Omniscient Gacha you are too expensive!!

The city lights cast a pale, artificial glow over the cracked sidewalks, illuminating a world that seemed to forget him long ago. Rain drizzled endlessly, an almost mocking symphony to the hollow emptiness that was his life. He trudged through the streets, the sound of his soaked sneakers slapping against the pavement a grim reminder of how far he'd fallen.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken his name. It had been years since anyone had looked at him like he was anything but a shadow passing by—a nameless face blending into the city's relentless current. It suited him, though. What was there to see?

Born into nothing and raised by an overburdened orphanage, he had learned early on that the world had no use for those who couldn't claw their way to relevance. By the time he was ten, the orphanage had shut its doors, the social system scattering its wards like leaves in the wind. He had bounced between foster homes, each one colder than the last, until he was old enough to escape the system entirely.

Escape was the wrong word. Survival was closer to the truth.

His teenage years were a blur of menial jobs, missed meals, and nights spent in cramped, run-down apartments. At first, he had tried to dream. He had envisioned a future where he could rise above his circumstances, where he could be someone worthy of respect—or at the very least, someone who mattered. But dreams were luxuries for people with hope, and hope was a currency he had long since spent.

By the time he hit twenty-five, he had become a ghost in his own life. The days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the last. He woke up in a room barely larger than a closet, went to work at a mind-numbing office job that paid just enough to keep the electricity on, and returned home to stare at a screen until sleep claimed him.

And the weekends? Those were worse. Weekends meant time to think, to reflect on the emptiness that consumed him. So, he filled the void the only way he knew how—with the game.

It wasn't much at first, just a distraction. A free-to-play fantasy gacha game he had stumbled upon while scrolling aimlessly online. But over time, it became more than that. It became his world, his sanctuary. In the game, he wasn't a nobody. He was a tactician, a leader, the master of powerful characters who answered only to him.

He poured what little money he had into the game, not to chase the rarest characters like so many others, but to nurture the ones he already had. He loved them in a way he had never been loved—each one meticulously raised, every level and stat point a testament to his dedication.

But even in the game, he couldn't escape his reality. He wasn't like the whales who flaunted their collections of maxed-out heroes and rare pulls. He couldn't afford it. Instead, he focused on the ten characters he could max out, pouring everything into them.

Among them was one he favored above all others: Lyria, the Boundless Flame. She was strong, relentless, and utterly devoted to him within the game's lore. She felt… real in a way the world didn't. He found himself talking to her in his darkest moments, her silent presence on the screen a comfort he couldn't find anywhere else.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. But what else did he have?

The thought hit him like a weight in his chest as he stood outside his apartment building, staring up at the cracked windows and peeling paint. He hadn't even noticed the rain had stopped. The air was cold, the kind of biting chill that sank into your bones, but he didn't move.

He thought of his life—a series of empty routines, meaningless tasks, and fleeting distractions. A life no one would miss. A life no one even knew existed.

As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, the sound of his keys jingling in the silence, a strange thought crossed his mind. If he died tonight, how long would it take for anyone to notice? A week? A month? Would anyone even care?

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar smell of stale air and instant noodles greeting him. His apartment was as bleak as his life—a single room cluttered with half-empty cups, a broken chair, and a desk where his computer sat humming faintly.

He dropped his bag to the floor and collapsed into the chair, his fingers already moving to wake the screen. The game's title lit up the monitor, a vibrant, fantastical world that mocked the dull grayness of his existence.

As the familiar music played, he felt the faintest flicker of something he hadn't felt in years. It wasn't happiness or excitement—just the dull, aching comfort of routine.

But even that small comfort was fleeting. The screen blurred as his vision clouded, exhaustion pulling at him like a weight. He didn't even realize he had fallen asleep, his head resting against the desk, the game still playing in the background.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, darkness.

And then… something else.

The world around him began to distort. At first, it felt like a dream—a hazy, unanchored sensation as if he were floating in an endless void. Then came the pain.

It started as a dull throb in his chest, but quickly grew sharper, clawing its way through him with relentless intensity. His breath caught, each gasp feeling heavier than the last. Panic surged, but his body refused to respond. He was trapped, paralyzed, as the invisible force squeezed tighter.

Through the fog of agony, he realized what was happening. A heart attack.

It almost made him laugh, the bitter irony of it all. Of course, this was how it ended—alone, slumped over a desk in a dingy apartment, with no one to call for help and no one to even find him. He could picture the headlines, if anyone even bothered to write one: Man Dies in Lonely Apartment; Body Found Weeks Later.

His vision blurred further, the dim light of his monitor warping into streaks of color. The game was still running, the avatars of his ten characters standing together on the screen, their weapons drawn in a pose of readiness. Lyria stood at the center, her crimson eyes glowing with that fierce, unwavering loyalty she was coded to display.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he whispered, his voice weak and cracking. "You're the only ones who'll notice I'm gone."

A shudder ran through him as the pain became unbearable, a sharp spike driving through his chest like a dagger. He tried to fight it, tried to summon the will to push through, but there was nothing left to give.

His life flashed before his eyes, not as a dramatic montage of cherished memories, but as a stark, merciless reminder of everything he had endured. The orphanage. The foster homes. The endless, grinding cycle of survival. No family. No friends. No one to share his burdens or his fleeting joys.

He was utterly, completely alone.

And yet, as the darkness crept closer, a strange calm began to settle over him. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe he was finally escaping the hollow, joyless existence that had defined his life.

His thoughts drifted back to the game, to the ten characters who had become his only companions. He wondered, fleetingly, if they could feel anything. Did the data and pixels that made up their forms contain even a fragment of the emotions they portrayed? Could they mourn him, even in some small, artificial way?

The monitor flickered. The game music distorted, slowing to a warped, haunting melody. He barely noticed it at first, too consumed by the pain in his chest and the suffocating weight of his impending death. But then the screen darkened, and a single line of text appeared, glowing faintly against the blackness.

"Do you wish to continue?"

The words seemed to pulse, growing brighter with each passing second. His mind, hazy and clouded with the haze of death, struggled to make sense of it. Was this part of the game? Some kind of hidden mechanic? Or was it his mind's way of clinging to the last shred of consciousness?

He tried to move his hand, to click on the screen, but his body remained unresponsive. Still, the text seemed to react to his thoughts, the glowing letters shifting into a new message:

"A second chance awaits. Accept, and rise once more."

He hesitated. It was absurd, impossible. And yet, in this moment of absolute despair, he couldn't deny the flicker of hope the words ignited within him. A second chance.

What did he have to lose?

With the last ounce of his strength, he willed his answer, a single, silent plea that echoed through the void.

"Yes."

The screen shattered, fragments of light scattering into the air like shards of glass. The pain in his chest vanished, replaced by a rush of warmth that spread through his body. His surroundings dissolved into pure light, enveloping him in a blinding radiance that felt neither hot nor cold—just… comforting.

A voice, deep and resonant, echoed in the emptiness.

"You have chosen. Prepare yourself, for your journey begins anew."

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the light vanished, leaving behind only silence.

He was no longer in his apartment.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth. Not the artificial warmth of his apartment heater or the stifling heat of the city's crowded streets, but a natural, soothing embrace that seeped into his skin and settled in his chest. It was unlike anything he had ever felt, and for a moment, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, afraid that it might all vanish if he did.

He could hear faint voices—soft, cheerful tones that carried a melody of contentment. There was laughter, light and carefree, the kind of sound he couldn't remember hearing in his old life. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped in harmony with the rustle of leaves, the air filled with the faint aroma of fresh grass and sun-warmed earth.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking against the gentle sunlight that filtered through the cracks of a wooden roof above him. The room he was in was small but cozy, with simple furniture made of polished wood and colorful fabrics that gave it a warm, inviting feel.

His first instinct was to question where he was, but the moment he tried to move, he realized something was different. His body felt… strange. Smaller. Weaker. He glanced down at his hands and froze.

These weren't his hands.

They were tiny, delicate, the hands of a child. Panic bubbled up inside him as he scrambled to sit up, his heart racing. A mirror hung on the opposite wall, its surface slightly cracked but clear enough for him to see his reflection.

A child stared back at him—a boy no older than seven, with messy blonde hair and striking purple eyes that shimmered like amethysts. He touched his face, and the boy in the mirror did the same. It was him. Somehow, impossibly, this was his body now.

Before he could fully process what was happening, the door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. She had a soft, radiant smile that lit up the room, her blonde hair tied back in a loose braid. Her eyes, the same vibrant purple as his own, sparkled with warmth as she approached.

"You're awake, sleepyhead," she said, her voice playful. She knelt by his bedside and ruffled his hair affectionately. "You must have been having quite the dream, squirming around like that."

"Who…" His voice came out higher-pitched than he expected, and he faltered, unsure of what to say.

The woman tilted her head, a look of mock offense crossing her face. "Who? Did my little Rayne forget his own mother?"

Mother. The word hit him like a wave, leaving him breathless. In his old life, the concept of family had been nothing more than a distant dream, something he had long since given up on. And yet, here she was—a woman who looked at him with unconditional love, as though he were her entire world.

"I… I'm sorry," he managed to stammer, unsure of how else to respond.

Her expression softened, and she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You don't need to apologize, sweetheart. Just don't scare me like that again, okay?"

Before he could reply, another voice called out from the other room.

"Mom! Is Rayne awake yet?"

A small figure darted into the room—a girl around five years old, with pigtails and an infectious grin. She practically threw herself onto the bed, giggling as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Rayne, you're so lazy!" she teased, poking his cheek. "I've been waiting for you to wake up so we can play!"

"Sienna, give your brother some space," their mother said with a laugh, though she made no real effort to pull the girl away.

Rayne. That was his name now.

He couldn't help but stare at them, his mind struggling to reconcile the overwhelming warmth of their presence with the cold, empty life he had left behind. His mother's gentle smile, his sister's playful antics—it was all so alien to him, and yet it filled a void he hadn't even realized was there.

For the first time in years, he felt something stir in his chest. Not the fleeting comfort of escapism or the hollow satisfaction of routine, but a genuine, aching sense of belonging.

"Rayne?" his mother asked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Are you feeling okay? You've been quiet."

"I'm fine," he said quickly, his voice steadier this time. "Just… tired, I guess."

She reached out to touch his forehead, checking for a fever. "Hmm, you don't feel warm. Maybe you just need some fresh air. Why don't you come outside and help your father for a bit? The sunshine will do you good."

"Okay," he agreed, eager for an excuse to clear his head.

As his mother and sister left the room, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to his new body. He couldn't explain how or why this had happened, but one thing was clear: this was his second chance.

He wasn't going to waste it.

Stepping outside for the first time, Rayne felt the sun's warmth on his skin and the cool breeze carrying the scents of fresh earth and blooming flowers. The village stretched before him—a cluster of quaint cottages surrounded by fields of golden wheat and dense, emerald forests. It was a picture of tranquility, the kind of place where worries seemed like a distant concept.

The sounds of life filled the air: the rhythmic chopping of wood, the distant bleating of sheep, and the chatter of villagers going about their day. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed, as though declaring the arrival of a new morning.

Rayne's mother and sister walked ahead, chatting animatedly. The smaller girl skipped along, her laughter bright and carefree, while their mother carried a basket overflowing with freshly baked bread.

"Rayne, don't fall behind!" his sister called, waving for him to catch up.

He nodded, his bare feet brushing against the soft dirt path as he hurried after them. It all felt so surreal—the simplicity, the peace, the warmth of their presence. For so long, his life had been defined by loneliness and struggle. Now, he was surrounded by a family that exuded joy as effortlessly as breathing.

As they approached the fields, another figure came into view. A tall man with broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin stood in the middle of the wheat, swinging a sickle with practiced ease. His hair was the same shade of blonde as Rayne's, and he turned toward them with a wide grin as they approached.

"Morning, champ!" the man called out, his voice booming with good-natured cheer. "Finally decided to wake up, huh?"

"Morning," Rayne replied, his tone more subdued.

The man set down his sickle and walked over, clapping a hand on Rayne's shoulder. His grip was firm but gentle, the kind of touch that spoke of strength tempered by love.

"You look a little pale, kiddo," the man said, crouching down to meet Rayne's eyes. "Not feeling sick, are you?"

"I'm fine," Rayne assured him. "Just… thinking."

"Well, don't think too hard," his father said with a chuckle. "You're too young to be worrying about anything. Come on, let's get you busy. Hard work's the best cure for a wandering mind."

Rayne hesitated, glancing at the sickle and the rows of wheat. In his previous life, he had spent so many hours in a cramped office, performing mindless tasks for the sake of survival. But this… this was different. The work here wasn't about profit or obligation—it was about providing for the people he cared about.

"All right," he said, stepping forward.

"Good man," his father said, ruffling his hair. "Let's start small. You can carry the bundles back to the shed while I handle the cutting."

Rayne nodded and set to work, his smaller frame making the task more difficult than he expected. The wheat was heavier than it looked, and his arms burned with the effort of lifting and carrying. Sweat dripped down his face, and his legs ached, but he pushed through.

As the morning wore on, he began to find a rhythm, the repetitive motions oddly soothing. His father worked beside him, humming a cheerful tune as he cut the stalks with precision. Occasionally, his mother and sister would pass by, delivering water and snacks with smiles and encouragement.

By the time the sun reached its peak, Rayne found himself sitting in the shade of a tree, catching his breath as his family gathered around him. His mother handed him a cup of cool water, and his sister plopped down beside him, her energy seemingly endless despite the heat.

"You did good today, Rayne," his father said, his voice filled with pride. "You've got a strong back for a little guy."

Rayne couldn't help but smile, a flicker of warmth spreading through his chest. He hadn't done anything extraordinary—just a morning's worth of labor—but the simple praise felt more fulfilling than any paycheck he had ever earned.

For the first time, he began to understand the life his new family led. They didn't have much by the world's standards—no wealth, no fame, no grand ambitions. But they had each other, and that was enough.

It was a foreign concept to him, this idea of contentment without excess. In his previous life, happiness had always seemed tied to material success or unattainable dreams. Yet here, surrounded by laughter and love, he realized that perhaps he had been chasing the wrong things all along.

As the day wore on, the family returned to their modest home, preparing for dinner. The kitchen filled with the aroma of freshly cooked stew, and Rayne found himself helping with small tasks—peeling potatoes, setting the table, and fetching ingredients.

By the time they sat down to eat, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. They talked and laughed as they ate, sharing stories about their day and teasing one another with playful jabs.

Rayne stayed quiet for the most part, content to listen. The happiness in their voices was infectious, and he found himself smiling more than he had in years.

When the meal was finished and the plates were cleared, his sister climbed into his lap, resting her head against his chest.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" she asked, her voice soft and sleepy.

The question caught him off guard, and for a moment, he didn't know how to respond. But then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

In that moment, as he sat with his family in the warm glow of their home, he felt something he hadn't known he was missing.

Peace.

The night came quietly, blanketing the village in stillness. The chirping of crickets filled the air, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves swaying in the cool evening breeze. Rayne lay on his small bed, staring at the wooden ceiling above him.

His sister, Sienna, had fallen asleep in her own bed nearby, her soft snores a rhythmic reminder of her innocence. Their mother and father had retired to their room after sharing stories by the fireplace, their laughter still lingering in his ears.

Despite the peace around him, Rayne couldn't sleep. His mind buzzed with thoughts and questions he didn't yet have answers to.

How had he come to be here? What force had taken him from his old life and given him this second chance? Was this some kind of dream, or had he truly been reincarnated into another world?

He sat up, his purple eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. The sensations were too vivid for this to be a dream—the rough texture of the wooden floor beneath his bare feet, the distant hoot of an owl in the forest, the steady rise and fall of his sister's breathing.

No, this was real. Somehow, impossibly, it was real.

But the question that gnawed at him most wasn't how he had come to be here. It was why.

As much as he wanted to embrace this new life, the scars of his past still clung to him. He couldn't shake the memories of his old existence—the cold isolation, the ceaseless grind, the suffocating emptiness that had defined him.

A bitter thought crept into his mind. Did he even deserve this happiness?

In his previous life, he had done nothing extraordinary, nothing worthy of a second chance. He had merely existed, drifting through the days without purpose or passion. What had changed? What made him worthy of a loving family, of a life filled with warmth and joy?

His hand clenched into a fist, the memory of his final moments flashing in his mind—the pain, the darkness, and then the words on the screen:

"Do you wish to continue?"

The voice from the void echoed in his thoughts, deep and resonant:

"A second chance awaits. Accept, and rise once more."

Those words weren't random. Someone—or something—had brought him here, and it wasn't out of kindness. There had to be a purpose, a reason he had been given this opportunity.

And then there was the other thing. The faint tug he had felt ever since waking in this world. It was subtle, like a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, but it was there—a connection to something vast and unknowable.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. Slowly, it grew stronger, until it felt like a weight pressing against his chest. Images began to flicker in his mind—blurry and fragmented, but unmistakable.

A circle of ten figures, each one radiating power. Weapons glinting in the light of a distant sun. Crimson eyes glowing with intensity. A familiar voice, soft and deadly, whispering words he couldn't quite make out.

His heart raced as the vision faded, leaving him breathless. He recognized them. How could he not? They were his.

The ten characters he had nurtured and fought alongside in the game, the ones who had stood by him when no one else did. They weren't just memories of pixels and data. They were here, somewhere in this world.

The realization hit him like a lightning bolt. If they were real—if they existed in this world—what did that mean for him? Was he still their master? Did they even remember him after all this time?

A mix of emotions surged within him: hope, fear, excitement, and dread. He didn't know what awaited him, but one thing was certain—he couldn't ignore the pull of the connection.

For now, he pushed the thoughts aside. The answers would come in time, and he couldn't afford to lose himself in speculation. He had a family now, one that needed him. Whatever his purpose in this world, he would protect them with everything he had.

He lay back down, the tension in his body slowly easing as he listened to the steady rhythm of his sister's breathing. For the first time in years, he felt something close to peace.

But deep in the recesses of his mind, the connection pulsed faintly, a reminder that his journey was only beginning.