Foreword:
A novice sets foot upon the road. Clear your thoughts before reading; emptiness will serve you better than expectation.
This story exists for enjoyment alone. All settings follow the Overlord world. If it does not suit your taste, pass it by without reproach.
Now—begin.
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Yggdrasil was a virtual world crafted with obsessive care by its creators. Upon release, it consumed the attention of its era, not through spectacle, but through freedom.
Nine vast worlds existed beneath its design—each one so expansive that an entire lifetime could be spent wandering without repetition. Exploration was not guided. Discovery was not rewarded with praise. It simply was, and that was enough.
Races and professions numbered in the thousands. No path was identical. Power was layered, interlocked, and unforgiving to those who planned poorly. Growth required commitment, compromise, and patience. Those who attempted to grasp everything found themselves holding nothing of value.
As a result, no two individuals were truly the same.
Appearance, bearing, and equipment could be refined to an obsessive degree. Identity was not assigned—it was constructed. That sense of ownership, of absolute personal definition, could not be replicated elsewhere.
But nothing endures.
After twelve years, the world approached its end. Technology advanced. Profit waned. The announcement was simple and merciless: termination.
Yggdrasil would be shut down.
In Midgard—the central world where humanity gathered—a quiet wilderness lay between mountains and forest. There, beneath a crooked tree, a man rested with casual stillness.
He wore white robes layered with noble tailoring, pristine and deliberate. A staff rested in his hand, crowned with a single yellow gem, restrained in its design. His hair, cut short and pale, framed a face too calm to be mistaken for idle.
He watched the horizon without impatience, without anticipation.
Then the space distorted.
A young man in blue robes appeared before him, his arrival marked by a brief shimmer of light.
"Lock," the newcomer said, tone apologetic. "I was delayed."
Lock inclined his head slightly. No irritation surfaced. "It's acceptable. Did you complete what I asked?"
"Of course."
The man—known as Klee—produced a blood-red gem, radiant and heavy with significance, and offered it without hesitation. "For a request like yours, failure wasn't an option."
Lock accepted it without ceremony. Payment had been rendered. Gratitude was unnecessary.
A moment passed.
"Tell me something," Lock said at last. "What did you think about what I mentioned before?"
Klee blinked. "What, exactly?"
"The idea of another world."
Klee paused, lifting a hand to the back of his head in a habitual gesture. After a moment's thought, he laughed quietly.
"If something like that truly existed? I'd go without hesitation. Reality is exhausting. Endless labor, endless pressure. This pace leads only to collapse."
Lock's gaze sharpened—not with emotion, but calculation.
"Then remain," he said lightly. "Tonight is the end. Stay until silence falls. Who knows—fortune may favor you."
Klee waved dismissively, fatigue finally breaking through his composure.
"I've already given up my only rest to help you obtain that relic. I'm done. Sleep is more important than fantasy."
Lock said nothing further.
Opportunity had been offered. Refusal had been chosen.
"Then farewell," he said.
Klee smiled faintly. "If fate exists, perhaps we'll meet again."
They disconnected one after the other.
The wilderness returned to emptiness.
When awareness returned, Lock found himself seated upon a throne.
Not stone—gemstone.
A vast hall stretched outward beneath a domed ceiling supported by twelve colossal pillars. Light flowed from enchanted lamps of glass, cold and steady. There were no banners. No murals. No ornamentation meant for comfort.
Instead, wealth lay exposed.
Weapons of precious metal. Armor wrought with mastery. Robes bearing the marks of countless disciplines. Crates stacked high along one wall. Shelves of ancient tomes along another. Gold, gems, and artifacts filled every remaining space until the floor itself vanished beneath excess.
Lock sat at the center of it all.
This was the accumulation of twelve years—methodical, patient, absolute.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So," he murmured, voice calm. "This is how it begins."
He understood his circumstances immediately. This was not confusion, nor panic. He had crossed worlds—and not blindly.
The tale he once knew spoke of another man who remained behind when the world ended. A man who clung to memories, to companionship, to a guild that had become his final refuge. That man had carried an entire tomb into a new reality and carved his dominion from fear and inevitability.
But that story was not his.
Lock was not bound by nostalgia.
What awaited him was not adventure—but conquest.
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