Pain came first.
Not sharp, not clean – a heavy, suffocating weight pressing on every nerve. It felt like his bones had been ground into dust and packed back together wrong.
Art tried to breathe.
Something cold was strapped against his chest. A metal band. Restraints bit into his wrists and ankles. The air smelled like alcohol, incense and burned metal, a sterile mix that didn't exist in his small room back on Earth.
Room…?
The thought slipped in like a lost notification.
He'd been in front of his monitor. Eternal Dominion's title screen glowed in the dark. The chat window on the second monitor. Somebody calling his name. The cursor hovering over "Continue."
Then—
Everything went black.
A soft hum vibrated inside his skull.
[ SYSTEM BOOT SEQUENCE – ETERNAL DOMINION ]Initializing… 23%Recalibrating soul-binding channels… 61%Syncing cognitive layer with host… 97%Done.
Lines of light skated across his vision, pale blue and translucent, forming shapes his brain recognized before he truly saw them.
No way.
He forced his eyelids open.
The ceiling above him wasn't plaster or cracked paint. It was smooth white stone veined with faint gold sigils, glowing gently. High, vaulted, crossed by pipes of glass where something luminous flowed.
He knew this ceiling.
He had seen it from top-down camera angles, in cutscenes, rendered with less texture and more bloom.
Eternal Dominion.
His eyes burned. The world blurred. He realized he was crying before he felt the tears roll down his temples, into his hair.
Someone nearby sucked in a breath.
"He's awake."
The voice was male. Calm, but with something tight in the middle. Immediately, footsteps clicked closer, boots ringing on stone.
Art blinked through tears.
Three figures stood around the slab he was strapped to.
On his right, a man in a long white coat trimmed with gold. Dark hair tied back, faint stubble, a stylus in one hand and a crystal tablet in the other. Arcanist robes, but modified, reinforced with thin plates at shoulders and chest.
On his left, a woman in priestly vestments – Radiant Crown icon over her heart, a small sun made of silver and crystal. She held a staff with a caged shard of light at the top. He could feel mana thrumming around it.
Behind them, near a heavy door of reinforced steel and rune-etched stone, stood a knight in bright armor. The armor wasn't ornate, just practical, polished until it reflected the room. Sword at his hip, shield on his back, expression blank.
Art knew the silhouettes. Not their exact faces – the game never rendered them this detailed – but the shapes.
Imperial Research Wing. Solaris Empire. Subject Chamber.
His breath hitched.
The man in white leaned over, eyes sharp, studying Art's face as if he were an equation.
"Subject 17," he said. "Can you hear me?"
The title slammed into him like a status effect.
Subject 17.
That wasn't random. That wasn't generic.
That was a lore tag.
That was his lore tag.
His body felt like wet paper, but he forced his lips to move.
"S… Seventeen," he rasped. The voice that came out was not his old one. Lighter, younger, raw from disuse. "That's… me?"
The woman in Radiant vestments stirred. "He's coherent."
The knight shifted his weight. Art heard metal whisper.
The man in the coat – Dr. Elliot Graymark. The name popped up in his head on reflex, followed by a scroll of trivia: minor NPC, Event Flag #0137, "Unstable Genius," killed in three of the bad routes, survives in one of the good ones if—
Art squeezed his eyes shut.
His heart hammered. Not metaphorically. Literally too fast.
[ WARNING ]Heart rate elevated.VIT strain: Moderate.Recommend: Calm down.
"Breathe slowly," the priestess said quietly. "In… and out. Radiance is with you, child."
Her voice was gentle in a way that hurt.
Art obeyed automatically. In, out. His chest ached, but air moved, scraping roughly through his throat.
The system interface flickered and reshaped, a panel sliding into focus in front of his eyes. No one else reacted to it.
[ STATUS – SUBJECT 17 ]Name: ArtDesignation: Subject 17Class: Fragile Genius MageOrigin: Solaris Empire (Classified)Condition: Arcane Collapse Syndrome – Severe
STR: 7VIT: 6DEX: 11AGI: 10INT: 19PER: 18SEN: 20
Titles:– System-Touched (Unique)– Prototype Weapon (Restricted)
Traits (Passive):– Fragile Genius– Empathic Overflow (Hidden)– Incomplete Stabilization (Negative)
Current HP: 34 / 100Current Mana: 220 / 220
Seeing numbers didn't calm him. It grounded him.
This is real, he thought. This is real. This is real this is real this is real—
He laughed.
It broke out of him in a small, cracked sound, half-hiccup, half-sob. Tears spilled again, hot and relentless.
Dr. Graymark's brows pulled together. The priestess frowned, glancing at him. The knight tensed, hand straying closer to his sword hilt.
Art couldn't stop staring.
The arcanist's coat. The embroidery pattern on the priestess's sleeves. The faint scorch marks on the walls where containment barriers had flared in past tests. The hum of dormant arrays under the floor.
He'd spent four thousand hours in this world. He knew every corner of this room from minimaps, camera pans and replays.
None of that had prepared him to smell the disinfectant, to feel the cold stone under his back, to hear the drip of condensation from a pipe.
"I'm…" He swallowed. Voice trembled. "I'm really here."
Graymark hesitated, stylus poised above the tablet.
"…You're alive, at least," he said. "Whether that counts as 'here' is up for debate."
The priestess shot him a look.
Art almost smiled. The dryness in the remark was exactly the same as in the game's few lines of text associated with this NPC. Only now, there was a human behind it – tiny twitches at the corner of his mouth, dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders.
You worked too many nights for this project, Art thought. You wanted to do real research, not weapon work. You die if the Subject explodes in some routes. You live if—
The knight stepped closer. "Doctor. Is the Subject stable enough to sit?"
"For now." Graymark tore his eyes away from Art's face and tapped something on the tablet. "We need to assess motor control and mana flow. Restraints off."
The knight didn't move immediately.
His gaze met Art's.
The room shrank to that line of sight.
The knight's eyes were a clear gray, steady, practiced at reading threats. He'd seen a hundred dangerous things in his career. Monsters. Rogues. Mages gone wrong.
Art knew his name, though the game only ever called him "Captain" on UI. Leonhardt Vaelor. Leon. In one route, he died holding a broken line against an Ashen Beast. In another, he lived long enough to retire. In a secret one, he—
Art's throat tightened.
The knight's brows creased the tiniest bit.
Art realized what he must look like: a thin boy strapped to a slab, skin too pale, black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes red from crying – but staring at him like he was someone precious he hadn't seen in years.
Not like a lab rat looks at a jailer.
Like a fan looks at his favorite character.
"Restraints," Graymark repeated. "If he collapses, I'll record it."
Leon exhaled through his nose, moved to the side of the slab and began unfastening the metal bands with efficient motions. Each latch released with a heavy click.
As soon as Art's wrists were free, gravity discovered him.
His arms fell like dead weight to the sides. Pins and needles exploded along his fingers. His muscles shook just from existing.
"Easy," the priestess murmured. "Don't rush."
He turned his head toward her.
She was older than he'd imagined. The game's art had made her look mid-twenties at most. In person, he could see faint smile lines at the corners of her eyes, a streak of white in her blond hair. The Radiant Crown symbol on her chest wasn't just decoration; he could feel real faith pouring out of her like warmth.
In one bad end, she died when the Subject's containment failed.
In another, she survived and later healed a nameless soldier in a burning street.
He had cried over both on stream.
Now, she stood within arm's reach.
Art's vision blurred again.
Not fair.
It wasn't fair that he got this, after everything, when the price of this world had been so much blood – both in the game and here, now.
He pushed that down. There would be time to scream later. If he started now, he might never stop.
"Try sitting," Graymark said. "Slowly. If you feel your channels seize, say it immediately."
Art nodded.
He rolled to his side.
The world went white at the edges. Nausea punched him in the gut. His arms shook as he pressed his palms into the slab and pushed.
His body felt wrong-timed, like all his muscles received the signal one beat too late.
[ WARNING ]Strain on VIT: Moderate → SevereCoordination penalty: –20% (temporary)Suggestion: Reduce effort.
Can't, he thought. If I can't even sit up, I'm dead in the first encounter.
His elbows wobbled. The slab was cold against his forearms. He gritted his teeth and kept going.
Something warm touched his back – a hand, steady and firm, not supporting all his weight, just enough to stop him from tipping over.
Art glanced over his shoulder.
Leon.
The captain stood close, armored gauntlet pressing between his shoulder blades, adjusting his center of gravity without saying a word. Up close, Art could see small imperfections in the polish of his armor, nicks and scratches that hadn't been fully buffed out. Signs of real fights, not cutscene battles.
"Don't force it," Leon said quietly.
Art almost said I have to. The words tangled behind his teeth.
He made it to a sitting position.
His legs dangled off the side of the slab. The floor looked very far away. His feet were bare, toes pale against the dark stone.
He was shaking all over, but he was upright.
The system updated.
[ POSTURE: Sitting ]Balance: Unstable (62%)New condition: Lightheaded
Graymark scribbled on the tablet. "Better than expected."
"His aura feels… thin," the priestess murmured, half to herself. "Like fire behind glass."
Art almost laughed again. That was exactly how the flavor text had described Subject 17 in the game.
"Subject 17." Graymark snapped his fingers once, drawing Art's attention. "Focus here. Do you remember your name?"
Art licked dry lips.
"My name is… Art."
Silence.
Graymark blinked. The priestess tilted her head. Leon's hand stayed against his back, steady as a wall.
"And before that?" Graymark prodded. "Do you remember… family, place of birth, regiment, academy?"
Art stared at him.
Before that was Earth, he thought. Before that was a screen and a cheap mic and late nights pretending my chest didn't hurt every time stream ended.
"It's… blurry," he said honestly. "I remember… darkness. Pain. The sound of… humming. And—"
He swallowed.
"And a game," he whispered.
Graymark's eyes sharpened. "A game?"
Art's heart skipped.
He'd said too much.
He tried to backpedal. "Just… flashes. Like… pieces of a story. Choices. Endings."
The priestess's gaze softened. "Dreams are common after heavy rites."
Leon's hand shifted slightly on his back, as if making sure he didn't topple. Art felt the weight of his eyes on the side of his face.
Art met that gaze again.
He couldn't help it.
There was so much he wanted to say. You die if they send you to the wrong front. You live if someone stops the Ashen incursion earlier. You're more than a background knight, you're—
He settled for something small.
"You're… Captain Leonhardt Vaelor," he said quietly. "Right?"
Leon's brows went up a fraction. Graymark looked up sharply. The priestess blinked.
They hadn't used his name yet. Not out loud.
Leon's grip on his back didn't tighten, but it changed. Less impersonal, more cautious.
"…Yes," he said after a moment. "How do you know that?"
Art's pulse thundered.
He could lie. Say he overheard someone. Say he guessed from insignia. Say anything normal people would say.
His mouth moved before his brain decided.
"I've… seen you before," he blurted. "In a different… place. You were holding a line against something huge and burning, and everyone else ran. You stayed."
The memory slammed into him like a replay he'd watched a hundred times – Leon standing in an alley of the Ashen Frontier, armor half-melted, cape on fire, holding a broken shield, buying six seconds for two nameless NPCs to escape. The cutscene had lasted thirty-two seconds. Art had timed it.
In the room, no one spoke.
Graymark's stylus hovered above the tablet.
The priestess's lips parted slightly, a prayer forgotten.
Leon's eyes lost a fraction of their steadiness.
There were no such scenes yet in this timeline. That battle hadn't happened. Those streets weren't burning – not here, not now.
"How?" Leon asked, voice very quiet.
Art watched the question land. Not just the words, but the implications. Spy? Prophet? Madman? Demon? Experiment gone wrong?
He could feel their fear more than see it. A tightening in shoulders. A flick of eyes toward containment sigils. The priestess's hand drifting closer to her staff.
The system chimed softly.
[ RELATION UPDATE ]Leonhardt Vaelor – Interest: +5Suspicion: +8
New hidden flag: "Impossible Knowledge"
Art exhaled shakily.
Good job, he scolded himself. First ten minutes and you've already ticked a hidden flag. Classic.
He forced himself to look straight at Leon.
He didn't try to look harmless. He didn't try to look intimidating. He just let what he felt bleed into his eyes – the terrified gratitude of someone meeting a person he'd mourned countless times.
"I'm not… your enemy," Art said softly. His throat burned. "I just… don't want you to die in a burning street again."
The words came out before he could polish them, weird and too specific.
Leon stared at him.
For a heartbeat, the captain's composure cracked.
Something flashed across his face – confusion, a flicker of something that might've been fear, and beneath it, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only soldiers who had already imagined their own death carried.
He looked, just for a second, like a man who had woken from a nightmare he couldn't remember.
Then the expression was gone, replaced by controlled neutrality.
"Doctor," Leon said, not taking his eyes off Art, "you didn't mention prophetic hallucinations in the briefings."
Graymark snorted under his breath, tension bleeding out just enough to breathe again. "He's a prototype, Captain, not a sanctioned oracle. Though at this point, I suppose I shouldn't rule anything out."
The priestess murmured a short Radiant prayer, eyes still on Art. Not the harsh kind, not exorcism – a quiet plea for guidance.
Art could feel all three of them watching him now.
Not like a thing.
Like a puzzle.
Like a person they didn't know what to do with.
He wiped his cheeks clumsily with the heel of one hand. His arm shook. His fingers were numb. The cold of the slab seeped up his spine.
He wanted to laugh and scream and cling to Leon's armor and apologize for deaths that hadn't happened yet and never needed to happen.
He settled for sitting upright without falling.
You can't tell them everything, he reminded himself. You can't even prove you're from a different world. You'll sound insane. You probably are. But it doesn't matter.
He loved this place.
He loved the faint hum of mana in the walls, the smell of incense, the way light from the priestess's staff painted soft halos on the floor. He loved the tiny scar at the edge of Graymark's jaw that the game never showed, the fatigue in the priestess's eyes, the weight of Leon's hand that had stopped him from collapsing.
He loved the world enough to hate what he knew it was capable of doing to them.
I'm here now, he thought. No save file. No reset. If I screw up, they don't get another route.
A distant bell tolled once, twice, somewhere above – the clear tone of imperial timekeeping.
Graymark glanced at the ceiling, then at Leon. "We don't have long. The High Council wants an assessment before the next session convenes. And His Highness asked for a report in person."
Art's breath caught.
His Highness.
The Crown Prince of Solaris.
The arrogant idiot whose route had made Art cry at four in the morning, live, mic muted because he couldn't speak through the sobs.
The system chimed again.
[ MAIN QUEST: Awakened Weapon ]Objective: Survive initial evaluation.Sub-objective: First audience with the Crown Prince of Solaris.
Reward: Access to Imperial Capital.Failure: Immediate termination.
No save. No respawn.
Art exhaled slowly.
His hands still shook. His heart still raced. His body still hurt like someone had ripped it out of one world and forced it into another.
He straightened his spine anyway, as much as he could.
"Okay," he whispered, mostly to himself.
Leon's hand left his back.
For a second, Art missed the contact – the small anchor to reality.
He glanced at him and managed the ghost of a smile.
"Lead the way, Captain," Art said, voice hoarse but steady. "I'll… try not to collapse on you."
One corner of Leon's mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile back and wasn't sure if he was allowed.
"That would be appreciated," he said dryly.
The priestess moved to Art's other side, lifting her staff. "I'll walk with him. If Arcane Collapse stirs, I'll intervene."
Graymark tapped the tablet. "Good. Move slowly. If the Subject falls unconscious, we'll drag him instead and call it natural fatigue."
Art let the knight and the priestess help him slide off the slab.
His feet touched the cold stone.
For a moment, all his weight fell through bones that felt like glass and nerves that felt too raw. His knees buckled. Leon's arm slid under his, locking him upright. Warm, solid. Not just armor – muscle and heat and a living pulse.
Art sucked air through his teeth, waited for the wave of dizziness to crest and ebb.
His status flickered.
[ CONDITION UPDATE ]Standing – Unstable (41%)Strain: High.Recommendation: Sit down.
Override? Y / N
He stared at the little [Y] pulsing softly.
He thought of the Crown Prince. Of Nocturnis' princess waiting in shadows Art hadn't reached yet. Of the ice queen alone in the north. Of Ashen beasts crawling through black snow. Of a thousand bad endings he'd watched alone in his dark room.
He thought of how alive this world felt now.
Override, he thought.
[ Override accepted. ]Proceed at your own risk.
Art smiled, just a little. Quiet, shaky, but real.
He looked up at the door.
"Let's go," he said.
And for the first time in his life, walking into a death flag, he felt more alive than dead.