From a young age, I had an overwhelming love for games.
I didn't particularly favor any specific genre; I enjoyed most games. However, among them, the genre I played the most was FPS (First-Person Shooter).
If you hit an enemy, they die. If you get hit, you die.
At the time, I think I was drawn to this intuitive yet fair system.
So when FPS games emerged in virtual reality, I was more enthusiastic than anyone else.
I even took a leave of absence from university and cashed out the savings I'd accumulated during my military service to purchase a VR headset.
But was it because I loved games too much? Or because I was too immersed in the FPS genre?
One day, after being selected as a tester for a new FPS game, I somehow became fully immersed in the game world itself.
The game I was trapped in was a war game set on the Eastern Front of World War II.
To make matters worse, the character I possessed was a small, frail girl soldier, seemingly added for commercial appeal.
As a result, I had to endure all sorts of brutal experiences just to survive.
I was deployed to nearly every major battlefield, including Leningrad, Stalingrad, and Kursk. Through slaughtering fascist bastards in countless battles, I came to understand the true horrors of war firsthand.
Fortunately, the game I'd been transmigrated into had an ending.
Just as I instinctively knew that death in the game meant the end in reality, I naturally realized that ending the war would allow me to return to the real world.
And when news of Hitler's suicide finally arrived, signaling the end of the hellish war,
I managed to escape that godforsaken game world and return to the real world I had longed for.
Rumble—
"Blyat!"
For some reason, my body and identity hadn't reverted to their original state.
I had become a severe PTSD sufferer, so traumatized that I mistook the sound of thunder for artillery fire.