The sword was already falling when Duke Theron realized he'd made a terrible mistake. Not the mistake of plotting treason, or poisoning the king's wine, or any of the other crimes they'd accused him of. No—his mistake was thinking he could win.
Sunlight glinted off the impossibly sharp, impossibly wide executioner's blade as it descended. The roar of the crowd, a beast made of a thousand hateful voices, filled the central plaza. They screamed for his death, for the traitor Duke's head to roll, and in that frozen, final moment, his eyes found him. Elias Brightblade. The Hero. Standing just beyond the platform, his expression was one of cold, unyielding righteousness. He wasn't gloating; he was merely observing justice, a force of nature he had personally set into motion.
*How did I get here?* The thought was a frantic, fragmented scream in the sudden silence of his mind. *This is the game… but I'm INSIDE it.*
He was on his knees, hands bound tightly behind his back, his neck resting uncomfortably on the rough-hewn wood of the execution block. He could feel the splinters, smell the stale blood of those who had come before him. This wasn't a cutscene. This was real. The panic, a cold and liquid thing, finally crested, drowning out all other thoughts. He was Duke Theron, the Tutorial Boss, the arrogant noble who dies within the first ten minutes of the RPG *Aethelgard's Chosen*. It was a scripted, unavoidable death meant to show the player just how heroic their protagonist was.
But he wasn't a player watching from a screen anymore. He *was* Duke Theron.
The air split. A sharp, whistling sound.
Then, a flash of cold.
Darkness.
Silence.
***
A gasp tore from his lungs, raw and desperate. He shot upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands flew to his neck, frantically searching for the gushing wound, the severed vertebrae, the end of everything.
There was nothing.
Only smooth, unbroken skin. He was breathing. He was alive.
He wasn't on a blood-soaked platform. He was in a massive, opulent bed, tangled in sheets of what felt like pure silk. Morning light, soft and golden, streamed through the gaps in heavy, dark velvet curtains. The room was a study in wealth and power—dark, polished wood, a stone fireplace large enough to roast a boar, and portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow him with silent judgment.
"Wait… I just died," he whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands were trembling, the phantom sensation of the blade still a chilling memory on his skin. The visceral horror of that moment—the crowd's hate, the finality of the darkness—was branded into his mind. It wasn't a dream. It was too real, too detailed.
As he tried to force his ragged breaths to even out, a translucent blue box shimmered into existence in his vision, hovering in the air before him. The text was crisp, clean, and utterly out of place in the medieval grandeur of the room.
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]**
**Welcome, Player.**
**You have died.**
**Respawn Point Loaded: "Morning of Execution Day"**
**Time Remaining Until Death: 23 Hours, 47 Minutes**
He stared, his mind refusing to process the words. Player? Respawn? It was the language of the game, of his old life. He was a project manager, a guy who unwound by grinding through RPGs on weekends. He'd spent over two hundred hours in *Aethelgard's Chosen*, knew its quests, its secrets, its unavoidable plot points.
And Duke Theron's execution was the most unavoidable of them all.
A sharp rap on the heavy oak door made him jump. "My Lord," a voice called from the other side, deferential and calm. "You're expected at the morning council in one hour. Shall I have the staff prepare your attire?"
His mind was reeling. *Morning council. One hour.* The countdown timer in his vision pulsed silently. *23 hours, 46 minutes.*
"This is… a time loop?" he murmured, the words feeling alien on his tongue. "No… a respawn. Like a save point." A desperate, fragile flicker of hope ignited in the pit of his stomach. If he could respawn, could he change things?
He scrambled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. He needed to think. He frantically searched his mind, and it was like opening two books at once. On one side, his life—his apartment, his job, his encyclopedic knowledge of the game. On the other, the memories of Duke Theron—a life of arrogance, political maneuvering, and a deep-seated paranoia that had led him to commit the very crime he was accused of.
"In the game, Duke Theron was guilty," he thought, pacing the room like a caged animal. "He tried to poison the king's wine during the peace talks. The king survived, but the attempt was all the proof the Hero's faction needed."
The execution wasn't a frame job; it was *justice* within the game's narrative. It was a scripted event. Players never even had the option to interfere. You watched the cutscene, saw the villain get his due, and moved on to the real adventure.
"I know exactly what happens today," he muttered, his gamer knowledge bubbling to the surface. "At 10 AM, the Royal Guard, led by that self-righteous prick Captain Valerius, 'finds' the vial of poison hidden in my study. At 2 PM, I'm arrested. The trial is a farce that lasts less than an hour. By sunset, I'm on the block."
He stopped pacing and stared at the floating blue box. "But… if I have a System… maybe I can change it?"
The hope was immediately followed by a wave of crushing doubt. The game was notoriously linear in its main quest. This was the tutorial. You couldn't break the tutorial.
He focused his intent on the System interface, and as if responding to his thoughts, it expanded.
**[Status]**
**[Save/Load]**
**[Quest Log]**
His finger, still trembling slightly, moved as if to touch the floating text. He mentally selected [Save/Load].
**[SAVE/LOAD SYSTEM]**
**Current Save Slots: 0/3**
**Would you like to create a Save Point?**
**Warning: Save Slots are limited. Choose wisely.**
*Only three slots.* The limitation was a splash of cold water. He couldn't just save scum his way through this. Every save would be a critical, strategic decision. "I need to understand this better first," he decided, dismissing the interface. The blue text vanished, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
A new plan began to form, born from pure, animal instinct: survival.
"I'll run," he said to the empty room. "Just leave. Disappear before they find the evidence."
It was a coward's plan, but he wasn't a proud noble. He was a gamer who'd been dropped into the hot seat, and his only goal was to not see that executioner's axe again. He began to move with purpose, pulling open drawers and chests. He grabbed a leather pouch and started stuffing it with gold coins, ornate rings, anything small and valuable. Duke Theron's body was athletic, fit from years of swordsmanship training, but his own mind was screaming that he was no fighter.
He strode to the window, peering down. The manor was walled, the gates watched by men in his own livery. But his game knowledge provided an advantage Duke Theron never had. He knew the map. He knew about the old servant's passage behind the library tapestry, a route used for smuggling wine, that led out into the lower city.
He was just turning from the window, his mind set, when a firm knock echoed through the room, followed by the door opening.
"My Lord?"
A man stood in the doorway, built like a fortress of muscle and steel. He was in his mid-thirties, his face framed by a short, practical beard and marked by a thin scar that cut across his left eyebrow. His eyes, however, held nothing but earnest concern. Sir Gareth Ironheart. Duke Theron's most loyal knight.
"You seem… distressed," Gareth said, his voice a low rumble. His hand rested instinctively on the pommel of the longsword at his hip. "Is something wrong?"
Duke—he had to start thinking of himself as Duke—froze. In the game, Gareth was an NPC, a loyal bodyguard who died honorably trying to defend the Duke during his arrest. A footnote in the tutorial. But standing here, the man's worry felt… real. It wasn't scripted dialogue. It was genuine.
This was the first true crack in his "it's just a game" mentality.
He decided to test the waters. "Gareth," he began, his voice steadier than he expected. "What would you do if I were accused of a crime I did not commit?"
Gareth didn't hesitate. "I would stand by you, my Lord. Your honor is my honor."
"And if the entire kingdom stood against me? If the Hero himself demanded my head?"
The knight's expression hardened, his loyalty a tangible force in the room. "Then they would have to go through me. I am yours until death."
The words struck him with unexpected weight. *He means it.* This man would die for him. The thought sent a pang of guilt through him, a ghost of the loop that had yet to happen.
He made a choice. "Gareth. Prepare two of the fastest horses. We're leaving within the hour. Tell no one. No one."
Surprise flickered in Gareth's eyes, but it was instantly replaced by grim acceptance. "As you command, my Lord." He gave a short, sharp nod and was gone, his footsteps receding down the hall.
Duke's heart pounded. He was deviating from the script. This was it.
***
The secret passage was exactly where the game map said it would be: a section of wall behind a massive tapestry depicting the founding of his house. With Gareth at his side, they slipped into the dusty, cobweb-filled tunnel and emerged minutes later into a grimy alley in the capital's lower districts. The air here smelled of fish, sweat, and poverty.
They moved quickly, hoods pulled low, melting into the morning crowds. The plan was simple: get to the north gate before the city-wide lockdown.
They were halfway there when it happened.
*BONG. BONG. BONG.*
The deep, resonant toll of the city's central alarm bells echoed off the stone buildings. Duke's blood ran cold. His head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"No," he breathed. "It's too early. They weren't supposed to find the evidence until 10 AM. It's only nine!"
Panic erupted in the streets. People scattered, shouting and screaming. The clatter of armored boots on cobblestone grew louder, coming from all directions. A squad of city guards rounded the corner, their captain pointing a gauntleted finger directly at them.
"There! Duke Theron! Seize him!"
They ran. The chase was a blur of chaos and desperation. Duke's lungs burned, his legs screaming in protest. This body might be athletic, but he wasn't used to a life-or-death sprint. Gareth was a rock, staying beside him, his sword already drawn.
They were cornered in a market square. Guards flooded in, forming a ring of steel.
"Go, my Lord!" Gareth roared, turning to face the dozen men converging on them. "I'll hold them!" He swung his blade in a wide, deadly arc, forcing the first guards back.
Duke hesitated for a single, fatal second. His gamer brain screamed *cut your losses, he's an NPC!* But his heart, the one that had felt the man's genuine loyalty, screamed back. He saw a guard's mace swing around Gareth's shield and connect with the side of his head. The knight crumpled, blood matting his hair as he hit the stones, unconscious.
Before Duke could even react, two guards tackled him, driving him to his knees. The guilt was a physical blow, knocking the wind from his lungs. *Gareth is dying because of me…*
***
He was thrown into a cell in the royal dungeons. The heavy iron door slammed shut, the sound echoing the finality of his failure. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of mildew and despair. His hands were bound in heavy iron chains.
He collapsed against the far wall, his mind racing. "I failed. I failed. How?" He had acted on his game knowledge, but the world had reacted differently. "The game's script is too strong. Or… I changed something without realizing it?" His escape attempt. That had to be it. He had altered the timeline, and the timeline had snapped back at him, harder and faster.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. He looked up, his heart sinking as he saw the figure approaching. Elias Brightblade stopped before his cell, his handsome face a mask of cold duty. He was the perfect hero, clad in gleaming silver plate armor, his hand resting on the hilt of his legendary sword.
"Duke Theron," Elias's voice was devoid of emotion. "Your crimes end today. Your attempt to flee has proven your guilt beyond any doubt. The king has decreed there will be no trial."
Duke's eyes widened in horror. "No trial?"
"Your execution has been moved forward," the Hero stated, his gaze like chips of ice. "You die at noon."
Elias turned and walked away, his cape sweeping behind him, leaving Duke alone in the suffocating darkness. Noon. That was barely three hours away. He had made things worse. So much worse.
As despair threatened to consume him, a familiar blue light filled his vision.
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]**
**Time Remaining Until Death: 2 Hours, 43 Minutes**
**Quest Updated: [SURVIVE THE FIRST DAY]**
**Status: FAILING**
**Hint: Sometimes the best way forward… is to go back.**
**New Option Unlocked: [LOAD SAVE POINT]**
Duke stared at the words, a bitter, broken laugh escaping his lips. "Load? But I never saved…"
His laughter died in his throat. *Wait.*
He frantically pulled up the Save/Load menu. His breath caught.
**[SAVE/LOAD SYSTEM]**
**Available Save Points:**
**> Auto-Save: "Morning of Execution Day - 08:00 AM"**
**Created: Automatically upon first death**
His expression shifted, the despair hardening into something else. Something cold and sharp. Grim determination.
"So that's the game," he whispered to the darkness. "Die, learn, try again." He looked at his chained hands, then back at the floating screen. "This… this is going to be a long day."
With a surge of newfound resolve, he reached out with his mind, his focus locking onto the glowing line of text.
*Load.*
The cold, damp cell dissolved into a vortex of black. The clanking of his chains faded into nothing.
And then—
He gasped awake, shooting upright in the massive, opulent bed. Silk sheets tangled around his legs. Morning light streamed through the gaps in the heavy, dark velvet curtains.
A sharp rap on the heavy oak door. "My Lord, you're expected at the morning council in one hour."
This time, Duke Theron was smiling. A cold, sharp, predatory smile.
"Round two."
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]**
**Save Point Loaded Successfully.**
**Time Remaining: 23 Hours, 47 Minutes**
**Attempts: 2**
**Good luck, Player.**