The notification blinked mockingly at me from the tournament leaderboard:
3rd Place - Thomas (TX)
Third fucking place. After investing everything,time, money, sleep, my social life (what was left of it anyway)
Galaxy Conquest VII, I'd come up short again. The prize money would barely cover my rent, let alone the hundreds of hours I'd dumped into perfecting my strategies.
I leaned back in my gaming chair, staring at the results scrolling past. First place went to some Korean prodigy who'd apparently found an exploit in the quantum shield mechanics. Second place to a streamer with more followers than brain cells.
And me? Third place Thomas, forever the bridesmaid.
"Whatever," I muttered, but couldn't resist checking the community discussion. The tournament thread was exploding with post-game analysis, but one topic dominated:
[DISCUSSION] Lord Raven Vex'thara - Love him or hate him?
Posted 2 minutes ago - 847 replies
xXShadowSlayerXx: Daddy Raven AURA!!!!.
StarshipTrooper99: Most overrated boss in gaming history.
RavenSimp4Life: His orbital bombardment scene has 50 million views. ICONIC.
MoralityPolice: Y'all need therapy. This man committed genocide for breakfast.
EdgeLordSupreme: And looked good doing it # aura. Your point?
I snorted. The community was split between wanting to murder Raven and wanting to marry him.
The bastard was simultaneously the most hated and most beloved character in gaming history perfectly designed to make you suffer while respecting the artistry of your suffering.
My stomach growled. The convenience store would have to do for dinner. I took my wallet and headed out.
---
The crosswalk light turned green just as I finished checking my phone for more tournament updates. I stepped into the street, and the last I saw was headlights and screeching metal.
Then everything went black.
---
Silence…well not total silence but some peace of mind and comfort mixed with silence…
The first thing I noticed wasn't the expensive bed sheets. It was my hands.
They were wrong. Too long, too elegant, too pale. Like someone had put my consciousness into an upgraded version of god's knows what.
I sat up, and the world seems different, just wrong. Every movement had too much reach, too much power. Like trying to play a game after someone messed with your sensitivity settings.
"What the hell," I whispered, and even my voice was different. Deeper. Smoother.
Memory fragments crashed through my skull—but they weren't mine. Flashes of imperial courts, weapons that, faces twisted in fear and respect. And underneath it all, a name that made my blood run cold.
Raven Vex'thara.
I stumbled toward what I hoped was a mirror, my new body moving with a predatory grace I couldn't control. When I saw my reflection, I nearly had a second heart attack.
Lord Raven Vex'thara stared back at me. Dark hair, crimson eyes, and a face that belonged on a statue dedicated to beautiful monsters.
"Holy shit," I breathed. "I'm fucking gorgeous."
The room around me screamed expensive danger. Black chrome surfaces reflected crystallized starlight streaming through massive windows.
Three different types of blood stained the carpet—a helpful holographic display cheerfully informed me they were
Type A-positive human,
Type G Grokkian, and
Type Unknown: Analysis Pending. A woman's earring was embedded in the far wall at what had to be terminal velocity.
This was the kind of room that said 'I have violent sex and violent arguments, sometimes simultaneously.'
What the hell had I inherited?
My hand moved to the nearest console before I'd consciously decided to reach for it. The display responded before I even made contact, systems reaching out to meet my intent halfway. Data flowed across the screen: ship manifests, troop movements, execution schedules for the upcoming week.
That... wasn't normal. Even by space-empire standards.
KNOCK KNOCK.
The sound interrupted my thoughts. My body moved without consulting me, hand dropping to where a weapon should be, stance shifting to something combat-ready. Muscle memory of a killer, installed and ready to run.
"Enter," I called.
The door slid open, and Commander Meus stepped through.
Every rational thought immediately evacuated my brain.
The game developers hadn't just been conservative with her character model, they'd been criminally negligent. Because there was no way any rating system in existence could have handled what I was looking at.
Meus was built like someone had asked a war god to design the perfect warrior, then decided to make her devastating in entirely different ways. Six feet of controlled violence wrapped in an Imperial Guard uniform.
"Lord Raven," she said, dropping into a bow. "The preparations are complete."
I forced myself to meet her eyes (brown, sharp, constantly calculating threat assessments). Even while bowing, she was analyzing different ways to kill me. The knowledge sat in my brain uninvited: she was fast enough to do it, too.
"Preparations?" I managed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she straightened. "For Grokkies Station, my lord. As you commanded." A pause. "You're... contemplative this morning."
Shit. Right. In the game, this was where Raven's reputation as a monster really began a brutal orbital bombardment that would prove and show his villain status.
"Problem with that?" I asked.
"I mean... you usually make preparations before I come get you," she said.
I'm fucked. "I'm trying something new. Delayed gratification."
"Of... murder?"
"Exactly."
She studied me with the kind of intensity that made me understand why Original Raven kept her around despite the obvious threat. That analytical mind was as dangerous as her body, and both were currently focused on me like targeting systems.
"The assault fleet awaits your signal," she continued, though something in her tone suggested she was filing away every behavioral anomaly for later analysis.
I moved to the tactical display, and again the technology anticipated my needs. Data flowed across the screen: Grokkies defense patterns, shield frequencies, vulnerability windows. Information I'd memorized for countless gaming sessions, now served up by systems that seemed eager to please.
In the game, their shields cycled every 3.7 seconds with a 0.3-second vulnerability window. But this wasn't a game anymore. Would the patterns still hold?
Only one way to find out.
"Change of plans," I said. "I'm not sending the fleet."
For the first time since entering, Meus showed genuine surprise. "Sir?"
"I'm going myself. Solo."
"That's impossible. You can't take an entire station alone—"
"Watch me." I pulled up ship inventory through the room's interface. "The Nightshade. My personal stealth frigate."
The ship's specifications materialized holographically between us. In the game, this had been endgame content, the kind of ship that made other players rage-quit.
"Sir, even with the Nightshade, the Grokkies have quantum regeneration systems. Their ships can rebuild from molecular damage in minutes—"
"Not after I'm done with them." I scrolled through Raven's personal armory. "Molecular disruptors."
Meus actually went pale. "My lord, those weapons don't just kill. They make death contagious. The last person who used them created a three-system quarantine zone. They're banned by seventeen different treaties—"
"Good thing I don't give a fuck about treaties." The words came out in Original Raven's cadence, and for a moment, I felt his presence, a ghost of beautiful cruelty whispering approval.
Her hand actually twitched toward her sidearm before she caught herself. That's how forbidden molecular disruptors were, even his personal bodyguard considered stopping me.
"What exactly are you planning?" she asked.
"I'm going to knock on their front door and have a conversation," I said, feeling that dangerous smile settle onto my face. "After I demonstrate what happens to people who keep me waiting."
Before she could respond, every light in the room dimmed to emergency levels. The priority communication array activated, Imperial seal burned into existence above us.
"Raven." The voice didn't come from speakers. It came from everywhere, he walls, my bones. "You have thirty seconds."
The transmission cut off, leaving silence.
Meus was watching me with barely concealed fascination. "My lord? Your orders?"
I looked at the communication array, then at the tactical display showing Grokkies Station, then back at her.
Raven is a pain in the ass, and for the record he won't listen to orders no matter what.
"Tell the Emperor I'll will be back," I said, heading for the door. "I have a speedrun to complete."
"A what, my lord?"
"Inside joke." I paused. "One more thing, Meus. In theory, how long would it take one ship to reduce a station's defenses to nothing?"
She calculated instantly. "With conventional weapons? Seventeen hours minimum. With molecular disruptors? Forty-three minutes."
I grinned, and felt the expression turn predatory. "I'll do it in thirty."
Her eyes widened. "My lord, you can't just ignore the Emperor—"
"I'm not ignoring him. I'm showing initiative." I stepped into the corridor. "Besides, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Especially when you bring back results."
After a moment's hesitation, she fell into step beside me. "Someone needs to ensure you survive long enough to explain yourself."
"And that someone is you?"
"Your survival is my responsibility," she said professionally, though something else flickered in her eyes. "Besides, I am your personal bodyguard."
I laughed, a sound that would have made my old self nervous. "Meus, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful and terrifying partnership."
"Just try not to get us both executed, my lord."
"No promises," I said, heading for the hangar. "But I'll make it entertaining."