King Solomon, flanked by his guard captain, raised a trembling hand and pointed at the kneeling priests. His voice, cold and resolute, echoed across the courtyard.
"Seize them."
Gasps and screams filled the air. The priests, once revered, were dragged away, robes torn, mouths pleading.
A high priest tried to resist, holding out a scroll with divine scripture. "You defy the word of the Lord!"
Solomon's face twisted in grief… but not hesitation.
"I defy no one. I claim what is mine."
He turned to the construction site behind him—the sacred temple, partially built, gleaming in the sunlight.
"Tear it down."
The soldiers obeyed.
Stone by sacred stone, the first temple crumbled into dust, the cries of the faithful swallowed in the roar of collapsing walls.
And behind it all, the young man, barely older than twenty-five, stood smiling.
Ethan.
He blinked as a translucent screen appeared in front of him.
[Mission Failed]
Objective: Ensure construction of the First Temple. Status: Failed.
Penalty: None.
Branching Timeline Triggered.
[World Impact Notification]
You have altered the fabric of history.
Future religions (Christianity, Islam, Judaism): Dissolved from timeline.
Dominant ideology: Atheism.
World structure altered.
[Reward Granted]
3 Free Attribute Points for triggering a major branch.
Returning player to the main board…
Game Board — Outside Time
Ethan's feet touched the translucent white floor of the Player's Board. Around him, dozens of avatars, frozen mid-step, floated across a vast crystalline surface resembling a giant game of snakes and ladders—except this one had cities, centuries, and civilizations carved into its tiles.
He grinned, brushing a phantom speck off his tunic.
"Everyone's busy chasing quests. Completing missions like good little puppets."
He looked at the Stat Board, hovering before him.
Most players poured their reward points into Strength or Intelligence, trying to brute-force their missions or unlock systems faster.
Ethan had once done the same.
But not anymore.
"This time... It's different."
With a deliberate breath, Ethan dragged all 5 free points into Affinity.
Affinity: 5.00
His eyes glowed faintly with blue light as the system updated.
He clenched his fists, whispering with icy resolve.
"No matter what… this time, I'll reach the top."
"Even if I have to sacrifice every other player along the way."
He stepped forward, the ethereal Dice of Fate materializing in his palm.
"Time to roll."
The dice clattered across the glowing floor.
You rolled a 7.
The board lit up, and a new square expanded beneath his feet:
[Zhulou - 203 BCE]
Mission: Influence the outcome of the Battle of Zhulou.
Ethan frowned slightly.
"Zhulou… This is where most players join the Chu regiments and get dragged into meat-grinder side missions."
He narrowed his eyes, calculating.
"Not this time. I know what to avoid. No troop enlistment. There's another route… a quieter one."
As the tile lit up and the next world enveloped him in light, Ethan whispered:
"Let's see if history bends… again."
Back at Babylon;
During lunch break, Ryan sat alone in the corner of the administrative building, hunched over a clean parchment. With the ink drying slowly under the dim light of an oil lamp, he began writing in Chinese characters.
It wasn't much, just a few phrases, half-structured and seemingly random: Emperor, war, homeland, Opis, death, Governor's estate, arrange meeting, and finally — King.
He smirked. "Let's see if this baits someone out."
Folding it precisely, Ryan slipped it into his inventory, hidden away from all eyes.
Later, when the break ended, he returned to his task — but this time with exaggerated energy. He sifted through scrolls, tallied figures, and sorted sealed documents with precise care.
After a short while, he pulled the planted Chinese-lettered parchment out from the pile as if discovering it by accident.
"What is this?" he exclaimed, feigning confusion.
The scribe, already dealing with headaches of his own, glanced over and took it. His eyes narrowed at the strange, alien script.
"This is… gibberish?"
Ryan stepped forward, nodding thoughtfully.
"I recognize the script. It's a language from my master's homeland — the Middle Kingdom, east of the great desert and mountains. We call it Mandarin. It's from a place called Zhou."
The charm check passed — a soft chime only Ryan could hear echoed in his mind.
"Mandarin? Never heard of it," the scribe muttered, now slightly more curious than dismissive. "But… this has no seal. And it's addressed to the Governor?"
Ryan nodded, tone measured, "Yes. That's what makes it odd."
"Can you read it?"
Ryan hesitated, as if reluctant to speak. Then:
"Not fluently. But I can pick out words."
He pointed at specific characters.
"This means Emperor Cyrus. This one, war. Here: homeland. Death. Opis. Governor's estate…"
He paused dramatically at the end of the letter.
"This final line says something like… I hope you arrange a meeting with your King."
The scribe blinked rapidly, his brow furrowed, lips tightening.
"You're… certain?"
Ryan shook his head just slightly.
"Not entirely. I'm not a scholar of the language. I learned only from what my master taught me. Some characters I can't identify. But the ones I do… they aren't vague."
The charm check flashed again, but this time there was a gray outline — meaning: partial success.
The scribe leaned back, troubled. He reached for another scroll to compare markings, distracted enough to mutter to himself. "Why would a letter in an unknown script talk about Opis, Cyrus, and the estate…? Could this be an encoded message?"
Ryan bowed slightly. "If I may suggest, perhaps it should be brought to Lady Ishtaruna or her steward. I'm not qualified to decide its worth."
The scribe stared at Ryan for a long moment. "You might be right… but let's not jump to conclusions. Keep this between us for now. And thank your gods you know how to read this strange tongue."
Ryan gave a short nod, returning to his work — but inside, his heart beat faster.
If this works… it'll spark just enough curiosity. Enough to throw suspicion and stir the hornet's nest. Let's see if the spy gets nervous.
*
Later that evening, the air inside the governor's audience chamber was thick with heat and incense. Tall bronze braziers cast flickering shadows across the tiled floor as Ryan followed the scribe inside, head low, hands folded. Two guards stood on either side of the great cedar doors, unmoving.
At the far end of the room, on a modest elevated seat, sat the Governor of Esagila District, wrapped in deep blue robes, his face lined with years of sun, war, and bureaucracy.
To his left stood a younger man — regal in posture, but with agitation in his eyes — Nanan, the governor's son.
The scribe stepped forward and bowed.
"My Lord Governor, we found this letter today — it contains strange markings. This boy, appointed by Lady Ishtaruna, says he recognizes the script."
The parchment was handed over. The governor scanned it silently, his eyes narrowing.
"So… speak. What do you know of this?" he asked without looking at Ryan.
Ryan bowed deeply. "My lord, I recognize the script. It's Mandarin, from the Middle Kingdom, far east of the deserts and mountains. My master… Sage Tianqing taught me to read parts of it."
He felt his own words curdle in his throat.
That's lie number… twenty-three? Twenty-four? Gods, at this rate, I'll end up as the patron saint of liars.
Before Ryan could say more, Nanan stepped forward, voice sharp with scorn.
"Tianqing? Middle Kingdom? What nonsense. I've never heard of such a place. Who is this man, Father? A commoner without a last name, suddenly appearing in the estate, spewing tales and riddles?"
He pointed a finger toward Ryan. "What credibility does he hold? What is this language that no one has seen or studied? Is this how far we've fallen—to take advice from a street rat?"
Ryan kept his posture calm, but inside, he was burning. Still, he responded with practiced humility.
"I understand your doubt, noble one. I myself question what little I know. I can only recognize fragments. Using logic, I interpreted that the message warns about a threat to Emperor Cyrus, and hints that… someone within this estate may be assisting this distant kingdom."
The room chilled at that line. Ryan paused. Then delivered the punch.
"If what my teacher told me was true, then this Middle Kingdom has the greatest naval fleet in the world. Over 500,000 soldiers in their military, their tactics unmatched… And yet, this letter requests a meeting, not a declaration of war. They want something. Perhaps help, perhaps alliance. Perhaps betrayal."
He bowed again, hands trembling just slightly. "Of course… I may be wrong. I am not a wise man, nor a noble. If I overstepped, I ask forgiveness."
The chamber fell silent.
The Governor leaned back in his seat, gaze heavy on the parchment. He rubbed his beard slowly, a low sound escaping his throat as he pondered.
"Hmm…"
The oil lamp on Ryan's desk flickered gently as he drifted into sleep, curled on the wooden bed, thoughts tangled with strategy and paranoia.
But somewhere past midnight, sharp knocks sliced through the quiet like an axe through silk.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Ryan stirred, heart racing. The knocks weren't desperate or polite — they were decisive. Controlled. Dangerous.
He slipped to the door and cracked it open slightly, only for the door to be shoved wide.
A masked man stepped inside, his clothes dark, soaked faintly from the damp night. In one hand, a parchment. In the other — a gleaming dagger.
"Decode this. All of it. Right now," he growled, voice low and urgent. The blade gleamed in the lantern's light. "No games."
Ryan blinked, then… surprisingly, smiled coldly. He opened the door fully.
Behind him, stepping into the room with swift precision, were two soldiers, spears ready. Behind them, the scribe.
"Looks like you picked the wrong scribe to threaten," Ryan said calmly.
The masked man spun in fury — but too late. Another set of soldiers surged from the hall behind, surrounding him. The dagger clattered to the floor.