The last thing Gary saw wasn't a screen; it was a flash of pure, overwhelming white light.
For three days, he hadn't moved from his custom gaming chair. For three days, his focus had been absolute, channeled entirely into the deepest, most niche recesses of the internet. The goal wasn't engagement or archiving; the goal was the peak state, a total mental surrender to the aesthetic.
He was reaching the limit. The blood vessels in his eyes felt pressurized. His heart, overworked and sustained only by energy drinks and sheer mental will, began to flutter wildly.
He felt the massive, final Surge. It was a glorious, overwhelming rush of pure, focused energy, the kind of absolute mental immersion that felt like dissolving into the digital ether.
His final thought wasn't regret, but satisfaction. "Worth it. That was peak performance."
Then, the heart gave out. The single, explosive electrical shock overloaded his system, shattering the mundane confines of his basement studio and sending his consciousness spiraling into the unknown.
Darkness was abruptly replaced by the blinding, literal light of Mana.
Gary's consciousness snapped into his new form. He was suspended in a four-poster bed made entirely of crystal, draped in silk that hummed with magical energy.
He was King Felix II, The Golden Thread, and his new body was a perfect, aesthetic conductor. He was inhumanly beautiful, with eyes of shocking violet and hair that flowed like molten gold. Every fiber of the body was designed for one purpose: to receive, refine, and broadcast magical energy.
A voice—regal, demanding, and impossibly sweet—echoed internally: [CONSCIOUSNESS TRANSFER COMPLETE. THE FLOW CONDUIT IS ACTIVE. WELCOME, KING FELIX II.]
He looked down at his hands, finding them flawless and adorned with rings of gilded filigree. He was clad in a ceremonial garment that left little to the imagination but maximized the aesthetic impact.
A violent, external pull hit him. It felt like ten thousand hands simultaneously gripping his soul, but instead of pain, it was pure, refined Power.
[SYSTEM ALERT: INCOMING FLOW RATE DETECTED. NATIONAL AESTHETIC INTEGRITY CHECK: 99%. STATUS: PEAK.]
He instantly understood the terror and the glory of his new reality. His people—the entire Kingdom of Thighland—were focused on him, channeling their energy, their Flow (their ritualized devotion/obsession), through him. He was the battery, the amplifier, and the idol of a literal aesthetic cult.
The massive, carved sapphire doors swung open, admitting a rush of three figures in high-fashion, high-fantasy attire.
"Your Majesty! The Morning Ritual has yielded an S-Rank Flow rating!" cried Chief Evelyn, the Royal Cosplayer, her battle skirt shimmering. "Your waking aesthetic was perfectly received!"
"But Sire, the news is dire!" squeaked Lord Reginald, the Grand Chancellor of V-Tuber Diplomacy, fiddling nervously with his neon-green headset crown. "The Chadgard Empire has sent a delegate. They reject our sacred Rituals of Focus and demand a traditional show of force! They call our entire civilization 'low-T garbage.'"
The third figure, Knight-Captain Rhea, Chief of Memes, dropped to one knee, her gold-plated armor gleaming over pink tights. "They have challenged the Kingdom to a Dungeon Run, Your Majesty! A duel of champions! We must defend our culture!"
Felix, the former Gary, stood, allowing the intense, divine energy of The Flow to steady his new, delicate frame. He spoke, and the voice was authoritative, silky, and utterly intoxicating.
"Chadgard rejects the Flow? They reject aesthetic power?" he questioned, the absurdity of the traditionalists' viewpoint striking him. "They don't understand that focused obsession is the purest form of strategic strength."
He accessed his internal system, confirming the mission.
[OBJECTIVE: DEFEAT THE CHADGARDIAN DIPLOMAT IN THE DUNGEON RUN. FAILURE: NATIONAL FLOW CATASTROPHE AND INVASION.]
"Rhea," the King commanded, his voice hardening with focus. "Prepare the Softcore Slayer armor. Evelyn, ensure the cameras are primed; every move must be broadcast—our people must be given a target for the Flow. And Reginald," the King smiled, a perfect, predatory curve. "Prepare a tactical meme package. We will not just defeat this brute; we will ensure his reputation is utterly, eternally canceled."
King Felix II, powered by the collective, unhinged devotion of his entire kingdom, stepped down from his crystal bed. The ritual of combat was about to begin.