The Bolivian sun beat down like a hammer on the archaeological site of Tiwanaku, and Marcos Vidal Santacruz was absolutely convinced of three things: first, that he was about to die of heat; second, that his GPS was crap; and third, that he had definitely chosen the wrong race.
"Hey, dude, are you sure we dug in the right place?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, leaving a smear of dirt that made him look like a clueless raccoon.
His Bolivian colleague, Miguel, looked at him with that expression of infinite patience that only locals can develop after working with lost European academics.
—Marcos, that's the third time in two hours you've asked that. And yes, this is Sector 7-B. The same one YOU marked on the map this morning.
"Ah, well, perfect then." Marcos smiled with that characteristic confidence of the incompetent. "Although, now that I think about it... is north this way or that way?" He pointed in two completely opposite directions.
Miguel sighed. It was a deep sigh, heavy with years of suffering.
—North is where it's been for the last four billion years, Marcos. At the top of the map. Where it says "N".
—Sure, sure, obviously. —Marcos returned to his excavation, muttering something about "subjective coordinates" and "north is a social construct."
That day's excavation held no promise of anything spectacular. They'd been in that damned hole for three weeks, cataloging fragments of common pottery, llama bones, and the occasional stone tool that any museum would reject as "not interesting enough." Marcos had written his doctoral thesis on the fall of empires, had studied Rome, Byzantium, the Incas, the Aztecs... and now he was here, under a scorching sun, searching for pieces of broken pots.
"You know what, Miguel?" he said, digging with his archaeologist's trowel. "Sometimes I think empires made more sense than my professional life. At least they collapsed with style . I just... exist in this pit."
—Very philosophical for someone who ten minutes ago tried to use GPS to find his own tent.
—Listen, the sun confuses me. Besides, all the shops look the same.
—Your shop is red. All the others are beige.
-...details.
Marcos kept digging, his mind wandering between thoughts of imperial administrative systems and what he was going to have for dinner that night. Probably those Salta-style empanadas Miguel brought again, even though the last time they'd made him feel like a punch in the gut.
That's when his palette touched something.
"Hey, I think there's something here," he said without much enthusiasm. He'd already had about fifteen "false positives" that week.
Miguel approached, more out of professional courtesy than genuine interest.
Marcos began to dig more carefully, gently brushing away the soil. Slowly emerged what appeared to be... a small ceramic figurine. It wasn't gilded. It had no embedded jewels. It didn't glow mystically. It was, at best, a minor piece that would end up in box 47 of some university storage facility labeled "anthropomorphic figurine, use unknown, probably decorative."
—Look at that —Marcos said with clearly fake enthusiasm—. Another thing for the collection of "objects that nobody cares about."
"Register it and we'll continue," replied Miguel, already returning to his own sector.
Marcos picked up the figurine, took a quick photo with his cell phone, and carefully placed it in an evidence bag. As he wrote the coordinates in his notebook (probably incorrectly, knowing his sense of direction), he decided to stretch a bit. His back was killing him.
He stood up, arched his back in an exaggerated stretch, and...
Everything happened in slow motion.
His left foot stepped exactly on the pallet he had left on the floor.
The palette acted as the perfect catapult.
The handle struck his shin with surgical precision.
"HOLY SHIT!" shouted Marcos, hopping on one foot while grabbing his leg.
That jump threw him off balance.
He stumbled backwards.
His hand reached for support and found... the rope that held up the makeshift awning on the site.
The rope came loose.
The awning collapsed.
Marcos, wrapped in tarpaulin, took two blind steps forward, directly towards the edge of the excavation.
—MARCOS, BEWARE OF THE...!
Too late.
He fell into the two-meter-deep hole they'd dug that very morning, still wrapped in the tarp like a human burrito. The impact was... well, it was pathetic. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't heroic. It was the kind of fall that ends up in YouTube videos titled "FAILS COMPILATION 2024."
But it didn't end there.
As he fell, his backpack—which he was carrying slung over his shoulder because "it's more comfortable that way, man"—got caught on an exposed root. The backpack burst open, spilling its contents: a 1.5-liter water bottle (full), his Kindle, two granola bars, and, for some reason known only to God and Marcos, a plaster statuette of Napoleon Bonaparte that he had bought as an ironic souvenir in Buenos Aires.
The water bottle fell first.
He hit him on the head.
Marcos saw stars.
Then the plaster Napoleon fell.
Directly on his forehead.
—...faggot... —Marcos murmured, his vision blurred.
Miguel ran to the edge of the hole, terrified.
—MARCOS! ARE YOU OKAY?!
Marcos tried to answer, but all that came out of his mouth was:
—The north... the north is that way... isn't it?
And then, with the grace of a sack of potatoes, he lost consciousness.
The last thing he thought before everything went black was, "Holy shit, I'm going to be in the university newspaper as 'the idiot who died for a Napoleon statue'." And technically, he wasn't wrong.
When Marcos opened his eyes, he was no longer in the hole.
I was in... well, I wasn't sure where I was.
Everything was white. Not a white like "a room painted white," but a white that stretched infinitely in all directions. There was no visible ground, but he was standing. There was no sky, but there was light.
It was like being inside a blank Word page, the real-life version.
"Miguel?" he called, his voice sounding strangely muffled. "Hey, is this the hospital? Because if it is, the architects were high on something . "
There was no response.
Marcos took a step forward. Then another. He walked aimlessly for what could have been seconds or minutes; it was impossible to tell. He was completely disoriented, which, for someone with his sense of direction, was basically just a normal Tuesday.
"Well, this is weird," he muttered. "I definitely hit myself badly. Either I'm in a coma. Or I'm dead." He paused. "Or I've finally gone crazy and now my brain has decided that reality is negotiable."
—Technically, all four things are true to some degree.
Marcos jumped two meters, shouting something that sounded like a mix between "AAAH!" and "THE FUCK!"
MOTHER!".
In front of him, where a second before there was absolutely nothing, now there was... someone.
Or something.
It was difficult to describe. The figure constantly shifted: sometimes it resembled an old man, other times a young woman, other times something that was definitely not human. It was as if reality couldn't decide what form to give it and simply rotated between random options.
But that wasn't the most disturbing thing.
What was most disturbing was that the figure was clearly... annoyed? Tired? She had that universal expression of someone who has just had the worst argument of their life and now has to deal with bureaucratic procedures.
"Who... what... where...?" Marcos tried to form a coherent question and failed miserably.
"The answers in order are: a Higher Being, an interdimensional transition space, and yes, you're dead." The voice was multiple, like a choir speaking in unison, but with a palpable tone of weariness . "Blow to the head, brain trauma, death by cranial contusion caused by a plaster statue of Napoleon Bonaparte. Congratulations, your death was so absurd that even the Akashic Records laughed."
Marcos blinked.
He processed the information.
And then he said the only logical thing:
—Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me I killed myself with a plaster Napoleon? THAT Napoleon? The one from the souvenir shop that cost like fifty Argentine pesos?
-Himself.
—...fucking mother.
The Higher Being sighed. It was a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of countless eons of cosmic existence and, more recently, a dreadful marital spat.
—Look, Marcos Vidal Santacruz. Normally this process would be more...ceremonious. But I've had a shitty day. My wife and I just had the biggest argument in the last three millennia, and in the midst of my emotional distraction, I made an administrative error.
"An administrative error?" Marcos felt a mixture of confusion and indignation growing in his chest.
DID I DIE BECAUSE OF AN ADMINISTRATIVE ERROR?
"Technically, you died because you had the balance of a drunken penguin and the common sense of a lemming. I just... accidentally accelerated the process." The Being made a vague gesture with what appeared to be hands. "I was adjusting fate lines, my wife called me screaming about something to do with 'cosmic responsibilities' and 'you never listen to me,' and in the middle of all that, your timeline got a nudge it wasn't supposed to get."
—So… —Marcos felt like his brain was processing information at the speed of a 90s internet—. I died because you and your wife had a fight?
—To put it bluntly, yes.
—...your sister's cunt.
The Supreme Being remained motionless for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, it laughed. It was a cosmic laugh that made the white space vibrate.
"You know, I like you. Most people in your situation would be crying or begging or in denial. You're just cursing me outright. Respectable." The figure stabilized a bit, taking the form of a middle-aged man with a perpetually tired look. "That's why, and because I really screwed up, I'm going to offer you something I don't usually offer: compensation."
Marcos crossed his arms, still skeptical.
—What kind of compensation? Are you sending me back? Because I'm telling you, I have like fifty reasons to come back, starting with the fact that I left my laptop on with Chrome open and like twenty tabs, and my electricity bill is going to be a disaster.
"I can't send you back to your original life. That timeline is closed. But I can offer you something better: a second chance in a new universe, with significant advantages." The Being snapped what appeared to be fingers, and a giant, gleaming wheel appeared out of nowhere. "This is the Roulette of Cosmic Destiny. You will spin it three times. The first spin determines your power, the second spin determines your system, and the third spin determines your destination world."
Marcos looked at the roulette wheel.
Then he looked at the Being.
Then he looked at the roulette wheel again.
—...this is a joke, right? It's like those lame isekai I watch on Netflix when I can't sleep.
—Reality imitates art, art imitates reality, it's all a circle, nothing matters, the damn roulette wheel keeps spinning.
—Okay, but what if I get stuck with something awful? Like, do I get reincarnated as a slug in a world of fire or something?
—Then you will have a very short but educational life.
—...you're a son of a bitch, you know?
—I know. Now turn.
Marcos approached the roulette wheel. It was enormous, easily three meters in diameter, and filled with symbols, names, and concepts that constantly changed. He recognized some of them: "Sharingan," "Chakra," "Zanpakutō."
Others were completely incomprehensible.
"Ready to procrastinate or should we get on with it?" the Being asked, clearly wanting to be done with this so they could get back to... well, whatever it is that Higher Beings do after marital spats.
"Come on, let's go," said Marcos, and turned the wheel hard.
The roulette wheel started to spin. And spin. And spin.
The colors blended into a hypnotic rainbow.
Finally, it began to slow down.
Tick... tick... tick...
It stopped.
The Higher Being looked at the result.
For the first time since they appeared, she showed an expression of genuine surprise.
-No...
"What? What did I get?" Marcos tried to read the symbol. "Is it good? Is it bad? Am I going to end up like a cockroach?"
"It was your turn..." The Being laughed incredulously. "It was your turn to possess the power, knowledge, and complete experience of Anos Voldig oad."
—And what is that? Is it good?
—"What is that?"— The Being looked at him as if he had uttered the greatest blasphemy in the multiverse. —"WHAT IS IT? It's one of the most broken beings in fiction. Power to rewrite reality, absolute arcane knowledge, millennia of experience in warfare and empire building, the ability to literally say "no" to the laws of physics and have physics obey. And you ask me, "What is it?" Marcos smiled.
—Well, that sounds cool. Second turn?
The Being, still processing the ridiculous luck of the first spin, gestured for it to continue.
Marcos turned around again.
The roulette wheel spun.
It stopped.
The Higher Being looked at the result.
Her expression changed from surprise to disbelief.
Then to shock.
And finally, in an act completely unworthy of a cosmic entity, it vomited golden blood into the white void.
"NO WAY!" he shouted, wiping his mouth. "NO WAY! HOW?!"
"What happened?" Marcos was somewhere between worried and fascinated.
—YOU GOT THE MINECRAFT SYSTEM IN CREATIVE MODE!
There was silence.
Marcos processed the information.
And then, in the middle of that interdimensional void, in front of a Superior Being who had just vomited divine blood, Marcos Vidal Santacruz did the only reasonable thing.
She started to dance.
It wasn't an elegant dance. It was a chaotic mix of Fortnite dances, poorly executed tango steps, and what was possibly a failed attempt at a moonwalk. She was yelling things like "YESSSSSS, HOLY SHIT!" and "CREATIVE MODE, DAD!"
The Higher Being looked at him with a mixture of disgust, horror, and something that could be considered respect.
—You're dancing. You've just received divine power and infinite resources, and you're... dancing.
"I HAVE MINECRAFT CREATIVE!" Marcos spun around. "UNLIMITED RESOURCES! I CAN DO ANYTHING I WANT! I'M A GOD!" He spun around again. "A GOD WITH BLOCKS!"
—...I'm going to regret this, aren't I?
"ABSOLUTELY!" Marcos stopped dancing, panting. "Okay, okay, third turn. Come on, this is getting really cool."
The Being, resigned to whatever might happen at this point, simply pointed to the roulette wheel.
Marcos turned it for the third and final time.
The roulette wheel spun slower this time, as if the universe itself were building suspense.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It stopped.
Marcos read the result.
Her smile froze.
-...No.
"What does it say?" asked the Being, genuinely curious.
"No, no, NO." Marcos pointed to the result. "A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE! I GOT THE MOST FUCKING WORLD OF ALL!"
The Being laughed. It was a deep, genuine laugh, the first real joy he had felt since his fight with his wife.
—Oh, this is perfect. PERFECT. Absolute power, infinite resources, and a world where everyone will betray you, kill you, or both. This is going to be entertaining.
"Entertaining for YOU! I'm going to end up with my head on a pike!" Marcos clutched his hair. "Do you know how many people die in that world? EVERYONE! Everyone dies! It's like Australia, but with dragons and more betrayal!"
—Technically not ALL...
—CERSEI DIED CRUSHED BY BRICKS! BRICKS, YOU MORON! After surviving
EVERYTHING! —Mark was pacing in circles—. Oberyn, Ned, Robb, Catelyn, Joffrey... well, nobody misses Joffrey, but DO YOU SEE MY POINT?
The Being continued laughing.
"The compensation is complete. You'll be sent to 297 AD, just before Daenerys Targaryen's rise to power. You'll have your power, your system, and your new world." He paused. "Oh, and as a bonus for making my day: you'll arrive with your historical knowledge intact, your personality complete, and dressed appropriately so you don't die of hypothermia within the first five minutes."
—How generous, you son of a bitch.
—I like you, kid. Try not to die in the first week. It would be depressing given your potential.
"Wait, WAIT," Marcos raised his hands. "Can I at least choose WHERE I appear? Because if you throw me on the Wall, I swear I'll find a way back and beat the crap out of you."
"Hmm," the Being considered. "Okay, that's fair. Where do you want to appear?"
Marcos thought.
With his luck, any civilized place would be better than the Wall or beyond.
—Pentos. Send me to Pentos. It's relatively safe, it's in Essos, and I can move from there.
"Done. Pentos will be your starting point." The Being gestured, and the white void began to... crack. Cracks of light appeared in all directions. "One last thing: your personality and jargon are going to cause massive cultural confusion. People won't understand half the things you say. Use it wisely."
—So I can swear freely and nobody will know I'm insulting them. Excellent.
-Exactly.
The cracks widened.
Marcos felt himself being pulled towards...something.
"WAIT!" he shouted. "ONE LAST QUESTION!"
-THAT?
—WHAT'S YOUR WIFE'S NAME SO I CAN SEND HER A FRUIT BASKET?
HE INDIRECTLY GAVE ME A SECOND LIFE!
The Higher Being remained silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
—Her name is Aetheria. And believe me, she's going to have a good laugh knowing that her fight with me resulted in... this.
"THANK YOU AETHERIA!" Marcos shouted as he was sucked into the cracks. "I HOPE YOUR MARRIAGE GETS BETTER...!"
And he disappeared.
The Supreme Being was left alone in the white void.
He looked towards where Marcos had disappeared.
She smiled.
"Aetheria, love," he said aloud, knowing she could hear him from wherever she was. "I think we've just created something interesting."
Somewhere in the cosmos, a female laugh echoed.
And in Pentos, in the year 297 after Aegon's Conquest, the air above a cobbled street distorted, it shone...
And a 28-year-old man fell on his backside on the pavement, screaming:
—HOLY SHIT, WHERE THE HELL AM I NOW?!
The adventure of the Architect of the Eternal Empire had just begun.
And Westeros had no fucking idea what was coming.
[END OF CHAPTER 1]