Seattle, Washington - 2045
"Alright chat, we're going in. Wish me luck."
Marcus Chen adjusted his VR headset, settling deeper into his gaming chair as the chat scrolled by with a mix of encouragement and mockery. Three years streaming, 200k subscribers, and he still got nervous before boss fights.
xXSephiroth420Xx: he's gonna die again lmao
NorthernStar88: LETS GO MARC YOU GOT THIS
TacticalToaster: $5 says he wipes in under 2 minutes
"Yeah yeah, laugh it up," Marc muttered, flexing his fingers in the haptic gloves. "But this time I've got the perfect build. Three months of grinding for the right Integration cores. I'm not dying at Crimson Valley again."
The VR rig hummed as the game loaded—Eternal Frontier Online, the VRMMO adaptation of his own web novel that had somehow become a cult hit. Five years ago, Marcus Chen had been Captain Marc Chen, Army Rangers, Iraq and Afghanistan veteran with two tours and a medical discharge. Then he'd become a web novelist, pouring his military experience into a fantasy world of monsters and magic.
Never thought anyone would care about his therapeutic writing exercise. Definitely never thought a Korean game studio would turn it into the most brutally difficult VR game on the market.
The world materialized around him. Crimson Valley Fortress, Northern Frontier, besieged by the Calamity Wave. Blood-red sky, screaming monsters, dying soldiers. The devs had nailed the atmosphere—maybe too well. Marc's therapist would have words about him repeatedly subjecting himself to realistic combat scenarios.
But damn if it wasn't satisfying.
His character loaded in: Arden Valekrest, Heir to the Grand Duchy, Rank 8 Imperial Academy graduate, 4th Stage Mana Heart cultivator at age 20. Level 89, three attempts at Crimson Valley, three deaths. The final story boss before the endgame content.
NorthernStar88: Still think Arden should've gone to Military Academy insteadTacticalToaster: That's not canon tho. Imperial Academy is where all the heirs goxXSephiroth420Xx: doesn't matter, he dies either way lmao
"Chat's not wrong," Marc admitted, drawing his saber—the in-game version of Frost's Whisper felt perfectly weighted in his hands. The haptic feedback was scary good. "I wrote Arden as the tragic hero. Talented but not talented enough. Rank 8 at Imperial means he's a monster compared to normal people, but the top 7 are the real freaks. He graduates, does his duty, dies heroically at twenty."
He'd meant it as a commentary on how the system failed even its best people. The Korean devs had turned it into the most punishing difficulty spike in gaming.
"Okay chat, here's the plan." Marc activated his build: Phase Hound Integration for mobility, Tempest Falcon for projectile dodging, Voidshade Panther for the damage phase. "We kite the adds, burn the Calamity beast when it—"
A Ravager-class monster burst through the wall.
"SHIT—defensive positions! PULL BACK TO SECONDARY WALLS!"
Marc's hands moved on instinct, years of real combat training translating seamlessly into game commands. He directed NPC soldiers with tactical precision, creating firing lanes, establishing fallback points. The game's AI was sophisticated enough to respond to proper military doctrine, which most players never figured out.
Marc wasn't most players. He'd actually done this shit in Fallujah.
"Marcus, Thane—suppressing fire on the left flank! Anna, get the wounded to the secondary walls!"
The battle flowed around him. Marc had written this scenario three years ago, plotted every wave, every monster type. Arden Valekrest, the dutiful heir, fighting a losing battle because the Imperial Academy had taught him politics and dueling instead of real warfare. Because the system was rotten and even the best couldn't save it.
TacticalToaster: dude's actually using real tactics
NorthernStar88: This is why Marc's streams are goated
xXSephiroth420Xx: he's still gonna die tho
"CALAMITY BEAST INCOMING!"
The boss materialized: a three-story nightmare of void energy and malice. Same one that had killed him twice before. The chat exploded with excitement.
Marc grinned. "Alright you ugly bastard. Third time's the charm."
He activated Phase Hound, flickering across the battlefield. Tempest Falcon let him read the boss's attack patterns, dodging with inches to spare. His saber work was flawless—fifteen years of actual CQB experience plus the game's skill system made Arden move like a demon.
The boss's health bar crawled downward. 50%. 40%.
"Chat, we're actually doing it! We're going to—"
The Calamity beast roared. A new attack pattern. One Marc had never seen before.
What—this wasn't in my outline—
Void energy erupted. Marc's character staggered. The beast's claw caught him mid-dodge, hurling Arden into the fortress wall with bone-crushing force.
His haptic suit delivered feedback—too much feedback. Marc gasped as phantom pain lanced through his ribs.
"Jesus—damage feedback is too high—"
He tried to pull up the settings menu. Nothing. The game wasn't responding.
Arden's health bar plummeted. 10%. 5%.
Marc's vision blurred. Not the headset—something else. The game felt wrong. Too real. Too visceral.
Blood filled his mouth. Wait, that's not possible. The rig can't simulate taste—
Through failing vision, he watched more monsters pour through the breach. The NPC soldiers were dying. Anna. Marcus. Thane. Characters he'd created, given names and backgrounds and deaths.
Why does this feel so real?
"This is fine," Arden's voice said—Marc's voice, but not. "This is how heroes die."
The words felt familiar. Not from the game. From his novel. Chapter 147, the scene where Arden Valekrest, Rank 8 Imperial Academy graduate, died buying time for his subordinates to escape.
No. This is a game. I'm sitting in my apartment. I'm streaming. This is—
The Calamity beast's claw descended.
Impact.
Pain.
Darkness.
And then, suspended in that void:
[GAME OVER]
The words hung in the black, rendered in the game's signature crimson font. Below them, options should have appeared: Respawn, Load Save, Exit to Menu.
Instead, the text glitched. Fractured. Reformed into something else entirely:
[RESPAWN LOCATION: VALEKREST MANOR][AGE REGRESSION: 12 YEARS][CHARACTER RESET: IMPERIAL ACADEMY PATH UNLOCKED][DIFFICULTY: PERMADEATH][LOADING...]
"What the fuck—"
Marc tried to rip off the VR headset. His hands wouldn't move. The darkness wasn't the game's loading screen—it was absolute. Complete. Suffocating.
Panic set in. Real panic, not game tension. His heart hammered. His breath came short. The darkness pressed in like—
Like being buried alive after the IED hit. Like the minutes before the medevac arrived. Like—
Then, sensation rushed back.
----
Valekrest Manor - Northern Grand Duchy
Arden Valekrest woke up screaming.
His hands flew to his chest, searching for the wound, the shattered ribs, the punctured lung. Nothing. Smooth skin. Strong heartbeat. He was—
This isn't the respawn point.
The thought came in Marc Chen's voice, tinged with panic. VR games didn't work like this. You didn't FEEL the silk sheets against your skin. You didn't smell morning frost through an open window. You didn't taste blood in your mouth from biting your tongue while screaming.
He looked at his hands.
A child's hands.
Small. Real. Impossibly real.
No no no no—
Marc—Arden—someone—stumbled out of bed. The room spun. This wasn't his Seattle apartment with the gaming setup and the empty Red Bull cans. This was the heir's childhood quarters, exactly as he'd described it in Chapter 3 of his novel, down to the hunting trophies on the wall and the wooden practice sword in the corner.
Every detail perfect. Every texture real.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Silver-white hair—the Valekrest trademark. Ice-blue eyes that carried the family's northern bloodline. Sharp features that would grow into the face he'd just died with in VR.
Arden Valekrest. Age twelve.
His protagonist. The tragic hero. The Rank 8 Imperial Academy graduate who died at Crimson Valley because being talented wasn't enough.
"This isn't real." His voice cracked—a child's voice. "This is some bug. Some glitch. I'm still in VR. I'm still—"
He pinched his arm. Pain. Sharp and immediate.
Slapped his face. His cheek stung.
Opened the window and stuck his hand outside. The winter cold bit into his skin, making his fingers ache.
"Okay. Okay." Marc forced himself to breathe, using the combat breathing techniques from Ranger training. Four counts in, hold, four counts out. "Assess the situation. Gather intel. Make a plan."
But the memories kept coming, crashing over him like waves.
Marcus Chen. Born in San Francisco. Army Rangers. Captain. Two tours Iraq, one Afghanistan. The IED that shattered his leg and ended his career. The medical discharge. The nightmares. Writing as therapy. The novel blowing up. The game deal. The streaming career. Thirty-four years of life.
Arden Valekrest. Born in Valekrest Manor. Eldest son and heir. Sword training from age six with Father. Magic lessons with Mother. The pressure of being the next Grand Duke. Mana Heart awakening at twelve. Twelve years of life.
Both sets of memories felt REAL. Equally real. Like he'd lived both lives simultaneously.
"This is impossible," he whispered. "People don't just... transmigrate into their own novels. That's fiction. That's—"
He stopped. Looked around the room again.
This was fiction. HIS fiction. Every detail, every person, every monster—he'd created it all. Written it over three years, 200 chapters of a web novel about a doomed world and the people trying to save it.
And now he was inside it.
"Isekai bullshit," Marc muttered, then laughed—a slightly hysterical sound. "I wrote a military fantasy novel and got isekai'd into it. The irony."
But this was real. Every sense screamed that it was real. Which meant—
He felt inside himself, searching for something that shouldn't exist. And there it was: mana. Flowing through meridians he'd invented for his magic system, circulating according to the Valekrest cultivation method he'd created.
He could FEEL it. The energy was warm, alive, responding to his attention.
2nd Stage Mana Heart, Arden's memories supplied. Just awakened three days ago. Father said it was exceptional talent. The family was proud.
Marc had written Arden as naturally talented. Not a once-in-a-generation genius like the top rankers at Imperial Academy, but solidly gifted. Good enough to make Rank 8 out of hundreds of noble prodigies. Good enough to matter.
Not good enough to survive.
"But I'm not just Arden anymore," Marc said slowly. "I'm both."
Marcus Chen: fifteen years of military experience. Combat tactics from modern combined-arms doctrine. Strategic thinking from actual warfare. Leadership experience from commanding troops under fire.
Arden Valekrest: innate magical talent. Valekrest bloodline. Twelve years of sword training. Family resources and authority.
Together?
"I can do better than Rank 8," Marc whispered. "I can do better than Imperial Academy."
The thought crystallized into certainty. In his novel, Arden went to Imperial Academy because that's where heirs went. He learned politics, dueling, proper noble behavior. He graduated Rank 8—impressive but not exceptional. He served dutifully, fought bravely, and died at twenty because the system had failed to prepare him for the real war.
But Marc knew better. He'd written the whole damn story. He knew Imperial Academy was a political quagmire that produced officers who looked good on parade grounds and died on real battlefields. He knew the Northern Military Academy—the one he'd created as a contrast—actually taught useful skills.
And he knew that in eight years, Crimson Valley would fall. The Northern Frontier would be overrun. And Arden Valekrest, tragic hero, would die buying time for a retreat that wouldn't matter.
Unless he changed it.
"Northern Military Academy," Marc said to his reflection. "No politics. No noble posturing. Just combat training and tactical education. That's where I need to be."
The door burst open.
"Young master! Are you alright?!"
Anna rushed in, face creased with concern. Behind her, Marcus and Thane stood at attention—the guards Marc had named after his old squad mates without really thinking about it.
Now they were real. Living, breathing people.
Anna had a daughter in the capital named Sophie. She sent half her salary home every month. She'd worked for the Valekrest family for fifteen years.
Marcus collected wooden figurines of monsters he'd killed. He had seventeen so far. His goal was fifty before retirement.
Thane's parents ran a bakery in the frontier town of Ironhearth. He sent them money and letters every week without fail.
Marc had written these details in his character notes. Throwaway background to make them feel real.
They WERE real now.
"I'm fine," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "Just a nightmare. The Mana Heart awakening was... more intense than expected."
Anna's expression softened. "Reaching 2nd Stage at your age would tax anyone, young master. Even a Valekrest prodigy needs rest."
"No." Marc stood, military bearing asserting itself unconsciously. "I need to see Father. Now."
The guards exchanged glances. Anna blinked in surprise.
"Young master, it's barely dawn. The Grand Duke won't be available until—"
"Then I'll wait in his study." Marc moved toward the door with the confident stride of someone who'd led men through worse than an awkward family conversation. "This can't wait."
"May I ask what's so urgent?" Anna asked carefully.
Marc met her eyes. "I'm not going to Imperial Academy. I'm going to Northern Military Academy instead."
The room went completely silent.
Anna's mouth opened and closed. The guards stared. Finally, she found her voice: "Young master, that's... the heir to a Grand Duchy doesn't attend military academy with commoners. Your father has already finalized all the arrangements for Imperial Academy. You're expected to—"
"I know what's expected." Marc cut her off gently. "But I'm the heir to the Northern Grand Duchy. The North is my responsibility. I should learn to defend it properly, not waste time playing politics in the capital."
And I know Imperial Academy produces Rank 8 graduates who die at Crimson Valley. I need to be better than that. I need to be Rank 1.
Anna looked like she wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. Her loyalty to the family warred with her concern for protocol.
"I'll... I'll inform the Grand Duke you wish to speak with him immediately," she said finally, curtseying.
After they left, Marc sat on the bed, hands trembling slightly.
This was real. This was actually, impossibly real.
He was Marcus Chen, thirty-four-year-old veteran and web novelist from Seattle.
He was Arden Valekrest, twelve-year-old heir to a Grand Duchy in a fantasy world.
He was both. Somehow.
And he had eight years before everything went to hell.
"Okay," he said to the empty room, forcing his breathing to steady. "Okay. I can work with this."
He'd been Captain Marc Chen, Army Rangers. He'd led men through Fallujah and Kandahar and brought most of them home. This wasn't that different—just the enemies were literal monsters and the stakes were an entire civilization.
And he had advantages. Complete knowledge of future events. Modern military tactics. And—he flexed his hand, feeling mana respond—actual magical talent to work with.
Marc closed his eyes and began the Valekrest cultivation breathing pattern. The mana responded instantly, flowing through channels that felt both utterly foreign and strangely natural.
Marcus Chen's tactical mind analyzed the energy flow, noting inefficiencies, optimizations. Arden Valekrest's muscle memory guided the circulation through paths practiced since childhood.
Together, they created something neither could achieve alone.
I wrote you to die at Crimson Valley, Marc thought, feeling the mana strengthen with each breath. Chapter 147. Age twenty. Heroic sacrifice. Rank 8 Imperial Academy graduate overwhelmed by superior numbers.
But I'm not just you anymore. I'm both of us.
His eyes opened, and they burned with determination no twelve-year-old should possess.
Time to write a different ending.
Northern Military Academy. Rank 1, not Rank 8. Perfect Integration build. Modern combined-arms doctrine applied to monster wave defense. Real training, not political posturing.
Save the family. Save the North. Survive past Crimson Valley.
And maybe, just maybe, figure out what the hell that "Game Over" screen had actually meant.
Arden Valekrest—Marcus Chen—whoever he was now—stood and began to plan his argument for the Grand Duke.
The heir had returned.
And this time, he wasn't following the script.