Victorious Athea: My Gacha Luck Decides Humanity’s Fate

After making sure he had a way out of trouble if things went south, John let himself take a breath. 

He stepped aside, took an express to the elevator, and took in the view of Tevat—the underground city that served as humanity's last refuge against the Hybrids, those strange, alien invaders.

The scene was just like he remembered from the game. The LED-lit sky simulated a warm, sunny day, casting its artificial glow over the steel-and-concrete city. 

Tall buildings lined the streets, their surfaces covered in flickering neon signs and holograms advertising everything from cheap food to high-tech gadgets. 

Airships cruised overhead, their engines humming softly as they carried goods or passengers between districts.

It was all familiar, but seeing it in person was something else. The grime and wear on the buildings, the crowds of people hustling through the streets, the faint vibrations of machinery beneath his feet—it all felt more alive. More real.

The game had shown him a lot of this, but now he could feel the awe of it. 

The city still has problems of course. Inequality is common, poverty still exists and mega corporations run rampant, siphoning every single resource for themselves.

Despite himself, John found a strange sense of admiration bubbling up. For all its flaws, Tevat was still standing, a testament to how hard humanity fought to hold on. 

He let out a breath and shook his head. It wasn't much, but it was home now—or at least, it had to be.

"Elevator…" The monotone voice of the express system announced his arrival. The doors slid open with a faint hiss, and he stepped out, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor.

He had prepared enough; now it was time to meet his companion.

The room was dimly lit, with a faint blue glow emanating from the walls. In the center stood a figure, rigid and still, as if waiting for him.

"Hmm, so you were assigned to me." John rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze scanning the figure before him.

She was a mass-produced, R-rank Athea, her long brown hair tied neatly into a ponytail, framing her striking blue eyes. From what he remembered of the game's lore, her model designation was MP111—one of the most basic types.

Clad in tactical gear that seemed over-designed yet functional, she looked every bit like the lower-tier units in Victorious Athea. 

And, of course, the game's logic still applied here: the more externally equipped a character appeared, the weaker they were. Rarer models didn't need all this bulky hardware. T

heir abilities were inherent, enhanced internally by cutting-edge tech, whereas the lower ranks relied on outdated, cumbersome gear.

John smirked slightly at the thought but quickly masked it.

"John Arbucher," he introduced himself, extending a hand with a casual smile. "Your new—and only—commander."

The girl's eyes widened, and she hesitated. In this world, Athea were often treated like tools, barely above disposable weapons.

To see a commander—especially one who had supposedly graduated at the top of the academy—offering a handshake was unheard of.

She stared at his outstretched hand, clearly uncertain.

"C'mon now, don't keep me waiting," he teased, holding his hand out again, his grin widening.

"A-ah, yes! My name is Irish. Nice to meet you, Commander John." Flustered, she grasped his hand awkwardly and shook it, her movements stiff but sincere.

John's smirk softened into a genuine smile. "Just call me John," he said.

Irish blinked, her expression wavering between disbelief and gratitude. She nodded quickly, still holding his hand longer than she probably realized. 

"Yes... John," she repeated, her voice quieter this time, as if testing the word.

'Well,' John thought, 'this is off to an interesting start.'

For all her apparent nervousness, Irish seemed capable enough—or at least determined. 

He couldn't tell yet if she'd prove to be a liability or an asset, but one thing was clear: she wasn't like the cold, mechanical soldiers the game often portrayed.

That small, human touch—faint as it was—made him smirk inwardly. Maybe she wasn't all blank stares and mechanical precision after all. 'Let's see what you've got, Irish.' 

"There should be two more. Where are they?" John crossed his arms and glanced around, his eyes sweeping the room. He'd been expecting a full squad, or at least more than one member, but the area was as empty as a test lobby.

Aside from Irish standing silently before him, there was no one else. No sound of footsteps, no movement in the shadows—just the faint hum of the overhead lights.

Irish tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes meeting his. "I was the only one sent to meet you," she said flatly, her tone giving away nothing.

John frowned, his fingers tapping against his arm. He didn't like this. Either someone had screwed up the deployment, or he was walking into another situation where survival wasn't high on anyone's priority list—except his own.

"Hm."

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the token of Annihilator. The smooth surface gleamed faintly, its intricate design catching the light as he held it up, gauging it between his eyes and Irish.

In the promotional videos from the game, the rules were clear: a token could only be used by someone wielding a matching weapon type. 

Irish carried a machine gun, and Annihilator's token was meant for a rocket launcher. The mismatch was glaring, but the thought gnawed at him—could it work anyway?

The idea of testing it right away was tempting. The token's latent power practically hummed in his hand, promising an edge he desperately needed. 

But the risk loomed large in his mind. If the system malfunctioned or rejected the attempt, he'd be wasting precious nanomachines on a gamble. Resources that, as far as he knew, were finite.

And not to mention the potential threat that they must face later, this simply wasn't the time for it.

He let out a slow breath, slipping the token back into his pocket. Not yet. Save it for when you really need it. He glanced at Irish, her blank, steady gaze fixed on him.

"Hey, Irish," John said, keeping his tone casual as he slipped the token back into his pocket. "You look tense. This your first mission on the surface?"

Irish blinked, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. "Uhh… how could you tell?" she asked, her brows furrowing ever so slightly.

"Commander instinct," John replied with a smirk, tapping his temple for effect.

She tilted her head, clearly not buying his answer, but didn't press further. Instead, she glanced down at her weapon, adjusting the grip slightly as if the question had drawn her attention to her nerves.

John chuckled softly to himself. "Don't worry about it," he added. "Just stick to your training, and we'll get through this."

"Understood," Irish said, her tone regaining its neutral edge.

He nodded, hoping his offhand comment might ease some of her tension. 

She'd need to keep her focus sharp for what was coming—because if there was one thing John knew for certain, it was that nothing about this mission was going to be easy.

'It seems like they didn't have any hope in me,' John thought, his gaze shifting to Irish, who stood silently beside him. His mind wandered, piecing together the fragments of the main story he could recall.

Aside from the main commander and a high-ranking figure from the rival faction, Tevat lacked any truly competent leaders. It wasn't hard to see why their efforts to reclaim the surface had failed time and time again. 

They didn't want to waste resources on what they deemed a lost cause.

Still, it disappointed him. If they had genuinely invested in their commanders—trained them properly, given them the tools to lead effectively—then maybe there would've been a real chance of turning things around.

Instead, the commanders of this world were untrained, inexperienced, and completely out of their depth.

Even John, supposedly the top of his batch, felt the gaps in his own knowledge. Sure, he had an edge, but it wasn't because of anything Tevat had done for him. 

If it weren't for his memories of Earth and the knowledge there, surviving here would've been impossible.

'Even if this body's original "John" had survived that surgery, he wouldn't have lasted long out here,' he mused grimly.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. The system he'd inherited—this world's hierarchy—was broken. And if he wanted to survive, he'd have to play it smarter, better, and sharper than anyone else.

"Alright, Irish, it's time. Looks like it's just you and me." John broke the silence, his voice steady. "Let's make this count. We've got a mission to finish."

Irish nodded wordlessly, her blue eyes flicking toward him before falling back into their blank stare.

They moved toward the elevator leading to the surface, John's resolve growing firmer with every step. But just as he was about to enter, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, cutting through the stillness.

"Ah! I told you we should've gotten here sooner! Nova!" a voice rang out, high-pitched and flustered.

John turned to see a girl with short black hair, slightly disheveled from what must've been a frantic sprint, rushing toward them.

"C'mon, Vera, you were the one who suggested we hang back!" another voice chimed in. This one belonged to a much shorter girl with silver hair, a confident smirk plastered on her face as she jogged behind the first.

John's expression shifted from mild annoyance to outright frustration as the pair skidded to a stop in front of him, out of breath but clearly not embarrassed by their delay.

His supposed "companions" had finally arrived. But there was a glaring issue that dampened any sense of relief.

Every single one of them screamed inexperience.

John scanned them briefly, his critical eye noting the disorganized way they carried themselves, the lack of polish in their movements. It was clear as day—they weren't ready for this, not even close.

Vera was carrying an oversized shotgun, strong but not ideal for a prolonged fight. The girl with silver hair, Nova was carrying an outdated rocket launcher with explosive rounds.

It might be good for clearing a hoard of Hybrids but might end up attracting more from its insane power.

Great, he thought bitterly. A squad of amateurs and one depressed corpo slave. What could possibly go wrong?

He forced a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright," he said, letting his irritation bleed through just enough to make a point. "Let me guess. This is your first real mission, isn't it?"

Vera glanced down, her cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment, while the silver-haired girl beside her crossed her arms and tilted her head, her defiance palpable.

"Does it matter?" the short one quipped with a shrug. "We're here now, aren't we?"

John fixed her with a flat, unimpressed stare. This is going to be a long mission, he thought.

"Alright, enough chit-chat. Just get on the elevator," he said, his tone firm but not harsh. "If we keep bantering like this, Lena's going to kill us before anything on the surface does."

Without waiting for a response, John reached out and gently but decisively pulled them both toward the elevator chamber.

Vera blinked at him in surprise, her earlier embarrassment now replaced with curiosity. "Wow, a commander that's proactive and doesn't treat us like trash," she said, half to herself.

John gave her a sideways glance, his expression softening into a faint, wry smile. "Yeah, well," he said, "we're comrades now. Being arrogant isn't going to keep any of us alive up there."

The silver-haired girl smirked at that, though whether she was amused or merely intrigued by his attitude, John couldn't tell.

As the elevator doors slid shut and the chamber began its slow ascent toward the surface, John leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

 "Let's make one thing clear," he said, his voice steady and measured. "I don't care if you're mass-produced, or whatever. Out there, you're soldiers under my command. I'll do my part to keep you alive, and you'll do the same for me. Got it?"

Vera nodded earnestly, her blue eyes wide with respect. "Understood, Commander!"

The silver-haired girl gave a small, begrudging nod, her arms still crossed. "Fair enough," she said simply.

John sighed and let his head rest briefly against the cool elevator wall. His mind drifted to the past. 

'Comrades, huh? The word stirred memories, both bitter and fleetingly sweet. It's just like when I was a noob,' he thought wryly.

Back then, he'd been full of naive hope, eager to trust the people around him. But life had a way of sanding down those edges. Betrayals, disappointments, and the cruel realities of a harsh world had left him hollow and alone.

Still, something about this situation felt... different. Maybe it was the way Vera's enthusiasm sparkled through her eye or the silver-haired girl's reluctant yet undeniable acknowledgment of his authority.

'Or maybe it's just the wishful thinking of a dead man in a borrowed body,' he mused, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

He glanced at his companions again, studying them with renewed determination. 'This time, though... maybe I can do better. Maybe it doesn't have to end the same way.'

The elevator shuddered as it neared its destination, the distant hum of the surface world creeping into his awareness. Whatever lay ahead, John knew one thing for certain: he wasn't the same man he'd been before.

This time, he was prepared to fight, not just for himself but for the people around him. Because no matter what this world threw at him, he wasn't about to let it win.