They say the first real test of a Gooner's resolve isn't the strength of his wrist or the depth of his shame—it's whether he can survive the Trials without busting.
I didn't believe it until I saw the entrance gate.
Massive obsidian pillars stood ten stories tall, engraved with the ancient scriptures of the lost P-Hub Dynasties. A waterfall of glittering oil flowed in slow motion down the center, pooling into a sacred basin below. The air buzzed with a thick, humid energy, equal parts reverence and perversion.
This place looks like someone designed a cathedral and a strip club after a one night stand.
The card I'd received—cold, black, and somehow sticky even though it had never been touched—had pulsed to life the moment I approached. Now it hovered in front of the gate, spinning in the air like a forgotten DVD menu screen, before dissolving into white mist.
"Ben Dover," a voice intoned, deep and mechanical, echoing from nowhere. "You have entered the Trial of the Edge. Abandon hope, ye who nut here."
Cool. Latin warning. We're really committing to the bit now, huh?
I stepped forward.
My breath hitched.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The sky turned pink.
Not the soft kind of pink that reminds you of cherry blossoms or rose-tinted love—no, this was neon, pulsating, aggressively aroused pink. Floating structures shaped like forbidden objects hovered overhead, suspended in slow orbit around a glowing monument at the center of the arena. It looked like a divine fleshlight carved from moonstone.
I have entered the Temple of Horny.
Other contestants stood in the distance. Some wore robes. Others were shirtless, their bodies wrapped in crimson belts embroidered with shameful achievements—"Day 32: No Release" or "Survived the Tentacle Trial." A few were already meditating, hands shaking, legs twitching, eyes bloodshot from intense concentration.
Grandpa once warned me about this place.
"The Edge Foundation Realm ain't for kids. You lose your soul in there. Or worse… you nut in public."
I adjusted my sweatpants—my ceremonial gear—and walked toward the welcome platform, trying not to stare at the enormous banner overhead: "Discipline is Desire Denied."
As I passed beneath it, a figure stepped forward.
Tall. Pale. Bald. Wearing pure white robes stitched with black censor bars across the chest and thighs. His eyes were covered by a pair of circular lenses that glowed with pulsing runes.
"Welcome, Initiate," he said, in a voice like dry silk. "I am Monk No-Fap. Purity Cult enforcer. You will not pass me."
Oh great. A professional abstainer. Probably hasn't smiled since birth.
He raised one hand, and the air shifted.
I felt it immediately—an aura like cold vinegar poured down my spine. My thoughts scattered. My pulse slowed. My desire… numbed.
No-Fap had activated his Aura of Abstinence.
Okay. Chill. Just a monk. Just a lifelong celibate weirdo with shame-based ki strong enough to castrate a rhino with eye contact.
I closed my eyes and focused.
Grandpa's voice echoed in my head: "When the shame comes, breathe. Clench. Don't fight the urge—master it."
I slid into my Stance of Infinite Resistance—legs spread, knees bent, one hand hovering near the waistband of my pants like a samurai waiting to draw steel. Energy surged through me, coiling around my core like a snake in heat.
"I'm ready," I said.
No-Fap nodded. "Then prepare yourself. For your first trial… is mental."
Suddenly, the sky cracked like a broken screen.
And we weren't in the arena anymore.
I stood in my high school gym. Everyone was staring at me. My pants were missing. The health teacher was reading my search history aloud over the intercom.
Oh no. Not the Nightmare of Public Shame.
This was a psychic illusion. No-Fap had used the forbidden Technique of Transparent Memory, a method that drags your most embarrassing moment to the surface and makes you relive it in 4K.
I gritted my teeth.
"I'm not that kid anymore," I whispered.
Sure, I still clear my browser history every six hours like it's a sacred ritual, but I've grown, dammit.
The illusion trembled. My legs stopped shaking.
And I took a step forward.
No-Fap scowled.
"You resist well," he said. "But you have not faced the final test."
He raised his other hand.
And behind him, a portal opened.
From the swirling light stepped her.
My first crush. My forbidden muse. The woman who ruined my adolescence.
Mrs. Martinez. Eighth-grade Spanish teacher. Six-foot-two. Thick accent. Tighter sweaters.
She walked toward me, her heels clicking against the marble floor, hips swaying like a hypnotic metronome. Her eyes gleamed with the seductive knowledge that I once flunked three quizzes just to stare at her.
Not like this. Not again. She was my original sin.
"You must resist her," No-Fap said coldly. "Or surrender your soul to lust."
I dropped to one knee.
Sweat poured down my face.
My vision blurred.
My breathing turned shallow.
I activated the Seventh Cycle of Edging—a high-level meditation technique Grandpa warned me not to use until I could edge for nine hours straight. I had only done seven once. I might not survive this.
But if I die, at least I'll go out in a blaze of no-nut glory.
Time slowed.
Mrs. Martinez leaned down, her voice low and sultry.
"Benito," she purred. "Would you like to conjugate?"
God help me.
I screamed.
And resisted.
The air exploded around me as a shockwave of compressed shame energy surged out, blasting Mrs. Martinez back into the illusion portal. The arena reformed, the psychic projection shattering into motes of embarrassed light.
I stood, panting, eyes bloodshot, pants slightly looser than before.
"I didn't… bust," I gasped.
No-Fap stumbled back, eyes wide. "Impossible… you resisted the ultimate temptation."
Yeah, well, I studied for this test. With tissues and trauma.
A bell rang in the distance.
A slow, throbbing gong that pulsed in my bones.
"Congratulations," No-Fap said stiffly. "You have passed the First Trial. You are now eligible to ascend into Edge Foundation."
I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
My soul still trembled. My heart raced.
But inside, something glowed.
A Core had formed.
Not a normal core, like a Dantian or a Mana Node. This one throbbed. Pulsed. Moaned faintly, if I listened too long.
I had taken the first step.
And I knew I'd never be the same.
Later, I found a quiet spot in the edge chambers—a cave carved from obsidian stone, lit by bio-luminescent succulents that pulsed like hearts.
I sat and tried to breathe.
But instead, I laughed.
This is real. I'm cultivating martial arts by edging. I nearly got mind-blasted by my eighth-grade teacher's spectral thirst. And now I have a literal Shame Core inside me.
"What the hell is my life?" I muttered.
From the shadows, a figure chuckled.
I tensed.
A girl stepped forward, wearing a red sash and a black blindfold. Her body was lean, covered in smooth scars and intricate tattoos shaped like browser tabs.
"You handled yourself well," she said. "Not many can resist the forbidden illusions."
I frowned. "Who are you?"
She bowed slightly.
"My name is Jenna Jamesblade. Third Realm Gooner. I came to see the one they call Edgelord."
Nope. I can't. If one more person calls me that, I'm starting a cult.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
"To warn you," she said. "The High Goon Council knows you've awakened. And they fear you."
She leaned in closer.
"Because you've stepped into the Edge Foundation with a perfect Shame Core. That hasn't happened in years."
Perfect Core? So what, I'm the Chosen Wanker now?
"Thanks," I said, unsure how to respond to a compliment that sounded like an insult and an innuendo at the same time.
She smiled. "Train hard, Ben Dover. The next trial won't be so… solo."
Then she vanished into the shadows, her scent like cinnamon and VPN subscriptions.
I lay back against the cave wall.
My hands trembled.
But my soul was calm.
I survived. I resisted. I leveled up. One step closer to the Gooners who killed my dad. One stroke closer to vengeance.
And somewhere, deep within me, my Shame Core pulsed again.
Hungry.
Ready.