The fluorescent lights of the office hummed a mournful dirge, a familiar soundtrack to Rohan's life. His eyes, perpetually strained, flickered across the lines of code on his monitor. Another bug. Another impossible deadline. The clock on the wall glared back at him, 3:47 AM. He hadn't seen his apartment, let alone daylight, in what felt like days. His last coherent memory was microwaving a sad, pre-packaged biryani at his desk, the plastic container still sitting accusingly in his overflowing dustbin.
His head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat behind his eyes. He tried to focus, to untangle the spaghetti code that was threatening to crash the entire system, but his brain felt like a sponge, completely saturated and unable to absorb any more. A wave of dizziness washed over him, making the text on the screen blur into an unreadable mess.
"Just… five… more… minutes," he mumbled, his voice a dry rasp. He leaned closer, squinting, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The words "fatal error" seemed to mock him from the screen. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges darkening. He heard a distant ringing, like a phone left off the hook, or perhaps the final, desperate cry of his own protesting body.
Then, nothing.
Absolute, profound silence. Not even the hum of the office lights. Not the distant rumble of Mumbai traffic. Just an endless, velvet darkness that swallowed him whole. For the first time in years, Rohan felt no pressure, no deadlines, no weight of expectation. Only a strange, unsettling peace.The first thing Rohan registered was the coolness against his cheek, not the rough fabric of his office chair. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like jasmine, rather than stale coffee and recycled air conditioning. He blinked, slowly, his eyelids feeling heavy, as if he'd been asleep for a century.
Sunlight, golden and warm, dappled through a canopy of leaves above him. He was lying on a patch of soft grass, beside what looked like an ancient, gnarled tree. Birds chirped in a symphony he hadn't heard outside of a nature documentary. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with a surprising stiffness that quickly faded.
He looked around. Towering, unfamiliar trees stretched into the sky, their leaves a vibrant, almost impossibly green. In the distance, he could see the shimmering peaks of mountains, their slopes covered in what looked like snow, though the air here was pleasantly warm. A gentle stream gurgled nearby, its water so clear he could see the pebbles at the bottom.
This was definitely not his cubicle. Or Mumbai. Or anywhere on Earth he knew.
A jolt of panic, cold and sharp, cut through his lingering disorientation. He touched his face, his arms. He was wearing… clothes? Not his usual crumpled work shirt and jeans, but a tunic of rough, brown cloth, sturdy trousers, and leather boots. They felt surprisingly comfortable.
He stood up, his mind racing. Was this a dream? A very elaborate, incredibly vivid dream? He pinched himself. Hard. He felt it. No waking up.
Then, he saw his hands. They were… smaller. And smoother. The calluses from hours of typing were gone. He looked down at his reflection in the stream. A young man stared back, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with dark hair, a lean build, and eyes that held a bewildered intensity. It was him, but… younger. And definitely healthier.
"What the…?" he whispered, his voice sounding lighter, less world-weary than he remembered.
He took a hesitant step, then another. The grass felt real beneath his boots. The wind rustled the leaves. This was too real for a dream.
As he walked, a strange, almost instinctual understanding began to prickle at the edges of his consciousness. Not memories, but… a faint recognition. The way the light filtered through the leaves, the specific shade of green of the moss on the rocks, the precise sound of the stream – it all felt vaguely familiar, like a melody half-remembered from a distant childhood.
He reached into the pouch tied to his belt, finding a small, leather-bound journal and a short, sturdy knife. On the first page of the journal, a single line was written in a neat, unfamiliar script:
"Those artifacts are meant for you Enid,Don't forget it."
Enid? Who was Enid? And what artifacts? He had no knowledge beyond debugging code and hitting deadlines.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. This was officially beyond anything he'd ever encountered. Dead from overwork, then resurrected as some young nature boy named Enid in a world that felt both alien and strangely, hauntingly familiar. This was a nightmare. Or, perhaps, a very, very elaborate dream he couldn't wake up from.
He took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine filling his lungs. Dream or not, he was here. And if there was one thing Rohan knew, it was how to adapt to a new system. Even if this system involved foraging, training, and a name that wasn't his own.
He started walking, his senses on high alert, even though he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for. His programmer's mind, ever keen on patterns and logic, tried to categorize the bewildering array of flora around him. Were these edible berries? Poisonous mushrooms? He had no clue.
Yet, a strange impulse guided him. He found himself gravitating towards certain bushes, his hand instinctively reaching for particular leaves. It was like a long-forgotten muscle memory, a phantom limb of knowledge that tugged him in specific directions. He tried to articulate what he was doing, to form a coherent thought about his actions, but it was all instinct.
He spotted a cluster of bright red berries. Danger. Do not eat. The thought wasn't in words, but a sudden, sharp aversion in his gut. Then, a little further on, a patch of smaller, purplish berries. Safe. Sweet. Good for energy. This time, the feeling was one of mild approval. He cautiously picked one, sniffing it. It smelled faintly of wild grapes. He remembered his mother telling him never to eat wild berries, but… this gut feeling was so strong. He popped it into his mouth. It was indeed sweet, with a tangy aftertaste.
Suddenly, a low growl echoed from behind a thicket of ferns. Rohan – or rather, Enid – froze. Every hair on his body stood on end. He gripped the sturdy stick he'd picked up earlier, his knuckles white.
A creature emerged. It was roughly the size of a large dog, but covered in coarse, grey fur, with glowing yellow eyes and a snout full of surprisingly sharp teeth. It looked like a wolf, but… wrong. Too bulky, too aggressive in its stance. It let out another growl, a guttural sound that vibrated through the ground.
Panic flared, primal and potent. Rohan's mind screamed "run!" but his feet felt glued to the spot. The creature slowly circled him, its yellow eyes never leaving his.
Then, again, the instinct took over. His body moved before his brain could process. He dropped into a low crouch, his stick held defensively. He didn't know how he knew to do this, but it felt… natural. The journal entry, the vague familiarities, the "artifacts" – it all coalesced into a desperate, immediate need to survive.
He was in some kind of game, wasn't he? A game he must have loved, once upon a time, enough for his subconscious to manifest it in this bizarre afterlife. But he didn't remember the rules. He didn't remember the enemies.
The creature lunged. But just as its jaws were about to clamp down on Enid, a sharp, whistling sound sliced through the air. A flash of light followed, and the creature shrieked, a small, glowing arrow embedded in its side. The beast whined, scrambling away into the undergrowth, its yellow eyes wide with fear.
Enid stood frozen, clutching his stick. A figure emerged from the shadows of the trees, a longbow held casually in one hand. He was tall, with a confident posture and a shock of silver hair that seemed to catch the dappled sunlight. His armor was a simple but elegant chainmail, and a sheathed sword hung at his hip. There was something about him that radiated a familiar, effortless power.
He walked over to Enid, his gait smooth and unhurried. "Careful there, kid. Those are known as a Greyfang. They'll usually back off if you stand your ground, but you looked like you were about to soil your tunic."
Enid stared. The face was instantly recognizable, a face he'd seen on countless loading screens and character selection menus. It was Liriel, the main protagonist of the game, a character known for his legendary skills and the "Chosen One" destiny. But Liriel was a man of action, a righteous hero. This guy was a little too cocky, too casual.
"Thanks," Enid managed to stammer, his mind still reeling. "I… uh… I just got a little turned around."
Liriel grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Happens to the best of us. You're new to these woods, aren't you? I haven't seen you around before." His gaze fell upon the small pouch on Enid's belt. "Wait a minute. Is that… a Sylvan Potion Pouch?"
A flicker of recognition, a long-dormant memory, fired in Rohan's mind. The Sylvan Potion Pouch was an incredibly rare, legendary item in the game, known for holding an infinite number of potions. It was one of the game's most sought-after treasures. And it was just… on him.
Liriel's eyes widened, his easy grin turning into something more serious, almost predatory. "That pouch is an artifact, kid. You're not supposed to be walking around with something like that. Tell me, are you the last guardian?"
The phrase triggered another, more powerful memory in Rohan's mind. The game's final, hidden quest involved finding the "Last Guardian," a reclusive NPC who held the most powerful gear in the game's final update. Rohan had never finished that quest. The item lists for that character were the stuff of legend, a collection of unique, absurdly powerful equipment.
He had become that NPC. The last one in the game.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Enid said, but his voice lacked conviction. He felt a surge of possessiveness. This was his stuff. All the gear he had always wanted. He wasn't going to just hand it over to some… hero.
Liriel's grin returned, but this time it was different. It was the knowing smile of a predator. "Don't lie to me. The system told me. It's right there, in your character profile. The 'Lost Guardian' NPC. You have the Sunstone Blade, the Aegis of the Fallen King, and the Star-Forged Bow. I know because I'm a player, just like you."
The world tilted. Liriel was an Isekai'd player too? All this time, Rohan had thought he was alone, an anomaly. He had been so focused on his own disorientation that he hadn't considered the truth of the man standing before him. Liriel didn't need to play the part of a hero because he wasn't the hero of this story anymore. He was another player, a competitor.
"You're not a hero," Enid said, the realization hitting him hard. "You're just… a player. And you want my stuff."
Liriel's confident facade crumbled, replaced by a flash of annoyance. "We both know how this works. You're the NPC with the loot. I'm the one who's supposed to get it. Now, hand it over."
Enid instinctively clutched his pouch, his fingers finding the hilt of the small knife he'd found. A cold, determined fire ignited in his chest. Overwork had led him here, but he wasn't going to let this guy take away his second chance.
"I'm not a quest," he said, his voice firm for the first time. "And you're not the main character here."