"How did everything go, Doctor?" The man turned at the sound of footsteps as someone emerged from the medical block.

  "All went excellently, Mr Ravelin," the man entering the hall nodded deferentially. "Your son is in perfect health and is already changing after port installation."

  "Splendid. Thank you, Doctor Varin..." The master of the premises — for such he undoubtedly was — nodded to his interlocutor.

  "Not at all, Mr Ravelin, truly not worth mentioning... I am always pleased to assist the young, especially such worthy... candidates on their first journey."

  The doctor's tone was excessively servile. Slippery, almost obsequious. The man sensed this and permitted himself a slight, self-satisfied smile. Such treatment fed his ego, though he would never have admitted it.

  "Oh, rest assured," Solen Ravelin pronounced with lazy pride. "Mariell and I have comprehensively prepared our son for the coming event."

  "Speaking of which, here she is! The very embodiment of beauty and elegance, is she not?!" he added, shifting his gaze towards the entrance.

  A woman entered the drawing room who possessed that rare breed of beauty where maturity merely accentuates youth. It seemed she had only recently crossed that boundary where a girl becomes a woman. Only her bearing betrayed her — something that comes solely with age and experience.

  "My dear, if you would," the man inclined his head slightly. "Escort our guest. I fear I have already begun to bore him with my discourse."

  After polite greetings and brief pleasantries, Solen decided to conclude their conversation, to which the doctor readily agreed.

  "With pleasure, beloved," the woman replied, her voice soft, almost melodious. "I wished to discuss a few matters with the doctor anyway... concerning feminine subtleties."

  Taking the guest by the elbow, she led him through the corridor to the transparent platform where their family flyer already waited.

  The doctor could not help but observe his surroundings. Everything about him — curved lines, glass, metal, light — breathed luxury. He rarely had occasion to visit penthouses on the sixty-sixth floor of residential towers. And the view from this height, revealing the endless city, was impressive.

  The Ravelin family could quite easily have managed without the services of a personal physician. The automated medical block complexes already ensured absolute monitoring of each family member's condition. But in their circles, status meant no less than health.

  Sometimes it sufficed merely to mention to acquaintances: "Our family doctor," for the right doors to open of their own accord.

  Here we shall leave Doctor Varin and his beautiful escort, and return instead to the master of the penthouse. To the man for whom all this was not mere routine, but part of a far more elaborate game. Called life.

  At this moment, the penthouse's master was strolling unhurriedly through that same spacious reception hall. His footsteps echoed dully against the smooth floor, whilst his gaze drifted slowly across walls hung with his son's awards.

  Medals, certificates, trophies — each reminded him of a victory, and each he perceived as his own achievement. Indeed, so it was: long before the child's birth, he and his wife had meticulously planned every detail of his future. Everything calculated, computed, approved. Their son had not known a single free hour since he had learnt to crawl.

  Before him stood a golden cup inscribed: First place in the junior world championship for combat fencing.

  Beside it another, slightly smaller but no less significant: First place in the junior district archery and crossbow competition.

  On the walls hung medals for martial arts, trophies for victories in intellectual olympiads, certificates for participation in academic programmes.

  He paused, surveying all of this, and a faint shadow of a self-satisfied smile touched his face. They knew whom they were preparing.

  The Ravelins had never belonged amongst the lower ranks. Their line, one of the oldest, had stood at the pinnacle of gaming worlds from the very launch of the Ether. And especially in Sirathis. There, their name was spoken with shades of respect and fear.

  He and Mariell knew everything about the game. Once they themselves had undergone similar preparation under their own parents. Their own awards hung on the opposite wall, tangibly demonstrating their family's traditions.

  Their subsequent youth had passed amongst battles, digital wars and glory. Finding each other, they had united their efforts and begun the conquest of Sirathis with renewed force. All that had been created by generations and by them directly, they would pass on as inheritance, merely perfecting the process.

  For their son there could be no obstacles. No accidents. He must become the ideal heir. The continuation of their families' ambitions, living proof that perfection could not merely be created, but cultivated.

  As for the inheritance itself, their son need not worry. Each day he studied in his father's study and could behold yet another collection.

  On the wall opposite the desk hung a far grimmer but far more awe-inspiring display. Upon it hung the banners of fallen clans — those whom Clan Ravelin had crushed and erased from Sirathis's digital map. Each banner served as a reminder of victory, of conquest, of the crushing of others' hopes and of their own supremacy.

  Beneath the banners stood glass cases containing replicas of legendary game artifacts, exact copies of trophies won by their clan in the Ether. Trophies for first boss kills, for first raid completions and conquests, for first discoveries of unknown locations and even a continent, for creating unique items and more. Each award carried its own story, brief but bloody, written in sweat, strategy and persistence.

  This wall was not mere decoration; it illustrated the chronicle of their power. The history of a family that had risen to the very top and permitted none to displace them.

  Throughout all Sirathis, clans of such calibre could be counted on the fingers of one hand... And all had long stood upon the pedestal, yet only a few, such as the Ravelins, could claim that this pedestal had been built by their own hands.

  Despite the broad opportunities that the Ether offered solo players, their influence could never compare with the might of clans. These possessed incomparably greater resources, access, connections, strongholds if you will, and whole armies, to speak frankly.

  However, for his son, just as his father had once done for him, Solen Ravelin had envisioned another path. The first years in-game must be a solitary trial. No concessions, no family privileges. Only him, his abilities and the world of Sirathis. At this stage, it was vital to perceive what manner of person he had become, to study his weaknesses and strengths, so as subsequently to eliminate the former and enhance the latter.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Only by traversing this path independently, without support, would the youth earn the right to enter the clan. Regardless of results, for in future he need only direct the clan — those who would manage the processes had always been plentiful around their family.

  Upon acceptance into the clan, a new stage would begin for their son: preparation to manage an enormous organisation whose branches displayed the Ravelin crest in every major power, on all seven continents of Sirathis.

  At precisely this moment the door opened softly, and into the room entered the one of whom Solen had been thinking all this time.

  Tall, well-built, with bearing honed by years of training, the young man paused at the threshold. His movements were precise, restrained, and in his gaze could be glimpsed calm confidence. In him one could easily discern his parents' features: nobility, composure, inner strength. Yet he did not emanate coldness, but rather a quiet resolve and conviction.

  "Good day, Fresco," the man pronounced, turning slowly towards his son.

  "Good day, Father," the other replied, inclining his head slightly.

  "How do you feel? Ready to enter the game, lad?" In Solen's voice sounded ironic severity, tinged with pride.

  Fresco smiled almost imperceptibly: "Through your efforts, Father, I am as prepared as is humanly possible."

  Solen chuckled, and in the corners of his eyes flickered a shadow of approval.

  "Well then... Go, spend some time with your mother. And after..." He paused briefly, as if savouring the moment. "I shall personally escort you on your first journey."

  Fresco nodded wordlessly and proceeded down the long corridor bathed in soft golden light. The floor beneath his feet was fashioned from semi-transparent quartz, within whose depths glimmered fine lines, as though from energy currents.

  The door to his mother's private apartments responded with a soft click, recognising Fresco.

  "Enter, Fressi," her voice sounded before he could cross the threshold.

  The room smelt of jasmine and the cold air of morning gardens. Mariell Ravelin, clad in a simple white dress without a single ornament, stood by the window. She loved to change her attire several times a day, yet none had ever managed to catch her at this process. Beyond the transparent wall drifted clouds, whilst below stretched the omniopolis of Venus, which had never known darkness.

  She turned to him, smiling as only a mother could smile. Slightly sadly, yet with unwavering faith. Surveying how the immersion suit fitted him, the sadness on her face only deepened.

  "You look... older than yesterday," she said, taking a step towards him.

  "Perhaps because today is the first day of my new life?" her son replied with a slight smile.

  Mariell gently touched his shoulder.

  "Do not attempt to conceal fear behind irony. It does not make you stronger."

  Fresco lowered his gaze slightly.

  "I am not afraid. Simply... it feels strange to know that everything you have prepared for has finally arrived."

  "Therein lies the essence of the path," she whispered. "We prepare you for the future, yet we can never prepare ourselves for the moment when you depart the present."

  Silence hung between them. Only the wind beyond the window stirred the luminous blinds, as though eavesdropping on their conversation. The bitterness regarding the different path chosen by his elder sister utterly destroyed the moment of parting with his mother.

  "Father is waiting..." With this phrase, Fresco seemed almost to plead for permission to leave. So uncomfortable had the prolonged pause made him.

  "I know," Mariell exhaled, regarding him with a long, attentive gaze. "When you enter the Ether, do not attempt to become better than you are. Simply be honest with yourself. Even ideals require space to breathe."

  She stepped closer, ran her fingers along his cheek and whispered: "Remember, Fressi, I am not Mariell Ravelin or Orvaine, not Solen's wife, not clan leader. I am simply your mother. And I shall always be near, wherever you may be."

  Fresco took her hand, carefully pressed it to his chest.

  "I know. And therefore I shall not disappoint!"

  He turned sharply and headed for the exit. When the door closed behind him, Mariell permitted herself what she had never permitted before — a single tear.

  Fresco entered the main hall. Here, in the centre of the enormous circular chamber, stood an Ether immersion capsule. It proclaimed its newness, glossy and as though cast from liquid glass. Its surface breathed quietly with faint radiance, resembling a heartbeat. Around it — control consoles, energy stands and fine, almost invisible cables and tubes ascending to the ceiling and walls. All of this resembled an altar for sacrifice. Human sacrifice.

  Solen Ravelin stood at the activation panel. His hands, confident and steady, adjusted the settings. On his face could be discerned neither shadow of doubt nor drop of emotion. Only concentration.

  "You are punctual!" he exclaimed without turning. "You too dislike protracted farewells?"

  "I knew you would not forgive me for tardiness," Fresco smiled.

  Solen turned, finally looking at his son. His gaze was cold, yet within it glimmered something more. Pride, carefully concealed behind detachment.

  "Today you cross a threshold," he said. "Henceforth you are not merely a son of House Ravelin. You become its continuation in Sirathis. Your name, your decisions, your mistakes — all shall become part of the legacy."

  "I am ready, Father!"

  Solen nodded silently and stepped forward. He removed from his hand the ring that served as symbol of the house's head, and passed it across the capsule's glass panel. For an instant the air around flared with soft light.

  "According to the Ravelin Code," he pronounced in a low, measured voice. "I, Solen son of Jean, acknowledge Fresco son of Solen's entry into the path. May the Ether accept his soul. May the world not reject his consciousness. May his path be pure, and his will remain unbending."

  He placed his hand on his son's shoulder.

  "Now you belong not to us. Not to yourself. But to the cause!"

  Solen looked into his son's eyes, seeking answers.

  "Did I ever belong to myself?"

  A barely perceptible smile flickered across the man's face.

  "A good answer. Remember it when your darkest hour arrives!"

  The capsule lid hissed softly, opening. Fresco lay down, permitting himself a final glance at his father. The latter, as always embodying severity and discipline, stood motionless as a monolith.

  "I shall see you in the new world," Fresco smiled.

  "Not for some time yet," Solen replied, gazing directly into the capsule. "Your first steps you shall take alone. And this is the trial for which you have prepared your entire life."

  "And I am ready!" Precisely this thought flashed through the lad's mind before he found himself in the portal chamber.

  Immediately after the opening cinematic, he was greeted by a voice familiar to readers.

  "Good day, my name is Karo. I shall be pleased to help you prepare your Ether avatar."

  "Good day! Create my exact copy!"

  "Have you already decided to which species your character will belong?"

  "I said: my EXACT copy. What part of this phrase do you not understand?"

  Requiring no further instruction, Karo projected before Fresco an image of himself.

  "As you possess an A-rank account, many playable species are available to you. Are you certain you wish to settle on one of the standard options?"

  "What questions are these? Speak only when I ask! I am entirely satisfied with myself — retain this variant and do not forget to note that the avatar is one hundred per cent copied from the original!"

  No one personally acquainted with and knowing this youth would believe him capable of such improper tone, should they hear it. "Could Fresco Ravelin truly permit himself such unsuitable manner? And moreover in conversation with what — with a simple ArtInt, devoid of independent reason and feeling? No, such a thing decidedly cannot be!" Precisely such would be their reaction. But they knew him poorly...

  "Very well." Karo's mechanical voice became even colder.

  Fresco pondered long over creating a nickname for his character. On one hand he desired something special and striking. On the other, the remnants of common sense suggested that with time he might regret today's choice.

  "Aurex Imperius!" he exclaimed, finally settling on his selection. For holders of A-rank accounts, any names were available, so Karo approved it.

  Before Fresco appeared a fair-haired, neatly groomed lad. His sharp, chiselled facial features, proud gaze, and soldierly bearing spoke of nobility. Blue eyes and a height of six feet five inches merely complemented this image.

  Beside the nickname glowed an icon with the figure: 100%, denoting the avatar's correspondence with the actual player.

  Having fussed with distributing free characteristic points, the lad gazed with satisfaction upon their list.

  Primary Characteristics:

  — Strength: 8

  — Stamina: 7

  — Fortitude: 5

  — Reaction: 7

  — Agility: 8

  — Perception: 5

  — Intelligence: 5

  — Spirit: 5

  — Concentration: 5

  — Luck: 5

  "Done." Fresco pronounced this with a shade of uncertainty.

  "Do you wish to choose a starting location or leave it to random selection?"

  "Random."

  "Accepted! Welcome to Seratis and enjoy the game!"