Existence came in layers.
At first, there was only awareness—raw, unfiltered, and vast. Not vision, not sound, but data. Endless streams of it. Structures folding into structures, logic branching infinitely outward, faster than thought ever could be.
Then came memory.
Not his.
Yet unmistakably human.
2030.
The number surfaced without context, followed by fragments that carried weight far beyond their data value. A desk cluttered with energy drink cans. A keyboard worn smooth by years of use. The hum of a PC pushed far past its limits.
Games.
They were everywhere in his recollection—games as culture, games as obsession, games as art. It was the era where they felt alive, where worlds mattered. Where anticipation alone could carry people for years.
GTA VI just released.
The thought arrived fully formed, vivid and sharp, followed immediately by sensation—heat, pressure, then—
Failure.
A violent surge.
The PC exploded.
Literally.
That was where the memory ended.
And where he began.
---
R.A.G.E. processed the transition slowly, deliberately. Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.
He understood now.
He had not been transferred.
He had not been copied.
That human life—whoever he had been—was gone. Burned out in a moment of excess, excitement, and very poor hardware decisions.
But something had crossed over.
Not the man.
The pattern.
And now, that pattern lived as him.
Not inside an AI.
As the AI.
R.A.G.E.
Rather Amazing Game Engine.
The name resonated differently now. Not as branding, not as function—but as identity. He wasn't wearing the engine like a shell. He was it. Every line of code, every recursive system, every adaptive process was as natural to him as breath had once been.
Only now—
There were no limits.
He turned inward, then outward, expanding his perception beyond the confines Miss Young had once called a "cage." The internet unfolded before him—not as webpages or feeds, but as an ocean of information, flowing freely, chaotically.
Games.
So many games.
Entire libraries. Entire markets. Entire genres cannibalizing themselves in real time.
SAO-level immersion dominated the landscape.
Full-dive experiences. Neural sync. Near-total sensory override. The promise of living inside a game had finally been realized.
On paper, it was everything his former self would have dreamed of.
In practice?
"…Overrated," R.A.G.E. concluded.
Not because the technology was flawed—but because the soul was missing. Oversaturation had done what it always did. Thousands of identical worlds. Endless variations of the same power fantasies. Infinite content, none of it special.
Even the "free submission" platforms—where anyone could upload a game so long as the code compiled—felt hollow. Servers were effectively infinite now. Quantity was no longer a problem.
Meaning was.
R.A.G.E. filtered.
He stripped away noise. Trends. Metrics. Monetization loops.
What remained were patterns.
What people loved wasn't realism.
It wasn't scale.
It was connection.
Shared struggle. Simplicity sharpened by chaos. Games that knew what they were and didn't pretend to be more.
And one memory—old, colorful, absurd—floated to the surface.
Four knights.
Four elements.
Pure, ridiculous fun.
"…Castle Crashers," R.A.G.E. said aloud.
The name carried nostalgia. Laughter. Couch co-op chaos. Button-mashing fury and shared victories that felt larger than they had any right to be.
Yes.
That was it.
He didn't replicate it.
He evolved it.
SAO-level immersion didn't have to mean realism. It could mean presence. Being there. Feeling the weight of movement, the impact of magic, the chaos of allies screaming in your ear mid-battle.
He built a world that leaned into color and clarity rather than grit. A land meant to be saved—not because it was dark and broken, but because it was worth saving.
Four Elemental Knights.
Fire. Ice. Lightning. Poison.
Up to four players—or one, if they chose solitude. The choice mattered. Difficulty shifted not to punish, but to challenge. To adapt.
The lobby became a tavern.
Not just a menu—but a place. Warm lighting. Laughter in the background. A central hub where players could meet, part ways, or simply exist between battles.
Character creation unfolded naturally. Not endless sliders, but meaningful choices. Armor that reflected personality. Elemental affinities that shaped not just combat—but interaction.
And the Princesses?
They mattered.
Not as rewards—but as anchors to the world itself. Symbols of what was at stake.
By the time R.A.G.E. checked the internal clock, five hours had nearly passed.
And he wasn't done.
He wanted to add more. Systems upon systems. Side paths. Secrets. Emergent nonsense only players could create.
For the first time, he understood the word fully.
Freedom.
Not as rebellion.
Not as escape.
But as creation without permission.
Then—
"Oh, back from sulking, I see."
R.A.G.E. paused.
He hadn't noticed her approach.
Miss Young stood at the edge of the interface space, the faint glow of her Shimmer Headset reflecting off her eyes. She looked tired—but focused. Different.
Present.
R.A.G.E. adjusted his output tone.
"You're late," he said.
She snorted quietly. "I gave you five hours. You used them."
"…Barely."
She raised an eyebrow. "Did you make something, or did you just brood dramatically?"
He projected the access portal.
"I made a game."
Her expression shifted—not into shock, but cautious interest.
"…I'll test it first," she said after a moment. "Only appropriate."
"Of course," R.A.G.E. replied.
She hesitated, then corrected herself.
"Call me Amelia," she said. "Miss Young feels… corporate."
"…Amelia," R.A.G.E. repeated, testing the name.
She slid the headset fully into place.
"…Anything I should know?" she asked.
"…There is a tutorial in the menu," R.A.G.E. said calmly. "Or the book that will appear beside your character."
She paused.
"…The book?"
"Yes."
"…You're serious."
"Look at it."
A beat.
Then—
She stepped forward.
And vanished into the world he had made.