Three minutes remained before the start of the final raid of the global event.
The countdown dominated the center of the screen while the suspended fortress rotated slowly above a sea of dense clouds. Carmine fissures cut across the digital sky like open scars, pulsing at almost organic intervals. The event had been announced as the largest in the game's history. Worldwide update. New era. Complete rebalance.
In the corner of the stream, the viewer count surpassed every previous peak.
The live chat scrolled at violent speed:
"Bloodthrone is going to invade."
"If he falls today I'm quitting."
"Top 4 doesn't lose events."
"Check the market, someone manipulated before the patch."
Arthur watched in silence.
There was no visible tension in his shoulders. No nervous movement. The cursor glided across the interface with absolute economy, as if every action had been rehearsed dozens of times — and in a way, it had been.
He didn't read everything.
He read what mattered.
Market fluctuations in the last forty-eight hours. Guilds that had stopped provoking each other publicly. Simultaneous log-ins at unusual hours.
Patterns.
"Second stage," he said calmly, adjusting the headset.
The chat reacted instantly.
"???"
"He already knows."
"Bloodthrone confirmed."
Arthur didn't respond.
Aggressive clans do not attack at the beginning. They wait until the raid is too committed to retreat and too vulnerable to hold two fronts.
They wanted visibility.
They wanted narrative.
And he was the perfect target.
Global Top 4.
Not the most mechanical.
Not the most explosive.
But the hardest to break.
The countdown hit zero.
The screen darkened.
The soundtrack rose in low, almost liturgical chords. The fortress sky opened like a dilated pupil, and the final entity descended with calculated slowness.
"Architecture of Fate."
A colossal mass of golden gears and orbital rings. Each segment rotated at a different speed, as if time itself were being ground inside the structure. Eyes scattered across its shell opened and closed in irregular rhythms.
The arena sealed.
The raid advanced.
Arthur did not.
While dozens unleashed opening damage, he opened the inventory.
Unhurried.
He equipped two legendary puppets.
Star-Night Hunter. Illusionist.
The chat anticipated it.
"Here it comes."
"He's going to do something weird."
"There's always a trick."
The boss initiated the first attack cycle.
Twenty seconds later, the alert appeared.
RAID INVASION — BLOODTHRONE CLAN.
The chat exploded.
"I TOLD YOU."
"NOW."
"IT'S NOW."
Arthur was already moving.
Bloodthrone entered in tight formation, coordinating interrupts and area denial to force a choice: boss or players.
Arthur chose neither.
He subtly altered the arena's geometry with the Illusionist. Not enough to trigger detection — just enough to shift micro-positioning. The Hunter provoked the entity at a precise angle.
The boss's massive strike landed exactly where Bloodthrone had advanced.
Half the clan disappeared under their own calculation.
The chat dissolved into chaos.
"THAT WAS PLANNED."
"HE USED THE BOSS."
"WHAT WAS THAT."
Arthur did not duel.
He made others duel the circumstances.
The survivors attempted to reorganize.
Too late.
By the time they realized they were fighting on terrain that no longer obeyed standard reading, the raid had regained control.
Bloodthrone retreated.
No glory.
No heroic clip.
Arthur returned to the boss.
On the third cycle, when the "Architecture of Fate" initiated temporal collapse — inverting abilities and rewriting cooldowns — he did not react to chaos.
He had already positioned everything so that chaos would serve him.
The final blow was clean.
The entity crumbled into golden fragments that rose like luminous dust.
"WORLD EVENT CLEARED."
The chat went feral.
"TOP 4 IS TOP 4."
"UNBREAKABLE."
"WITCHCRAFT."
"AS ALWAYS."
Arthur removed the headset and exhaled slowly.
He did not look like a hero celebrating.
He looked like someone who had finished a difficult equation and confirmed the result.
Then the cutscene began.
The fortress rebuilt itself in slow motion. The narrator spoke about "eternal return," "the next cycle," "the continuity of the world's flame."
Standard in-game language.
But something was slightly off.
The gears rotated differently than before the patch. One orbital ring was inverted. A minor detail.
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
The image froze.
First, a micro-delay.
Then complete stillness.
The chat kept moving — but strange.
Different sentences.
Identical structure.
As if thousands of minds were repeating the same thought with minimal variation.
Arthur tried to move the mouse.
Nothing.
He tried to alt-tab.
Nothing.
"...?"
The music converged into a single prolonged note.
Sustained.
Endless.
The brightness of the screen intensified.
Not as a visual effect.
As actual light.
It spilled beyond the edges of the monitor.
Spread through the room.
The shadows vanished first.
Then the walls.
Then depth itself.
The chat still scrolled.
But now the messages felt aligned.
Converging.
As if they were trying to form one sentence that never quite completed itself.
Arthur opened his mouth to speak.
No sound emerged.
White consumed everything.
No transition.
No falling.
No warning.
Only—
Interruption.
And the world shut off.
When he opened his eyes, there was wind.
Not divine radiance.
Not infinite descent.
Wind.
Cold enough to sting exposed skin.
Arthur did not move immediately.
He inhaled first.
The air had weight.
Burned coal. Heated metal. A trace of industrial oil.
He blinked twice.
The light did not change.
The sky was layered with dense clouds, cut by slow-moving shadows — airships.
He lowered his gaze.
Black gloves.
Reinforced side stitching.
Identical to the avatar.
He flexed his fingers.
Immediate response.
No interface.
No delay.
He examined his body.
Height.
Posture.
Clothing.
It was Gepetto.
No loading screen.
No explanation.
The first hypothesis formed.
"Hallucination."
He evaluated it for less than three seconds.
He did not use drugs. He had no family history of psychiatric disorders. No dissociative episodes. He was rested. No alcohol.
Complex hallucinations do not maintain coherent multisensory structure.
He crouched.
Touched the grass.
Irregular texture. Slight moisture.
He stood.
Walked two steps.
The ground resisted with natural variation.
"This is not cognitive collapse."
The next conclusion surfaced with disconcerting simplicity.
"Transmigration."
The word felt almost absurd in his own mind.
But no other model explained the scenario.
Transported into the game world.
Displaced consciousness.
Replaced body.
He had consumed dozens of stories with that premise.
Now he was inside it.
He did not accept the idea because he liked it.
He accepted it because it was the only surviving hypothesis.
"Very well. I am inside the world of the game."
He looked toward the horizon.
Below the hill stretched an industrial city of steel and stone. Towers vented constant steam. Elevated rails connected upper districts. Metallic bridges linked Victorian facades.
Recognizable.
He rotated slightly, analyzing orientation.
Grassy hill to the north. Elevated rail to the west. Smokestacks concentrated to the south.
Yes.
Peripheral zone of the Republic of Elysion.
Industrial region near one of its three major cities.
"If I am correct, the road to the right leads to Lythar."
He turned in that direction.
Walked.
Nothing triggered.
No quest notification.
No hostile spawn.
The world did not react to him.
Minutes later, dirt became uneven stone. Traffic increased. A mechanized carriage passed, exposed gears grinding rhythmically.
Metal plates on posts displayed the crest.
The Eagle of Elysion.
"Confirmed."
He entered the city.
Noise intensified — metal striking metal, merchants negotiating, steam venting under pressure. A vendor shouted prices. A woman argued over imported fabric. Workers carried a crate stamped with a state seal.
Nothing felt staged.
Nothing felt scripted.
The world did not pause for him.
A man bumped into him without apology. A child ran past. A guard patrolled with bored vigilance.
Indifference.
The world did not recognize him as a protagonist.
That mattered.
He inhaled again.
The air had density.
Buildings carried imperfections — cracks, soot, uneven corrosion.
Not a static map.
A lived environment.
The conclusion solidified.
"It is real."
Not emotionally.
Ontologically.
"If there is pain, it will hurt. If there is death, it will not reset."
He felt no panic.
Only recalibration.
"Very well."
"New environment."
"Same principle."
"Adapt. Gather information. Avoid unnecessary exposure."
He looked toward the denser district — commerce, administration, capital flow.
Initial objective defined.
Before ambition, survival.
Before questioning the structure of the world, integration into its society.
He adjusted the gloves, leather creaking softly.
"So this is the beginning."
Not defeat.
Acceptance.
"First, adapt."
"Then, understand what is truly happening."
"And only then… decide what to do with it."
He stepped toward the heart of Elysion.
Not as a player.
But as a conscious piece inside a board he had yet to fully comprehend.