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He learned the basics from copy-pasting Python scripts and rummaging through Github repos, clinging to the hope that he could live up to the myth of the root warriors he idolized. He spent his nights in IRC channels, surrounded by the OGs who spoke in code and jargon he barely understood, trying desperately to fit in. He memorized their slang, their way of talking, how they tossed around words like zero-day, buffer overflow, and SQLi like it was child’s play. Delastelle thought he was one of them—one of the old-school gods who could crack the planet if they wanted to.
His obsession turned to a singular target: Endchan, the notorious imageboard known for its complete anarchy, where anyone could post anything without consequence. It wasn’t just some random forum to him—it was the ultimate proving ground. If he could take control of Endchan, he could finally prove he wasn’t just another wannabe.
He spent weeks gathering exploits, stacking scripts he barely understood, trying to convince himself he was root material. His goal was simple: bring Endchan down, take over the admin’s account, and let everyone know that Delastelle was king. He’d heard rumors about the site’s weak security, and like any good script kiddie, he thought it’d be a walk in the park.
He bragged to his friends on the dark web, promising a spectacle like no other. “Watch me get root on this piece of garbage,” he’d say, masking his nerves with false confidence. They hyped him up, calling him a true 1337, a hacker ready to join the ranks of the legendary greybeards. But deep down, Delastelle knew he was just riding the coattails of the real hackers who’d paved the way before him.
When the night came, Delastelle loaded up his attack. He unleashed a DDoS that barely scratched the surface of Endchan’s servers, but it was enough to slow them down. He felt that rush—the adrenaline of thinking he was in control, as if he was root of the digital world, pulling all the strings. He opened up a brute-force tool, hoping to crack the admin’s password, convinced that in a few minutes, he’d be inside.
But reality hit hard. The password didn’t break. The server logs lit up, showing his IP. He wasn’t as anonymous as he thought. Panic set in. He had no idea how to cover his tracks, no clue how deep he was in. His so-called hacks were nothing more than canned scripts he pulled off Pastebin.
The hate started almost instantly. Endchan users—those faceless trolls he wanted to impress—found him out. They didn’t see him as some 1337 hacker fighting the system. To them, he was just a script kiddie, a kid with delusions of grandeur, trying to play with the big boys. The hate came in waves, anonymous users mocking him in posts, doxxing him, and making sure everyone knew that Delastelle was nothing but a fraud.
They called him a skid, laughed at his failed attempts, and turned his name into a meme on the very board he tried to conquer. He couldn’t even show his face in the underground forums anymore. His old IRC crew ghosted him, embarrassed they ever associated with someone who thought brute-forcing a password would make them root.
The myth he tried to live up to was shattered. He wasn’t a part of the 31337, not even close. He was just a kid with too much ambition and too little skill, trying to be something he never was. The real hackers watched him fail and didn’t bother to help. They let him burn because he wasn’t one of them—and he never would be.
But Delastelle didn’t quit. Humiliated and alone, he kept telling himself he’d rise again, that one day he’d be more than just a script kiddie. He stayed in the shadows, learning, waiting, hoping for a second chance to prove them all wrong. To one day be the root he always dreamed of.