage dealer!" I practically shrieked, my voice hitting a pitch that probably only dogs and disappointed relatives could hear. My mother and father exchanged a slow, heavy look. It was the kind of silent communication parents use right before they ruin your entire life.

"The password has been changed, Arthur," Mom said, her voice so calm and gentle it was actually terrifying. My jaw hit the floor, but Dad was already stepping up to deliver the killing blow.

"We have reached a final decision. Your siblings have a point. You cannot spend your whole life hiding in a dark room. It is time for you to go out there and get a job." I felt the familiar, cold prickle of panic rising in my throat.

"Seriously? This again? We have been over this a thousand times! I am going to find something, I just need a little more time to prepare my resume," I groaned, flailing my arms like a dramatic anime protagonist losing his powers in the final episode. Dad was clearly done with my negotiation tactics.

"To make sure you are actually motivated to look. No more allowance. And to top it all off, you have exactly thirty days to get your act together before we are officially kicking you out of the house." I felt like my heart had been ripped out by a high-level raid boss.

"Are you kidding me? You cannot just do that! This is a total violation of my basic rights as your son!" I yelped, clutching my chest as if I were actually wounded.

"We already did," Dad replied, his face as hard and immovable as a brick wall. I saw Mom reach over and squeeze his hand, her face all scrunched up as if she were the one being punished. She looked like she was in genuine physical pain, which honestly stung way worse than Dad's lecture. It was the look of a woman watching her favorite houseplant finally wither away.

"Whatever! Fine!" I snapped, my pride flaring up to hide the fact that I was actually vibrating with terror. I turned on my heel and marched toward the front door, giving it a satisfyingly moody slam on my way out. I yanked my signature gray hoodie over my head, pulling the drawstrings until I was just a pair of grumpy eyes peering out from a dark tunnel of fleece, and started stomping down the sidewalk.

The night air was crisp and judgmental, and the moon was just hanging there in the sky, staring down at me like the world's largest, glowiest disappointment.