The battle had only just begun, but the chaos below was already unbearable. From my perch high above the ground—hidden by sharp elven eyesight and the unnatural ability to mask my presence—I watched the slaughter unfold. The valley of Ostagar reverberated with screams. Human, darkspawn… it didn't matter. Death didn't discriminate.
I had seen war in games. In VR, it was thrilling—bloodless, consequence-free. But this? This was no raid, no scripted encounter. This was murder in all its putrid glory. The stench of blood and rot choked the wind. Steel flashed. Flesh tore. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the darkspawn tide.
It had been two weeks since I woke up in this world—a world I once escaped to for fun. Thedas. But I hadn't entered it willingly. I had been stolen. Ripped from my apartment and forced into the skin of someone else—my character from Arcana Online, the one I'd painstakingly built over years.
It all started with a bug. A corrupted tree graphic. Just a flickering texture in the corner of a forest update. I'd approached it out of idle curiosity. I never even got the chance to report it. My avatar moved on its own, reaching for the anomaly. Then—darkness.
And when I opened my eyes, I was in Orlais. Alone. In an alienage that reeked of urine, decay, and despair. Moonlight spilled over collapsed roofs and broken stones. There were no players. No logout. No system messages—except one.
Contact Impossible.
The panic was instant. I tried everything—menus, voice commands, inventory pings—but the only thing still functional was the shop. Except it was twisted: no real money needed. Every item free, like the system was laughing in my face. A god with broken toys.
Then I found the final forum post—somehow cached into my mind. Just one line that stuck with me:
The virus has fried the neural servers. If you touched it, you're already dead.
So that was it. I was dead. Kellie Kinney—thirty years old, freelance writer, reclusive nerd—gone. All that was left was this… shell. A digital soul trapped in a fantasy made of blood.
I pulled up my character sheet, desperate for familiarity. The numbers glowed like holy scripture, comforting and obscene:
KelleyLevel: 1450 (MAX)Race: ElfClass: DiversifiedTitles: Queen of Necropolis, Saintness, Peak Mage, Rifle Master, Sword Master, Apprentice to the God of Blacksmithing...
Equipment:
Light Armor (Bone of the Demon King): Divine rank. +500% to all attributes. Resistant to all damage. Indestructible.
Diadem of the Saintness: Divine rank. +700% to all attributes. Immunity to curses and negative effects.
Cloak of the Queen of Necropolis: Unique rank. +200% regeneration. Bone Shield ability protects allies. Summons undead without problem.
Archmage's Ring: Legendary rank. +250% spell power. Miniature World ability for rapid regeneration and skill improvement.
Shapeshifting Pistol: Unique rank. Transforms into any ranged weapon. +50% shooting accuracy.
Sword from the Dragon King's Bones: Unique rank. Immune to fire. Can harness fire in any form.
Staff of the Ages: Unknown rank. Eight legendary stones amplify spells x1000. Spells only harm intended targets.
It should've felt empowering. Instead, it felt like a mockery.
What use is godhood when the world is made of corpses?
I scanned the date. My stomach clenched.
The Fifth Blight. The beginning of the end. The Dragon Age: Origins storyline. The one I had played so many times. Loghain's betrayal. The death of the king. Duncan's last stand. The burning of Ostagar.
And I was here. Watching it unfold again—but this time, real blood was being spilled.
I had arrived days earlier, riding my gryphon across Ferelden like a storm. I'd used an artifact to stop time, scouted Ostagar under the veil of invisibility. Soldiers, templars, and mages moved like ghosts through the ancient fortress, all preparing to die. I couldn't warn them. Not yet.
So I slipped into the Wilds instead.
That's where I found Fergus Cousland—wounded, bleeding, his men reduced to shadows. The game never showed that part. It never showed the look in a dying man's eyes when he realizes he'll never see home again. I saved half his unit with raw magic and surgical violence. Burned darkspawn to ash. Carved a path of destruction through the bog.
I brought them to a nearby Chasind camp. They weren't friendly—but they were desperate. I healed the chief's dying daughter with a relic spell. In return, they offered shelter to the survivors. A small win. But small wins felt like hope in this world.
Now, I watched the beacon atop the Tower of Ishal blaze to life—just as it had in the game. A signal. A trap.
Loghain had vanished hours ago. Cauthrien had taken over, her expression unreadable as she ordered a charge that would go unanswered. Maybe he fainted. Maybe he ran. Either way, the slaughter had begun.
And I was done watching.
I summoned a blue crystal from my inventory. It pulsed with power—Divine Wrath, a spell banned from PvP servers for being "too demoralizing." Now, it felt like mercy.
I whispered the command. "Divine Wrath."
The crystal exploded in the sky, raining light like falling stars. Each bolt found its target with cruel precision. Darkspawn were burned out of existence, no trace left but scorched footprints and melting steel. The valley lit up like a divine judgement—and for a moment, there was silence.
Then screams. Human ones. Not from pain—but from awe. Or maybe fear.
I lowered myself onto the field, my cloak catching the smoke. My body glowed with residual power. Blood clung to the wind. Soldiers backed away instinctively, eyes wide. Some knelt. Others just stared. No one moved.
In the distance, I saw Cailan—young, golden, terrified. The crown on his head was just decoration now. He looked like a boy playing at king.
I walked toward him, step by step.
If I was to change the course of this world… it had to begin here.Not as a god.Not as a savior.But as something far more dangerous.
A ghost with nothing left to lose.