In the city of Amania, on a quiet Monday morning, inside a small house where the windows were always shut and the curtains forever drawn, an alarm cut through the stillness. Lutero groaned, half wishing he could ignore it, but habit dragged his eyes open. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his face.
Across the room, the game capsule waited—cold metal, faint lights, a silent invitation. Just looking at it gave him a familiar rush of energy. Real life was slow, ordinary. But inside that capsule, he controlled everything. There, he wasn't just a player. He was the ruler of an empire he had built from scratch.
He swung his legs out of bed, still yawning, and stepped toward the capsule. The room felt unusually quiet that morning, like the world was holding its breath. He didn't think much of it. His focus was on the escape ahead of him. With a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he climbed in.
The system hummed to life. Warm light brushed his face. He shut his eyes, waiting for the familiar loading sequence. It always took a few seconds—long enough for anticipation to build, short enough for him to never get bored of it.
Then everything went wrong.
A bolt of pain slammed into his chest out of nowhere. Sharp, deep, unforgiving. It stole his breath and crushed his thoughts in a single instant. Lutero gasped and clutched at his chest, fingers shaking uncontrollably.
His heart wasn't beating—
it was fighting.
Jerking wildly.
Breaking its own rhythm.
His vision swayed. The edges darkened. The capsule blurred into strange shapes, as if the world were melting around him.
Through the haze, the screen in front of him flickered. A message appeared:
"Welcome, Master Lutero."
He never got the chance to read it twice. Darkness swallowed him whole.
He didn't know how long he was out. Minutes, hours—it all felt the same. But eventually, consciousness crept back in, like a cold tide touching his mind. He felt something soft around him. Not a blanket. Not his sheets. Something heavier, smoother.
His fingers brushed it. The texture was wrong—thick, durable, almost luxurious. Nothing like anything he owned.
A warm light washed over his face. Sunlight.
Sunlight?
He opened his eyes. Above him, a pale blue sky. Fresh air filled his lungs, cleaner and sharper than anything in the city. Leaves rustled overhead. Birds called out somewhere in the distance.
He pushed himself onto his elbows, disoriented. "Where… where am I? What happened? Did I collapse? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating?"
He pinched his arm without thinking.
The sting was real.
But the skin wasn't.
His hands were pale. Smooth. Almost perfect. His arms looked different—stronger, leaner, nothing like the body he knew so well.
His breath caught in his throat. "This… this isn't me."
He stood slowly. His body moved too easily, too lightly—like he had shed weight he didn't know he carried. His balance was better. His senses sharper. Every sound seemed closer, every breath deeper.
That's when he saw them.
Seven people lying in the grass, unconscious, each one arranged as if they'd simply collapsed mid-step. Lutero froze. He knew those faces. He had seen them countless times—
on screens, in character art, in the lore he helped write.
But never in real life.
Adric Silver was the first he recognized. Dark hair, bright green eyes behind closed lids. A scholar who had spent his life buried in ancient texts.
Ragnar Silver lay nearby, red hair fanned across the ground. His massive sword—Kalifa, the Dragon Slayer—rested beside him, almost glowing in the sunlight.
Roberth Silver's calm expression looked almost peaceful. His green hair and steady posture matched the image Lutero had always known of him—the quiet archer who rarely spoke but never missed.
A smaller figure lay a bit farther away. Frail, delicate, almost harmless at first glance. But Lutero knew better. The empire's deadliest assassin always looked like that—fragile enough to be ignored until it was too late.
Then his eyes fell on the three women. They didn't look like they were sleeping. They looked like they were resting after a long journey.
Elyra Silver, with soft pink hair and warm rose-colored eyes hidden behind her lashes, seemed to radiate calm even unconscious. The healer whose kindness shaped entire stories.
Nyssia Silver, golden hair scattered like threads of light, had her chin tilted slightly upward, her posture firm even in unconsciousness. The archmage whose magic could tear a battlefield apart.
And Althaea Silver—silver hair shifting gently with the breeze, her presence so quiet yet so heavy it felt like the forest itself breathed with her. A spiritual elemental mage who had always seemed more spirit than flesh.
Lutero stared at them, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't hallucination.
These were his characters.
Characters who shouldn't exist.
Characters who were now lying at his feet.