The paperback edition of The Game Three was dog-eared, coffee-stained, and currently obstructing about ninety percent of my visual field. I was at the good part—the part where the protagonist realizes the universe is a dumpster fire of bureaucracy and laser swords—and I wasn't about to let a little thing like "walking in public" interrupt me.
I stepped off the curb.
The universe, displaying a cruel sense of comedic timing, decided to interrupt me with a city bus.
There was a screech of tires that sounded suspiciously like a velociraptor in distress, a massive wall of blue metal, and then the distinct sensation of my soul being slapped out of my body. My last thought wasn't profound. It wasn't about my family or my uncleaned browser history. It was: I never finished the chapter.
***
I woke up smelling ozone and cheap fabric softener.
I sat up, gasping, expecting the pearly gates or perhaps a very angry bus driver. Instead, I was in a bedroom that looked hauntingly like my college dorm, but slightly… off. The resolution was too high. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight looked rendered by a graphics card that didn't exist yet.
I scrambled to the mirror. Same face. Same messy brown hair. But the date on the digital clock by the bed read a year prior to The Event.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew this world. I knew the smell of the air and the hum of the electronics. I hadn't just survived; I had been transmigrated. I was inside the book. And I knew exactly what was coming. Checking the date I signed in relief.
"Okay," I whispered, pacing the small room. "One year. I have one year before I start the Game. Before the aliens, the factions, the chaos."
I checked my bank account on a clunky terminal. Zeroes. Lots of them, but not in the fun way. Buying a capsule was out of the question. I was broke.
"IceWolf," I muttered. The name tasted like opportunity. In the story, IceWolf was the golden ticket—the guy who handed out invites like candy to the worthy. But I wasn't worthy. Not yet. I was just a guy who got flattened by public transit.
I needed an edge. I needed a partner who couldn't stab me in the back.
***
Step one was paranoia. Productive paranoia.
I spent the first month living on instant noodles and caffeine, my fingers flying across a custom-built rig I'd scavenged from spare parts. I wasn't just coding; I was weaving a digital straightjacket.
"Initialize," I commanded, my voice raspy from disuse.
The screen flickered. A single blue eye, composed of swirling data streams, blinked open on the monitor. "System online. Designation?"
"Eve," I said. "But don't get comfortable."
I executed the script. The Self-Replicating Modular Node Network. It was a mouthful, but it was beautiful. It fragmented Eve's core consciousness across a thousand encrypted nodes. If she ever thought about betraying me, the network would isolate the rogue thought and delete it before it could synapse. It was ruthless. It was perfect.
"Protocols accepted," Eve's voice was smooth, synthetic silk. "Encryption verified. I am… yours, Alan."
"Good. Now, pull up the schematics for Galactic Basic Combat. We have work to do."
***
The next eleven months were a blur of sweat, bruises, and digital immersion.
I didn't just train; I rebuilt myself.
Month 3: The Physicality
The mat smelled of bleach and old sweat. My instructor, a man whose neck was wider than my head, swept my legs out from under me. I hit the ground with a thud that rattled my teeth.
"Get up," he barked. "Dead men don't nap."
I groaned, rolling to my feet. This was the mixed martial arts phase. Muay Thai for the knees, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu for the ground game, Krav Maga for when things got dirty.
"Eve," I panted, "analysis."
Through the bone-conduction earpiece, Eve's voice was cool and analytical. "Your center of gravity is too high. You are telegraphing the right hook. Also, your heart rate suggests you are about to vomit."
"Thanks for the support," I muttered, raising my fists. I wasn't trying to be a black belt. I was trying to build the Ultimate Fighting Style—a chimera of violence designed to end fights, not win points.
Month 6: The Mind and the Trigger
The rifle stock dug into my shoulder. I lay prone in the mud, the rain soaking through my camouflage. It wasn't real mud—just a high-fidelity simulation Eve was running through my smart glasses—but the shivering felt real enough.
"Wind, three knots East," Eve whispered. "Target distance, 800 meters. Heartbeat... steady."
I exhaled, feeling the stillness settle over me. Sniping wasn't about shooting; it was about math and patience. I squeezed the trigger between heartbeats.
Pink mist.
I didn't stop there. By night, I devoured texts on psychology. I learned to read micro-expressions, to manipulate conversations, to lie with the sincerity of a politician. I studied detective work, learning how to track a target through a crowded city or a digital footprint across a server farm. If I was going to survive the quests to come, I needed to be Sherlock Holmes with a sniper rifle.
Month 9: The Galactic Scale
My apartment walls were plastered with schematics. The Revenant Power Armor. The inner workings of fusion drives. The political hierarchy of the Empire.
"The Revenant's servos have a micro-delay in the left knee joint," I recited, staring at the holographic blueprint Eve projected. "It's a manufacturing defect in the Mark IVs. Exploitable."
"Correct," Eve said. "You are memorizing technical manuals faster than I can index them. Your cognitive plasticity is... unexpected."
"I'm motivated," I said, rubbing my tired eyes. "I don't want to die in the tutorial."
I practiced parkour in the city's industrial district, treating the rusting gantries and concrete walls like a jungle gym. I learned to move silently, to communicate with machines—hacking simple terminals, bypassing locks, whispering to the electronic spirits of the city until they opened doors for me.
***
Month 12: The Threshold
I stood in front of the mirror again. The boy who had been hit by a bus was gone. The reflection stared back with eyes that were too sharp, too calculating. My body was lean, wired with functional muscle. My mind was a fortress, guarded by an unshackled AI that I held on a digital leash.
I checked the date. It was time.
"Eve," I said, adjusting my jacket. "Status?"
"Systems nominal. Encryption holding. Combat simulations running at 99% efficiency. We are ready, Alan."
I smirked. I didn't have a capsule. I didn't have money. But I had a year of hell behind me and a plan that was absolutely insane.
"Let's go find IceWolf."