Rohan ran. He ran not to escape, but to follow the tracks of the wooden cart, his feet pounding on the dirt road. The guilt of his past life was a physical weight on his back, pushing him forward. He couldn't turn his back on Lyra, not after he'd already done it once before. He had to be a hero, for a change.
His mind was a whirlwind of panic and fragmented memories. He had to remember how to use his power. He couldn't just rely on his instincts. The Tome-Key felt impossibly heavy in his hand, a symbol of a power he didn't know how to wield.
He ran for what felt like hours, the familiar landscape of the world's starting zone flying past him. The low-level monsters he used to grind for experience points were gone, replaced by creatures with glowing eyes and gnashing teeth. He had to dodge and weave, using his Ethereal Boots to phase through their attacks, each use of the artifact a gamble.
He saw the cart tracks lead off the main road and into a dark, foreboding forest. This was where the cultists were taking her. He followed, his heart pounding in his chest. The forest grew denser, the trees gnarled and twisted, and the air grew heavy with a sense of dread.
Then, he saw it. A clearing in the forest, lit by the eerie glow of a massive, pulsating crystal. And in the center of the clearing, a figure with a single, burning eye, a towering monster made of rock and vines.
The Shattered Golem.
In the game, the Shattered Golem was the first boss. A simple, low-level monster that was a rite of passage for new players. But this was no low-level boss. This was a monster with a tangible, malevolent presence. Its single eye pulsed with an unholy light, and the ground trembled with its every step. He had evolved, just like Chronos.
He saw the cultists standing in a circle, their robed figures chanting, and Lyra was tied to a stone slab in the center of the clearing. They were going to sacrifice her. And the Shattered Golem was going to be the one to kill her.
A deep, rumbling sound came from the Golem. A single word, echoing with the weight of centuries.
"Intruder."
The Golem's single eye, glowing with a malevolent intelligence, turned to face Rohan. It knew he was there. It knew he was a player.
Suddenly, the cultists' chant broke. They turned, their faces no longer filled with fanaticism, but with a cold, ruthless hostility. The leader, a man with a wild look in his eyes, pointed a finger directly at Rohan.
"He's a player!" he screamed, his voice laced with venom. "He has come to destroy our home!"
The cultists rushed forward, their robed figures like a wave of dark water. They were armed not with weapons, but with the fervent rage of people protecting what they loved. They had been afraid to touch Rohan before, but now they were a mob, and their anger overrode their fear.
"He wants to send us back!" another one screamed, her face contorted with rage. "He wants us to die and go back to our old lives!"
Rohan's mind was a whirlwind of panic and dread. He was a programmer. The problem was right there in front of him. A living, breathing bug in the system. The cultists, the golem, the sacrifice—it was an impossible, illogical scenario. But he couldn't run. He wouldn't run.
His old life flashed before his eyes. The endless lines of code, the unsolvable bugs. The pressure to fix a problem that was impossible to fix. The long hours that ended with him collapsing at his desk. He died trying to fix a bug. It was his nature. He wouldn't give up.
He wouldn't say, "It's not my problem," or "Someone else will do it for me." That wasn't him. His last moments were spent trying to find a solution, a line of code, a command that would fix everything. He was a problem-solver, and this was the biggest problem he had ever faced.
He had no time to think, no time to remember. The cultists were upon him.
He had to fight. He had to be more than just a shield and a pair of running shoes. He had to be a hero, for a change.
He braced himself. He couldn't turn his back on Lyra. Not after he'd already done it once before. He had to bet on himself.Rohan braced himself, his body tensed for the onslaught. The cultists charged, their faces contorted with fear and rage. He had no plan, no strategy. His mind, the programmer's mind, was a blank. He just had to rely on instinct, on the code of a game he no longer remembered.
The first villager, a woman who had sold him bread just an hour ago, was the closest. She lunged at him, a simple rusted hoe raised over her head. Rohan didn't move. He couldn't. He was frozen, a bug in the system, waiting for the fatal error.
As the hoe swung down, the Aegis of the Fallen King activated. It was the same familiar, ghostly shield that had protected him from Liriel's blows, a shimmer of pure power that deflected all physical attacks. The hoe hit the invisible shield with a loud CRACK, and the woman was thrown backward with a sickening force. She tumbled through the air, her face contorted in a mix of rage and surprise.
She landed with a sickening thud, her head hitting a sharp, jagged rock. Her skull cracked with a grotesque sound, and her body went limp. She was dead.
The other cultists stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes fixed on the fallen woman. It was a brief, stunned silence, but it was there. For a moment, Rohan saw not zealots, but people. The man holding the hoe stared at his hands, trembling. The leader's eyes, so filled with fire, flickered with something akin to regret.
Then, just as quickly, the masks went back on. The man with the hoe simply looked away. The leader gave a grim smile.
"Quick, take the body to the Golem," he said, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "He wouldn't accept it if it's not fresh. We can use her."
Rohan felt a surge of nausea. This wasn't right. This wasn't normal. A life had just ended, and they were treating it like a chore. He felt the weight of her death settle squarely on his shoulders. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be a part of this.
He saw the woman's body being dragged away, and he had to fight the urge to scream. Her death wasn't just an accident. It was his fault. His presence, his power, his very existence in this world had caused it. This wasn't a game where people just respawned. This was a world with real consequences, real death. And he had just caused it.
Two of the cultists, without a word, grabbed the woman's limp body. With an unsettling efficiency, they carried her to the base of the Shattered Golem. The Golem's single, burning eye shifted to them, and its massive, rocky hand lowered, opening a chasm in its palm. The cultists heaved the body into the cavernous maw.
A deep, wet CRUNCH echoed through the clearing as the Golem's hand closed, its rocky fingers grinding the body within. A grotesque slurping sound followed, and Rohan watched, horrified, as dark, viscous fluid oozed from between the Golem's fingers.
And then, they laughed.
The cultists, the very people who had just watched one of their own die, let out a collective, ragged burst of laughter. It wasn't joyous laughter; it was a desperate, hollow sound, tinged with madness and relief. They were laughing because it wasn't them. They were laughing because Chronos was fed. They were laughing at the raw, brutal reality of their survival.
Rohan stared at them, his stomach churning. These weren't just lost or desperate. They were broken. Utterly, irrevocably broken. Their humanity had been consumed by this world, just as the Golem had consumed the woman.
He was confused. Should he be sad that someone died because of him, or get angry at this inhumanity? Was this the better life they chose?