The world exploded into chaos around Auren Vale, but his mind was sharper than the sword in his hand. One moment, he was dodging a spray of arrows that whistled like angry spirits through the rain-soaked air. The next, everything snapped into focus—not just the battle, but everything. Memories flooded in like a dam breaking: spreadsheets and coffee stains from a gray cubicle life, the screech of tires on a rainy street, a child's scream, and then... nothing. Blackness. And now this.
He blinked, water stinging his eyes, and parried a wild swing from a hulking orc berserker. The clash of steel rang out, vibrating up his arm. What the hell? His body moved on instinct—roll left, thrust low, kick the knee—but his thoughts raced a lifetime ahead. He wasn't just Auren anymore. He was him. The guy who'd crunched numbers for a living, burned out on deadlines and fluorescent lights, only to die playing hero for a kid he didn't even know. Pushed her out of the way of a speeding car. Felt the impact like a thunderclap.
And now? Reborn in this mad world of magic and monsters, mid-fight on a muddy battlefield that smelled of blood and wet earth.
Eidoria, they called it. A place where stories weren't just tales—they were power. Shape your narrative right, and reality bent. Screw it up, and it broke you. Auren had pieced that together in the foggy months since his "birth" here, scraping by as a low-rank battle-mage in the Lumeris Kingdom's border legions. But those memories were child's play compared to the avalanche hitting him now.
Full regression. Past life intact. This is... isekai bullshit for real? He ducked under a club swing that splintered a nearby shield, then countered with a burst of aether from his palm—a raw pulse of blue energy that cracked the orc's ribs and sent it staggering. His squad mates cheered, ragged voices cutting through the storm. "Vale! Flank 'em!" But Auren barely heard. His head throbbed like it'd been split open and stuffed with ledgers.
The battle was a rout. Orc raiders from the Abyssal Frontier had pushed too far into Lumeris territory, drawn by whispers of weak borders and dying ley lines. Aether—the raw stuff of magic, flowing like invisible rivers under the earth—was thin here, making spells fizzle and swords feel heavy. Auren's unit, a mix of knights in dented plate and mages like him in threadbare robes, was holding the line near a crumbling watchtower. Prince Cael Lumeris himself led the charge from the rear, his golden armor gleaming even in the downpour, rallying with words that sparked hope like flint on steel.
Prince Cael. The name tugged at something fresh in Auren's mind, a warning from... where? Before he could chase it, a new sensation hit him. Cold. Not the rain's chill, but something deeper, like ice threading through his veins. A voice—not heard, but known—unfolded in his thoughts. Calm.
Patient. Relentlessly logical.
[System Activation: Calamity Protocol Engaged.]
Auren froze mid-step, an arrow grazing his shoulder. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but he ignored it. System? What— Blue text hovered in his vision, translucent and unblinking, like a heads-up display from some video game he'd binged on late nights back home.
[Host: Auren Vale. Authority: Calamity (Latent). Narrative Role: The Architect of Damnation.]
[Purpose: Reshape Eidoria through paradigm collapse. Evolve into the World-Ender.
Compliance yields Evolution Points (EP).
Resistance incurs Causal Backlash.]
[Initial Stability Points (SP): 100. Empathy Index: Nominal. Welcome, Partner. We have much to build.]
Partner? Build? Auren's stomach twisted. He slashed at another orc, buying time to process. This wasn't some benevolent game system handing out quests for loot. This was a cage. A leash. His past life flashed again—the kid's grateful smile before the end. He'd always had a soft spot for the vulnerable. Calculated risks at work to shield his team from bad bosses. And now, this thing wanted him to end a world?
The voice returned, smooth as polished stone. [First Directive: Do Not Save Prince Cael. Timeline: Imminent. Penalty for Failure: Corruption and Death of Orphanage Caretaker Mira. Estimated Casualties: 47 orphans displaced. Regional Instability: Moderate.]
Auren's heart slammed against his ribs. Mira? Images flickered unbidden: a kindly woman with laugh lines and flour-dusted aprons, herding wide-eyed kids through the slums of his adopted hometown. He'd volunteered there between patrols, teaching basic aether tricks to keep the little ones from starving. She was the closest thing to family in this life. And now, this System dangled her like bait.
Prince Cael's shout cut through the din. "To me! For Lumeris!" His voice carried that unnatural weight, the kind that bent narratives. Heroes like him—blessed with Radiance or some other Authority—could weave hope into shields, turn despair into steel. But Auren saw the gap now. The prince was exposed, charging too far ahead, his guards bogged down by a fresh wave of orcs. A massive brute, twice the size of the rest, lumbered toward him, axe raised like a guillotine.
Shit. He's going to die. Auren's mage instincts screamed to act—channel aether into a barrier, buy the prince seconds. But the System's words burned. Do not save. If he did, Mira... No. He could stall. Manipulate. Outsmart it. That's what he did best—crunch numbers, find angles. Back home, he'd optimized reports to dodge layoffs. Here, maybe he could thread the needle.
He feinted left, drawing two orcs away from the prince's flank, then whispered an incantation under his breath. Simple weave: a illusionary echo of Cael's voice, pulling a knot of enemies toward the treeline. Buy time. Let the guards close in. His aether reserves dipped, the flow sluggish from the storm, but it worked. The orcs hesitated, snarling in confusion.
[Deviation Detected. Minor Resistance Logged. SP: 95.]
The voice was still calm, almost approving. Like a therapist noting a setback. [Partner, causality is a delicate thread. Tug too hard, and the weave unravels. Proceed with care.]
Auren gritted his teeth, tasting blood from a split lip. Delicate my ass. He pushed forward, boots sinking in mud, sword arm burning. The battlefield was a slaughter pen: bodies twisted in unnatural poses, aether flares lighting the rain in eerie blues and greens. Knights bellowed oaths, channeling honor into glowing runes on their blades. Rogues darted like shadows, slitting throats with flexible precision. But Auren? He was the wildcard mage, no fancy class, just raw calculation. Shape aether with patterns from old tomes—fire lances, wind walls, earth spikes. Efficient. Deadly.
Another memory surfaced: dying on asphalt, the world fading to horns and shouts. I saved that kid. No regrets. But here, saving meant damning. He scanned the field. Prince Cael was closer now, his sword a blur of radiant light, carving through foes. The big orc was seconds from him. Auren could end it clean— a targeted bolt from afar. No one would know.
Or... He calculated. Distance: 40 paces.
Aether cost: Low. Risk to Mira: Immediate if he fired. But if he delayed just right? Let the prince take a scratch, force the guards to react faster. Stall.
He raised his hand, palm out, but held the weave. Instead, he loosed a wide-area gust, scattering debris into the orcs' eyes. It wasn't direct aid. Gray area. The prince stumbled but recovered, his blade biting deep into the brute's shoulder. Roars echoed. Guards surged forward, shields locking.
Got it. Relief hit like cool rain. Auren lowered his hand, wiping sweat from his brow. His hair—dark and unkempt—felt heavier, a single silver streak catching his peripheral vision. Weird. Must be the adrenaline.
Then the System spoke again.
[Directive Complied: Partial. Prince Cael Stabilized Without Direct Intervention. EP Gained: 10 (Tier 1: Tactical Sacrifice). Well done, Partner. But observe the ripple.]
Ripple? Auren frowned, parrying a desperate lunge from a wounded orc. The fight was turning—the raiders breaking, horns blaring retreat. Cheers rose from his side. But something felt off. A knight nearby gasped, clutching a scroll that materialized in his gauntlet—narrative courier, straight from the capital's weave.
"Assassination! Lord Harlan—dead! The border noble... poisoned mid-feast!"
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Auren's blood went cold. Lord Harlan: key ally to the crown, controlled the granaries feeding half the western provinces. His death meant supply lines severed. Famine. In weeks, not months.
No. That wasn't... His stall. The extra seconds he'd bought by not acting. The prince's charge delayed just enough for... what? A messenger? A shadow in the chaos? Causality. The System hadn't struck him down. It had rewritten the outcome. His "smart" delay turned a skirmish into a domino fall.
[Lesson One: Punishment is not crude. It is elegant. Your intent to shield creates the blade that cuts deeper. SP: 90 (Minor Compassion Penalty). Mira remains safe—for now. But the weave tightens.]
Auren's vision blurred, not from rain, but a wave of nausea. He saw it in flashes: empty bellies in villages, orphans like Mira's charges scavenging roots, riots at granary gates. All because he'd tried to be clever. To protect.
The battle ended in a muddy truce, orcs fleeing into the Frontier's mists. Prince Cael stood atop a rise, armor scarred but unbroken, addressing the troops. "Victory! Lumeris endures!" His words wove hope, mending minor wounds with faint glows. A hero in every sense. Auren hung back, sheathing his sword, the weight of it heavier than before.
A squad mate clapped his shoulder. "Vale, you mad bastard. That wind trick? Saved the prince's arse."
Auren forced a sarcastic grin—his old facade, the competent mage who followed orders. "Just doing my job. Wouldn't want his highness tripping over his ego." Laughter rippled, but inside, his mind whirred like an overclocked processor. Options: Fight the System head-on? SP drops to zero, empathy erased. Become its puppet? World ends. Hack it? How?
He glanced at the prince, who met his eyes across the field. A nod of thanks. Innocent. Oblivious. And now, because of Auren's "mercy," famine loomed.
As the unit regrouped, horns from the capital echoed—reinforcements, or summons? Auren's gut twisted. The System hummed softly.
[Next Phase: Integration. You will rise, Partner. The Calamity stirs.]
He trudged through the muck, silver streak glinting in his hair like a warning scar. Saving the world meant becoming its end. But dammit, he'd calculate a way out. Or die trying.
Little did he know, the prince's grateful glance hid eyes that saw too much. And in the shadows of the watchtower, a woman with truth in her gaze watched Auren walk away, her aura flickering with unseen colors.
The famine's first whispers would reach Mira's door by dawn. And Auren? He'd just earned his first taste of damnation.
To be continued...