Nick Vale was, by all modern standards, a degenerate.
At thirty years old, he lived in a cramped studio apartment that felt more like a dim, digital cave than a home. The curtains were always shut, the air smelled faintly of energy drinks and old takeout, and the soft glow of his monitors was the closest thing to sunlight he'd seen in weeks. Bed-rotting had evolved from a habit into a lifestyle, and the games he tested were the only reason his bank account wasn't a flat zero.
Despite that, Nick was picky. Painfully picky. He refused to play anything that limited his freedom in building a character. If a game forced every player into the same cookie-cutter build, he dropped it instantly. He didn't care how pretty the graphics were or how hyped the community acted—it was garbage to him.
Trying new games wasn't the problem. He loved strange skill systems and offbeat designs. But there was one thing he despised with a burning passion:
Meta gaming.
Nothing ruined a game for Nick faster than a "famous build" sweeping through thousands of players, driving the price of one stupid unique item into the stratosphere. The entire economy twisted just to cater to a trend he never asked for. Freedom died. Creativity vanished. And Nick wanted nothing to do with it.
His favorites were always the oddities—the normal items with strange, unconventional effects that everyone else overlooked. That was where the fun lived.
That night, he sat hunched over his desk, cracking open his usual energy drink and smoking the cigar he promised himself he'd quit after the "next milestone." He breathed out a tired sigh as he queued into another game session.
Then his chest tightened.
At first it was mild, like a sudden stab of indigestion. But the pain sharpened, crushing down on him until the edges of his vision trembled. His heartbeat spiked—wild, chaotic, pounding far beyond any BPM a human heart should reach.
Nick stumbled from his chair and collapsed to the cold floor. He reached for his phone across the room, dragging himself inch by inch. His fingertips brushed the edge of the device—
Then everything went black.
No noise. No pain. No body.
Just weightless awareness floating in an endless void. He felt as if he were dissolved into the universe itself—part of everything yet separate from all of it.
A faint glow broke through the darkness.
A silhouette emerged: a woman with four radiant wings, each feather shimmering like starlight. Her presence felt ancient, commanding, and impossibly gentle.
Her voice echoed through the void, melodic and clear.
"Hear ye, pitiful man. Aid the world lost in its millennia-long rut. Walk the right path with confidence. Good luck—and may we meet again when the time is right."
Her figure faded.
Darkness swallowed him again.
Then hunger hit—raw, instinctive, unbearable. He tried to move, to lift his head, to speak, but his body refused to obey. Only a cry escaped him—high-pitched, weak, and helpless.
And with that single wail, understanding struck him.
He had been reborn.
When he forced his blurry eyes open, he saw a rundown room: cracked walls, broken furniture, dust thick enough to choke on. No warm arms. No voices. No familiar faces. Only abandonment.
Nick Vale had died in his cluttered studio apartment in 2025.
And now, he began his second life in a ruined home within a medieval world ruled by nobles.
A world waiting for a change it had forgotten how to ask for.