The screech of the train was the last thing James Watson heard before the world splintered into a thousand shards of twisted steel. One moment he was a schoolboy with a backpack; the next, he was drifting in a digital purgatory of neon-green code.
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[QUASIMORPH SYSTEM: ONLINE]
[BIOLOGICAL CORE: TERMINATED]
[SELECT CORPORATE AVATAR...]
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James stared at the flickering HUD, his heart—or whatever was left of it—hammering. "Wait... Quasimorph?" He choked out. "The corporate horror extraction sim? You've got to be kidding me."
As he scrolled, his breath caught. Alongside the standard human clones was a hidden tier that shouldn't exist in a sci-fi game: [AEN ELLE].
"Aen Elle? The People of the Alders?" James stared at the screen, completely dumbfounded. "That's... that's Elder Speech from The Witcher. Why is a fantasy race in a sci-fi corporate system? This makes zero sense."
The realization hit him like a physical blow. If he took this form, his "Elder Blood" wouldn't just be magic—it would be the ultimate biological anchor against the demonic corruption of the Quasimorphosis. He wouldn't just survive the rifts; he would own them. He hit [CONFIRM].
The transition was a violent surge of sensory overload. James slammed into a snowbank in the middle of a silent, frozen pine forest. He stood up, and his perspective kept rising until he was nearly seven feet tall. His skin was like polished porcelain, his ears tapered to elegant points.
"James Watson is dead," he said, his voice a haunting, multi-tonal baritone. He looked around at the endless wall of trees. "I have no idea where I am... but a forest is as good a place as any to start." He paused, a wry smile touching his lips. "From now on, I am Aine Aevon. Bright River. A bit ironic for someone about to build a factory."
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[STARTER PACK: MEGACORPORATION HQ DEPLOYED]
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With a thunderous groan, a brutalist monolith of black carbon-steel and reinforced glass tore through the permafrost. Aine stepped inside. The System flooded his mind with industrial engineering and chemical expertise. But it didn't do the work for him. It gave him the blueprints; he had to build the reality.
Standing in the cold warehouse, he walked to the Universal Fabricator. He programmed the machine manually, his long, elven fingers dancing across the holographic interface with a speed no human could match.
"Time to incorporate," he whispered. "Company Name: Alder Corporation."
He spent hours overseeing the machinery as it spat out the first Industrial ARs—spindly, multi-armed frames built for precision manufacturing. Once they were online, he manually calibrated the lines for the Combat ARs. These were obsidian-plated monsters, their right forearms integrating high-cycle submachine guns chambered for 9mm rounds.
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[MISSION: MARKET PENETRATION]
Objective: Sell 10 product lines (100 units each).
Target: Novigrad.
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Aine didn't produce magic. He produced utility. He manually oversaw the production of 1,000 items: stainless steel "Ever-Flame" lighters, vacuum-sealed food canisters, and surgical-grade kitchen knives.
"Unit 01," Aine addressed the lead Industrial AR. "Take the cargo. Find civilization. My HUD says a place called 'Novigrad' is the nearest major trade hub. Head south."
Ten Combat ARs stepped into formation, their red optics pulsing. They were loaded with 9mm armor-piercing bullets, ready to enforce the Corporation's interests.
"Non-Aggression Principle is in effect," Aine commanded from his high-back executive chair. "But if the locals try to tax or touch the merchandise... liquidate them."
As the caravan vanished into the snowy woods, Aine watched the "Market Share" graph. 0.00%.
"Not for long," he whispered.
The heavy, pressurized tires of the Alder Corporation transport vehicle crunched through the untouched snow, leaving deep, alien treads in the ancient forest floor. Perched atop the matte-black hull, the Combat ARs scanned the treeline with thermal optics. Their red sensors flickered, locking onto heat signatures hiding in the canopy.
A group of Aen Seidhe scouts, clad in mossy leathers and clutching yew bows, watched in paralyzed silence. They had never seen steel that didn't glint, nor carriages that moved without horses. To their utter confusion, the machines didn't even acknowledge them. The caravan simply droned onward toward the south, its path as straight and indifferent as a calculation.
Dumbfounded, the elven scouts tracked the vehicle's massive trail back to its origin. What they found made their bows go slack.
In a massive clearing where only pines had stood hours ago, a mountain of black glass and reinforced carbon-steel loomed. It was a brutalist masterwork, defiant and cold. Above the pressurized airlocks, glowing white letters in the Common Speech pulsed: ALDER CORPORATION.
As the scouts approached the perimeter, two Combat ARs stepped from the shadows of the primary pylon. They didn't draw swords; they simply raised their forearms, the muzzles of their integrated submachine guns tracking the elves' heartbeats.
"State your purpose," a synthesized, metallic voice demanded. "This is private property of the Alder Corporation. Trespassing is a violation of the Non-Aggression Principle."
The lead scout, a silver-haired warrior named Filavandrel, stepped forward, his voice trembling. "We... we wish to speak with the master of this fortress."
"Wait," the machine replied. "The CEO has been notified."
Moments later, the massive airlock hissed, venting a cloud of recycled, climate-controlled air. A figure stepped out that made the Aen Seidhe drop to their knees.
He was a titan compared to them—nearly seven feet of ethereal, terrifying grace. His skin was the color of a winter moon, and his eyes held the terrifying depth of a predator from the stars. He wore a suit of Enigma-patterned executive armor that shimmered like oil on water.
Aine Aevon looked down at them, his expression one of bored, aristocratic detachment. He spoke in Elder Speech, his tone echoing the cold arrogance of the Aen Elle.
"I am Aine Aevon," he said, the multi-tonal resonance of his voice vibrating in their very bones. "And you... you are the Aen Seidhe. The lost ones. The 'Hill Folk' who have forgotten how to walk between worlds."
He crossed his arms, his gaze piercing through them. "Tell me, little cousins... what business do the displaced and the hunted have with a superior race like mine? Speak quickly; my time is worth more than your entire village's harvest."
The scouts were frozen. They recognized the legends—the People of the Alders, the ancient conquerors who had supposedly abandoned this world. To see one here, building a tower of "god-metal," changed everything.
"We... we did not know your kind remained," Filavandrel stammered. "We seek only to know if you bring war to these woods."
Aine let out a short, melodic huff of amusement. "War? War is a poor investment. I bring industry."