The neon streetlights blurred before Aiyan's eyes a fractured mosaic of amber and grey. This nightly pilgrimage from the office was a private war, a ritual of exhaustion. As he spilled out of the local bus and onto the pavement, a heavy weariness didn't just hit him; it draped itself over his shoulders like a leaden shroud. At thirty-four, an age where the foundations of life should be set in stone, Aiyan felt like a ghost haunting his own footsteps.
"Thirty-four years," he whispered to the hollow space in his mind. "What is the sum of them? A clerical existence, a wage that vanishes before the month is half-spent. How could I ever tether another soul to this sinking ship? I've devoured libraries of fiction and conquered digital empires, yet here I stand wealthy in useless lore, a pauper in reality."
He walked, though his legs moved by muscle memory alone. The cacophony of the city the rhythmic chime of Horn, the discordant shouting of vendors receded into a dull hum. He was busy weaving a noose of self-pity, wondering why he hadn't managed to arrange his life like the others.
He was so lost in the labyrinth of his own failures that he didn't notice the pavement give way to the asphalt of the main road. By the time the world snapped back into focus, it was too late. A massive truck loomed over him like a mechanical reaper. Two headlights, twin suns of cold white fire, blinded him.
CRASH.
The impact was a brutal symphony. Aiyan felt his body flung into the void. When he hit the road, the world tilted and went dark. He felt his life leaking into the dust, his pulse a slowing drumbeat. The screams of onlookers reached him as if through miles of water.
"Is this the end?" his final thought flickered like a dying candle. "Just one more chance... to unmake the mistakes, to rewrite the prose of this wretched life..."
The darkness didn't just fall; it rose to meet him, heavy and absolute. Aiyan's heart gave its final, stuttering beat, heavy with the ache of things left unsaid.
A New Horizon
When Aiyan opened his eyes, he felt as though he had been crudely rendered into a low-budget VR simulation. He blinked at the ceiling a rustic weave of wood and thatch that exhaled a sweet, herbal scent.
"Did that truck send me to a magic hospital?" Aiyan muttered. "Or have I reached the celestial plains? But the beds in the afterlife surely wouldn't be this stiff." He pinched his arm. It stung. A physical sensation. He wasn't a phantom.
Then, a voice, dry and resonant, echoed not in the room, but within the hollows of his skull.
"Ahem... Master Rola."
Aiyan nearly levitated off the bed. "Who's there? A ghost?"
"Be calm," the invisible voice replied. "I am no specter. I am your Life-Assistant System. Do not bother searching for a screen; I am woven directly into your neural pathways."
Aiyan stared at the empty air. The system cleared its throat.
"Welcome. You are currently on the fringes of a world called Ethoria. And a minor administrative update: in this realm, the name 'Aiyan' has been retired. You are henceforth known as 'Rola'."
"Rola? Sounds like an expensive Italian coffee," he mused, a phantom of his old wit surfacing. "But how? After that impact, I should have been nothing but a memory."
"Information restricted," the system replied."
"Then who are you?"
"I am Laka. I was wrought by my Great Master to serve as your guide."
"Great Master?" Rola's brow furrowed. "Who is he?"
"Information restricted, the system replied."
Rola gave a cynical smirk. "So yo don't know important things. "
The system gave a cough. "Kuhuk."
Rola finally took stock of his new vessel. He possessed a body that felt forged rather than grown sinewy, powerful, radiating a vitality he hadn't felt in a decade. He looked eighteen, perhaps twenty. A body most would trade a kingdom for.
The door creaked open, revealing an elderly woman carrying a steaming bowl of soup. Her face was a map of kind wrinkles. Seeing him upright, her eyes widened.
"Oh! You've mended quickly, child. In all my years, I've never seen a soul recover with such ferocity."
"Thank you... Grandmother," Rola said tentatively.
"Don't waste your breath on thanks. Drink this."
As he took the bowl, the old woman moved to a wooden chest in the corner, retrieving a bundle wrapped in weathered cloth. She placed it and a set of clean clothes into his hands with a solemn weight.
"There are clothes here, and a hundred and fifty 'Karsha' in that pouch."
Rola recoiled slightly. "No, I couldn't. You saved my life, gave me shelter... that's more than enough."
The woman narrowed her eyes, her gaze sharpening with maternal authority. "Hush, boy. In Ethoria, to walk with empty pockets is to invite the shadow to your door. This will keep you fed for a few days. When you find your footing, you can settle the debt. Now, take it."
Shame colored Rola's cheeks. "But this might be all you have..."
"Is your brain still addled?" she snapped, though her eyes softened. "Consider it an investment. When you are able, you can pay me back. Now, out with you. I have chores that won't do themselves."
Realizing the futility of argument, Rola tucked the pouch into his belt and bowed low. "I won't forget this debt, Grandmother."
"Hmph. We shall see."
Rola stepped out under the vast, untamed sky. The instincts of a lifelong gamer took hold; he checked his surroundings to ensure he was unobserved, then extended his hand with practiced theatricality.
"Status!" he commanded.
He waited for the shimmering blue HUD, the bars for Strength and Agility. Seconds ticked by. Only the rhythmic chirp of crickets answered him. The dust motes danced in the sunlight, indifferent to his command.
Rola frowned. "Status Window! Open! Menu!"
Nothing. He turned his mental gaze inward. "Hey, Laka? Is the network down? Where's the screen?"
Laka remained silent for a beat, then let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Kuhuk! Master, forgive me, but this 'Status' of which you speak does not exist in my database."
Rola was aghast. "What? How am I supposed to track my level? How do I know how strong I am without a meter?"
"In this world, Master," Laka said calmly, "power is felt, not measured by integers. However, the Great Master has decreed your first trial: 'The Shadow Conflict'. But..."
"But what?"
"Before you begin the trial, you require a civic identity. You must travel to the nearest city and register with a 'Guild'. A nameless wanderer is viewed with suspicion here."
Rola slumped, sliding a hand down his face. "You've got to be kidding me. Even in a world of magic, there's bureaucracy? Forms? Lines?"
"Rules are the universal constant, Host," Laka replied. "Besides, the Guild is how you shall earn more Karsha."
Rola sighed, the weight of reality settling back in. "Fine. Let's go get my 'ID card'. Tell me, Laka, what's the Guild called? Something grand?"
Laka's voice turned grave. "You will see when we reach the city. For now... start walking."