The throne room of Castle Dreadfall, nestled within the obsidian-cracked mountains of the continent Thalmora, stood in eerie silence.
Above, jagged crimson chandeliers glowed faintly with a low hum of corrupted mana. Their blood-colored crystals pulsed in intervals — a visual effect once sold during the third anniversary event for 10,000 credits. Now, no one would be around to appreciate it. Not even the devs.
On a polished black throne inlaid with hexed emeralds sat a figure unmoving. A being not of flesh but of ancient bone, wrapped in regal, rune-scorched armor and wearing a heavy crown that shimmered like stardust under a cursed moon.
This was the final avatar of the player known as Veyros the Hollow.
Or, in real life, someone far more ordinary. But that name had long lost meaning here.
Game Message: The servers will shut down in 00:04:11.
The countdown ticked on in the corner of his vision. A soft chime echoed every full minute — ceremonial, even now.
He exhaled quietly, though the skeletal form he now wore didn't need to breathe.
"Four minutes left, huh…" His voice was deep and laced with static. That too was an effect: "Voice of the Abyss – Tier IV: Applies auditory distortion to all speech, enhancing immersion."
He tilted his head and stared forward at the empty room.
Once, the guild Obsidian Eclipse had been full of life. Not in the traditional sense — they played dark beings, rulers of war and necromancy, wielders of forgotten gods' relics. But behind every villainous monologue was a friend. A person laughing at 2 AM after a botched dungeon run or celebrating a new skill unlock like it was a real promotion.
There had been 22 of them. And now? Just him.
They hadn't quit. Life just… caught up.
A memory surfaced. One of the earliest.
Player: RinDarkBlade
"Yo, Veyros! I gave my vampire NPC a coffee addiction, you gotta see this!"
He'd laughed for five solid minutes as the elegant bloodsucker demanded cappuccino before bloodshed.
"Those were good times…"
He opened the Guild Terminal, a floating screen of deep violet with black-gold runes. The interface flickered with dust-like particles — a visual bug that never got patched, one he now found oddly charming.
Guild: Obsidian Eclipse
Founded: Year 462 in Thalmora / 5th Beta Phase IRL
Active Members: 1/22
Guild Rank: S (PvE), A (PvP), RP: SS
Castle Ownership: Dreadfall (All Levels Maintained)
The final part brought a brief smile.
Castle Dreadfall was a multi-level fortress, shaped like a spiked crown piercing the mountain itself. Each level was themed, styled by different guild members. Veyros had designed the throne room and the Vaults. Rin designed the blood-soaked opera chamber. Another friend created the gardens that bloomed only under starlight — a programming miracle, they'd said.
A soft knock echoed from the edge of the hall.
He turned slightly.
There he was — Aravell, the NPC Veyros had crafted from scratch. A boy, but no ordinary child. His glowing blue eyes shimmered with passive loyalty. His armor, elegant and battle-worn, matched the sigils on Veyros's own plate.
"Lord Veyros," Aravell said, bowing, his voice carefully calibrated for calmness and elegance. "The twilight hour approaches."
He always spoke in riddles. Veyros programmed him that way.
Veyros stood slowly. "It does. It's almost time."
NPC: Aravell, Knight-Warden of the 9th Circle
Race: Spirit-Walked Human (Custom)
Role: Right hand of the Guildmaster.
AI Complexity: Max
Emotion Scaling: 96%
Custom Line Memory: Enabled (3,221 entries)*
Aravell tilted his head. "Will you abandon this world, as the others did?"
"I suppose I already have," Veyros said. "I just haven't left yet."
Aravell approached slowly, his boots echoing on the marble floor. "Should I ready the ceremonial blade?"
"No need," Veyros replied. "Let me sit here a little longer."
The game had many final-day events — some players were PvPing in the capital cities. Others made speeches in the forums. Veyros?
He just wanted to watch the world end from his throne.
Game Message: 00:01:00 remaining.
He opened the Inventory for one last look.
The throne room of Castle Dreadfall, nestled within the obsidian-cracked mountains of the continent Thalmora, stood in eerie silence.
Above, jagged crimson chandeliers glowed faintly with a low hum of corrupted mana. Their blood-colored crystals pulsed in intervals — a visual effect once sold during the third anniversary event for 10,000 credits. Now, no one would be around to appreciate it. Not even the devs.
On a polished black throne inlaid with hexed emeralds sat a figure unmoving. A being not of flesh but of ancient bone, wrapped in regal, rune-scorched armor and wearing a heavy crown that shimmered like stardust under a cursed moon.
This was the final avatar of the player known as Veyros the Hollow.
Or, in real life, someone far more ordinary. But that name had long lost meaning here.
Game Message: The servers will shut down in 00:04:11.
The countdown ticked on in the corner of his vision. A soft chime echoed every full minute — ceremonial, even now.
He exhaled quietly, though the skeletal form he now wore didn't need to breathe.
"Four minutes left, huh…" His voice was deep and laced with static. That too was an effect: "Voice of the Abyss – Tier IV: Applies auditory distortion to all speech, enhancing immersion."
He tilted his head and stared forward at the empty room.
Once, the guild Obsidian Eclipse had been full of life. Not in the traditional sense — they played dark beings, rulers of war and necromancy, wielders of forgotten gods' relics. But behind every villainous monologue was a friend. A person laughing at 2 AM after a botched dungeon run or celebrating a new skill unlock like it was a real promotion.
There had been 22 of them. And now? Just him.
They hadn't quit. Life just… caught up.
A memory surfaced. One of the earliest.
Player: RinDarkBlade
"Yo, Veyros! I gave my vampire NPC a coffee addiction, you gotta see this!"
He'd laughed for five solid minutes as the elegant bloodsucker demanded cappuccino before bloodshed.
"Those were good times…"
He opened the Guild Terminal, a floating screen of deep violet with black-gold runes. The interface flickered with dust-like particles — a visual bug that never got patched, one he now found oddly charming.
Guild: Obsidian Eclipse
Founded: Year 462 in Thalmora / 5th Beta Phase IRL
Active Members: 1/22
Guild Rank: S (PvE), A (PvP), RP: SS
Castle Ownership: Dreadfall (All Levels Maintained)
The final part brought a brief smile.
Castle Dreadfall was a multi-level fortress, shaped like a spiked crown piercing the mountain itself. Each level was themed, styled by different guild members. Veyros had designed the throne room and the Vaults. Rin designed the blood-soaked opera chamber. Another friend created the gardens that bloomed only under starlight — a programming miracle, they'd said.
A soft knock echoed from the edge of the hall.
He turned slightly.
There he was — Aravell, the NPC Veyros had crafted from scratch. A boy, but no ordinary child. His glowing blue eyes shimmered with passive loyalty. His armor, elegant and battle-worn, matched the sigils on Veyros's own plate.
"Lord Veyros," Aravell said, bowing, his voice carefully calibrated for calmness and elegance. "The twilight hour approaches."
He always spoke in riddles. Veyros programmed him that way.
Veyros stood slowly. "It does. It's almost time."
NPC: Aravell, Knight-Warden of the 9th Circle
Race: Spirit-Walked Human (Custom)
Role: Right hand of the Guildmaster.
AI Complexity: Max
Emotion Scaling: 96%
Custom Line Memory: Enabled (3,221 entries)*
Aravell tilted his head. "Will you abandon this world, as the others did?"
"I suppose I already have," Veyros said. "I just haven't left yet."
Aravell approached slowly, his boots echoing on the marble floor. "Should I ready the ceremonial blade?"
"No need," Veyros replied. "Let me sit here a little longer."
The game had many final-day events — some players were PvPing in the capital cities. Others made speeches in the forums. Veyros?
He just wanted to watch the world end from his throne.
Game Message: 00:01:00 remaining.
He opened the Inventory for one last look.
Game Message: 00:00:00 remaining.
Server shutdown complete. Logging out…
…
…
Nothing.
No fade to black. No return to desktop. No system crash. No message.
Veyros remained seated, still on the throne.
The world had not vanished.
He slowly turned his head. The room remained intact — every corner of Castle Dreadfall's throne hall untouched. The chandeliers still glowed faintly overhead. The wind still hissed softly through the ancient cracks in the marble.
And yet…
Something was wrong.
He lifted one armored hand, almost absently. The feel of cold metal on his fingertips — he felt it. Not as a vibration effect or a sensory illusion. Real texture. Real contact.
He pressed both hands onto the arms of the throne and stood.
The weight of his body shifted naturally, not in a pre-calculated animation. His plated boots struck the floor — not with a sound file, but with a solid, reverberating clack.
For the first time in this body, he felt gravity.
He breathed in — though he had no lungs. The instinct still triggered. The air was sharp, dry, and real.
"This… isn't right," he muttered.
His voice was undistorted. No voice mod effect. No abyssal layering. Just his voice — quiet, distant, and confused.
There was no UI. No HP. No mana bar. No command list.
Just silence.
Footsteps echoed across the stone.
"Lord Veyros."
He turned toward the voice.
It was Aravell — his trusted second, his right hand. The male NPC he had created with such care, standing tall and poised, blue eyes flickering with composed intensity beneath his silver-detailed armor.
But there was something in his gaze.
Something aware.
Aravell stepped forward. His gait was too natural. No grid-based pathing. No floaty NPC walk cycle.
"…The energy of the world has shifted," he said calmly.
Veyros stared at him. "What do you mean?"
"I cannot say." Aravell stopped a few paces away. "It feels… familiar, but also wrong. As if the foundation beneath my feet has been rewritten."
"You're not talking like normal," Veyros said softly.
Aravell tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly. "My speech parameters remain as always."
But they didn't.
He was responding to tone. To inflection. Not keywords. Not commands.
"Jump," Veyros said flatly, out of habit.
Aravell didn't move. He frowned. "Why would I?"
Veyros took a step back.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
He walked toward the center of the room, his fingers curling unconsciously. The sensation of the polished stone beneath his boots… the distant wind brushing the edges of his cloak… all of it was real.
He looked down at his armored hand.
He was still undead — that much was clear. The cold still clung to him like a second skin. But now he could feel it. Not like a living man. Duller, colder. As if sensations were being filtered through layers of distance.
Muted clarity.
"Aravell," he said, slowly. "Do you… feel different?"
Aravell was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "But I do not know how to describe it. My limbs respond as before. My thoughts remain intact. But… I feel as if I am being watched by something I cannot name."
Veyros turned and looked toward the high arching windows.
The sky stretched far — impossibly far. Rich with layered blues and glowing clouds that shimmered faintly with mana. He had never seen it rendered that way before. No pixel lines. No horizon fog. Just distance. True distance.
And flying far above the mountains — a creature. A winged shadow. Not part of any current event cycle. No spawn points in this region. It circled once and vanished behind the clouds.
"…This is no longer the game world," Veyros whispered.
He looked down again. His armor felt heavy. Real. His masked face itched — not physically, but in a way his mind recognized as discomfort.
"I can feel the air," he said.
"You could not before?"
"No," Veyros answered quietly. "I was never really here before."
Aravell was silent.
Veyros stepped back toward the throne, then stopped halfway. The silence of the room was no longer passive — it was anticipatory. Alive.
Something had changed.
And whether this was a dream, a trick, or something far stranger…
…he had not logged out.
Veyros raised one gauntleted hand and focused.
No command window. No spell list. Just memory.
He called upon a spell he had cast hundreds of times in the past — not because it was powerful, but because it was convenient.
Tier 1. Fireball.
The moment the words left his mouth, something changed in the air.
A ripple. A crackle. A pulse like heat lightning behind his eyes.
And then — it formed.
A sphere of fire, hovering above his palm, wild and surging. Not the neat, game-generated projectile he remembered. This was unstable. Raw. Its light bled out across the throne room, casting flickering shadows like a living torch.
The heat brushed his faceplate. Not an effect. Not cosmetic.
Actual warmth.
He released it.
The fireball arced forward — and exploded.
It struck a stone column near the side wall with a deafening roar, blasting fragments in all directions. The entire room shook as the shockwave rolled outward, scattering dust and splinters of marble like dry leaves in a storm.
A scorch mark the size of a wagon wheel burned into the wall. The once-flawless column was cracked and glowing faintly with embers.
Veyros stood frozen.
He hadn't empowered it. Hadn't used any amplification gear. That was a basic, first-tier spell.
And yet, it reacted like volatile magic unleashed into the air of a world that wasn't ready to hold it.
"…It shouldn't be that strong," he murmured.
Aravell had drawn his sword, standing at attention beside the throne. His expression was calm, but his knuckles were white on the hilt.
"My lord," he said quietly, "was that… intentional?"
"No," Veyros answered. "But it confirms something."
He turned sharply.
"Gather every resident of the castle. I want them assembled in the lower grand hall. I'll address them shortly."
Aravell hesitated only for a second, then nodded. "At once, Lord Veyros."
"Oh—and instruct the surface patrols. I want every tier-one undead under our banner sweeping the outer grounds. No exceptions. If anything moves beyond the castle walls, I want to know."
Aravell gave a slight bow and turned to leave, cloak fluttering behind him as his footsteps echoed into the hallways beyond.
Veyros stood alone in the throne room for a moment, letting the silence settle.
That spell was real. Too real.
Magic had never felt dangerous before.
He made his way down the eastern corridor, past the great obsidian statues and whispering candle flames that lined the walls. Every sound echoed differently now. The faint creaks of the old stone. The way his armor brushed against his cloak. These were not ambient effects. They were life.
He passed through the dining hall next — vast, opulent, and nearly empty at this hour. Just one figure remained at the long table's far end.
A tall man in crimson robes, standing behind the carved wooden counter with a chalice in hand.
The steward of Castle Dreadfall's feasts: Malgedrin, the Crimson Palate. Veyros hadn't interacted with him often — he was one of the few NPCs designed entirely by other guild members.
Malgedrin turned as Veyros entered, his eyes a dark gold that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. "Lord Veyros," he said with courtly grace. "Has the moon fallen, or is this visit as unexpected as I believe it to be?"
Veyros stopped at the threshold. "Something's changed. I want you with the others. Aravell is gathering everyone in the lower hall."
Malgedrin blinked slowly. Then gave a short bow. "As you wish. Shall I prepare refreshments?"
"…Not yet."
Malgedrin inclined his head again and moved to exit through the side door. Veyros remained a moment longer, glancing at the untouched feast still laid out on the silver platters.
It wasn't decorative. He could smell it now.
Roasted meats. Spiced wines. Breads warm from the oven.
He left before the hunger could confuse him.
By the time he returned to the lower grand hall — a cavernous room filled with black banners, spiraling columns, and eerie green torches — nearly every NPC was present.
Some stood silently in formation. Others conversed quietly in corners. A few — mostly the lower-ranked undead — simply stood and swayed, their behavior minimal without specific orders.
Aravell was there. So was Malgedrin. And dozens more.
Veyros stepped forward. His boots echoed across the stone until he stood atop the raised dais meant for formal announcements.
The room fell quiet.
They all looked to him — not with programmed loyalty, but with something deeper.
Expectation. Fear. Curiosity.
Veyros looked out across them.
Servants he had built. Guardians his comrades had designed. NPCs they had all laughed about, named in jest, fine-tuned for lore consistency — and yet now, they stood waiting like living retainers in a court of bone and stone.
He took a breath.
"This world is not what it once was."
Silence.
He slowly raised one hand and clenched it into a fist.
"I don't know if we've crossed a barrier or been pulled through one. But the laws we knew… the rules we relied on… are no longer in place."
A faint wind passed through the far archway, rustling the green flame torches as if in agreement.
"I have confirmed one thing," Veyros said at last. His voice low, but clear. "This… is no longer a game."