They say bad things come in threes.
Most days, Vera figured that was just a cheesy expression people used to make sense of random misfortune. Other days, she couldn't help but suspect the universe had a personal vendetta—some petty, cosmic grudge determined to make her life just a bit more gray.
The first blow arrived in the form of a letter saying her trustee had died. Just like that, her living funds were frozen until the courts figured out who was in charge, since her parents hadn't thought to name a backup.
The trust was her lifeline after the accident. Without it, she was suddenly left with no stable income for however long it'd take to sort out the legal mess. Disability? She didn't qualify; the trust always disqualified her. Reapplying now would take months, if it worked at all.
Still, it wasn't the end of the world. She was used to making do. She had savings, low expenses, and a knack for scraping by.
She could have managed.
If the world itself hadn't actually ended.
Okay—maybe that was her being dramatic. She didn't know if the world had ended. It just felt like it, because one night she'd gone to sleep on her lumpy mattress in a cramped studio after a half-all-nighter of quest grinding, and the next morning, she woke up in a wide chamber, reclined on cold stone, propped against an alabaster cathedra with statues of silent beasts staring up at her like judges from some archaic dream.
That was the second blow. Bad thing number two.
Some people called Vera fatalistic. She disagreed, but never cared enough to argue. Moments like this, though, made her wonder if they were right—because her first thought, waking in that echoing hall, wasn't confusion or fear. It was that she'd finally had a stroke. Or an aneurysm. Or just quietly died in her sleep from stress and fatigue. And honestly? The thought was a bit of a relief.
She wasn't usually that resigned, but everyone had their moments. She liked to think she budgeted hers wisely.
Vera wasn't sure how long she just… sat there. Probably a while. She didn't keep track. It took only a minute or two to realize she probably wasn't dead—or dreaming, or in a coma—but even then, she didn't move. It was obvious she'd landed in one of those situations. The kind you only saw in books, films, or isekai-lite shovelware. The logical reaction would've been to panic, explore, scream, or just do something.
She didn't.
Turned out not doing anything was oddly liberating.
There was a strange peace in letting go. In being dropped into something impossible and deciding, deliberately, not to deal with it just yet. Like stepping outside of time. Taking a breath and being all zen about it.
It gave her a sense of control.
And maybe—just maybe—a part of her enjoyed the thought that whatever force or entity might be watching her could grow confused or mildly annoyed by her complete lack of urgency.
Eventually, though, she did have to move. The seat was starting to numb her ass. Whoever thought an alabaster cathedra—a throne, if she wanted to drop the pretense—was a good idea for long-term sitting was clearly an idiot who cared more about aesthetics than actual function.
Which, she supposed, made her the idiot.
After all, she'd recognized this place instantly.
This was the Lucent Crypt.
And she'd designed it herself.
To be fair, she had actually built it aesthetics-first. The cathedra wasn't meant to be comfortable. It was a set piece, nothing more. There to look impressive during the rare occasions someone entered this chamber, which was almost always just to add another Legacy Effigy to the Achievements lineup.
So the real question wasn't what this place was, but why she was here. And how.
Because she'd made the Lucent Crypt inside a game.
Everything she was seeing right now—the dim ambient glow, the rows of beastly statuary, the vaulted ceiling engraved with sigils—was from Ashen Legacy.
That was the game's name: a hardcore action-MMO with punishing, stamina-based combat, deep lore, and an absurd amount of grinding for anyone with a masochistic streak.
All of that was up Vera's alley. Maybe not the masochism specifically, but after thousands of hours farming endgame mats and chasing half-percent-drop cosmetics, she couldn't deny it entirely either.
Whatever the case, one thing was clear: somehow, she was in the game. Specifically, she was in Sablewatch Hollow, her main character's player housing.
Or at least something awfully close to it.
As far as MMO housing went, it was dramatic and just a little gaudy. One of the rare few non-instanced, server-unique estates—awarded as the prize for winning the once-a-patch cross-server PvP Grand Crucible. Vera had claimed it two expansions ago and immediately dumped way too many hours into crafting the perfect fusion of gothic spectacle and restrained dreadlord minimalism.
Like most of her Ashen Legacy projects, it was as over-the-top and self-indulgent as she could make it without crossing the line into the profane realm some dared to call cringe.
Not that she never crossed that line. Sometimes she stumbled over it by accident. Sometimes she walked over willingly, guided by the flickering torchlight known as poor impulse control.
Vera lifted one hand and examined it with mild curiosity. The skin was slightly pale. Intricate sigil-scars curled across her fingers and knuckles like creeping vines, continuing up her arm to vanish near the shoulder—silver-white and quietly pulsing.
Not her hand.
Which probably meant the rest wasn't her, either.
She wasn't 'Vera Morgans, the Legally Alive.' More likely, she was 'Veralyth Mournvale, the Ashborn Ascendant.'
That would explain why she wasn't currently curled up on the floor, waiting for the next firestorm to roll through her nerves.
Joy. Unironically.
If she really was out of her old body, she couldn't be happier. Living with untreatable chronic pain was a bitch she was more than ready to be rid of. She wasn't entirely sure waking up in a completely different world with no clue what was happening was worth it, but it was a very big plus.
It would be even better if she had all her game character's abilities as well.
She glanced down and gave her body a tentative prod, fingers pressing into toned muscle and unfamiliar definition. Then she bounced a little on the balls of her feet, stretching—feeling a liquid grace she'd never had before.
And then she jumped.
And immediately panicked as she shot over five meters into the air, flailed like a startled cat, nearly crashed into the vaulted ceiling, and came crashing back down. Her stomach lurched, her heart tried to eject itself, and she landed hard on all fours with a heavy thump—but practically no pain.
She blinked a few times.
Okay. That was probably confirmation she had her character's stats.
Veralyth Mournvale wasn't a pure bruiser, but she wasn't a glass cannon either. Her build was a hybrid. Ashen Legacy didn't use fixed classes—everything was based on point allocation, acquired abilities, and synergistic gear layouts—but the community had sorted things into loose archetypes. Vera's was generally called the Ashen Channeller.
It focused on a mix of weapon skills and divine sigils, with effects you could chain together into a wide range of combos. The build was versatile, highly mobile, and durable enough that dodging only needed to be part of your strategy—not your entire defense. She didn't have the highest strength or agility stats out there, but they were still impressively high.
Especially with her level.
The level cap in Ashen Legacy's current expansion was 200. Any halfway-serious player could hit it. At 200, you were strong. Stronger than most NPCs and enough to handle endgame content.
But Ashen Legacy was a grind-fest. And the grind didn't stop at loot or crafting materials. Once you hit level 200, you'd hit the level cap, yes. However, it wasn't a hard cap, thanks to the Legacy Cycle system.
A Legacy Cycle was, in simple terms, an ironman reset. After hitting 200, you could trigger a questline that reset your character back to level 1. From there, you'd level back up under a set of increasingly brutal restrictions—limited healing, reduced EXP, tougher enemies—and if you survived the entire run, you unlocked level 201.
If you died during the cycle? Reset. All Legacy progress wiped. Back to 200. No exceptions.
The stat boost from 200 to 201 wasn't huge. Objectively, it wasn't really worth it. But for the min-maxers, the challenge seekers, the no-lifers, and the people who couldn't sleep unless their build was 0.03% more efficient than everyone else's, it was the ultimate prestige grind.
Vera was one of those people.
Vera was one of the highest-level players in all of Ashen Legacy.
Vera was a dirty, no-life gremlin with an unhealthy relationship to progress bars.
Vera was level 276.
Sometimes she was proud of that.
Other times, she was painfully aware of the massive, blinking neon sign it was, broadcasting just how many thousands of hours she'd poured into thankless grinding, obscure drop tables, and boss mechanics that boiled down to synchronized spreadsheets and pain.
She was proud of it slightly more often than she was ashamed.
It was a feat, after all—something fewer than ten people in the world had ever achieved. More than once, she'd held the record for highest-level player, and she'd only ever failed a Legacy Cycle twice.
It wasn't much of an exaggeration to say she was extremely good at the game. At this point, playing Ashen Legacy was more instinct than breathing. Over the last few years, she'd spent more time in-game than in the real world.
That said… for all the time she'd sunk into hyperleveling her character, it was a waste, in a way. Not just because of the risk or the sheer absurdity of the grind, but because the last expansion had dropped nearly two years ago—and the next one was slated to launch in just a few months. With it would come a new level cap of 250, effectively wiping out more than half of her hard-won Legacy-level advantage.
She was more than a little miffed about that. But she'd always known it was coming.
And she'd put in the time anyway.
The rush of pushing limits, the satisfaction of clawing just a little further past what was 'possible'… that was too tempting to pass up.
And in the end, hadn't it kind of paid off? She'd poured a ridiculous number of hours into leveling, knowing full well it would all be wiped out with the next expansion. But if this really was Veralyth Mournvale's body—and those Legacy Levels had actually carried over—then that grind hadn't been wasted after all.
That was a massive win in her book.
She just wasn't sure how to confirm it.
There were a few Forms and Marks—the in-game equivalents of skills and spells—that could give her a rough idea of her stats, but they weren't exactly safe to use indoors. And she wasn't sure she even knew how to activate them here. One of the first things she'd tried was mentally summoning a UI, or anything system-adjacent, but nothing had happened. So either she couldn't use Veralyth's abilities…
Or she might have to perform them manually.
She figured she'd find out soon enough.
For now, though, she was honestly just excited to explore the rest of Sablewatch Hollow.
This was the digital fortress she'd spent a fair few dozen hours customizing, roleplaying, and obsessively decorating—one ridiculous room name at a time. And now it was here. Real, tangible, and weirdly how she'd always imagined it.
She moved slowly, stepping out of the Lucent Crypt and into the Ember Gallery, where mannequin displays stood mid-pose in full PvP and PvE loadouts. All of them positioned exactly as she'd left them.
Next came the Bleak Atelier—a workshop of black stone, ink-stained tables, and glowing rune plates she'd always pretended were for divine sigil-crafting. Atmospheric, if a bit melodramatic.
She didn't linger long in the Oathbound Garden, which—on reflection—was a little too… graveyard-coded. With its overgrown vines, cracked stone paths, and dozens of tombstones engraved with the usernames of PvP rivals she'd killed in duels, it felt slightly less cool in person.
Behind the garden, through a wider passage, she reached the Dreadwake Alcove. A large, vaulted wing with arched ceilings, shadowed recesses, and thick stone columns carved with inverted crowns and still hands. This was where her private quarters were.
She wandered the halls, savoring each familiar space, until she reached her room—and immediately pretended not to react.
She absolutely did not remember putting that many season-locked plushies on the bed.
The black silk bedding and abundance of decorative, unnecessarily ominous candles? Also couldn't have been her. Nope.
Leaving the Alcove, she crossed back through the garden to the main estate, climbed a long, winding stairwell, and entered the Mirror Vault—a rippling chamber of silvered glass and shimmering water. Frankly, it was just a vanity room. A place for trying on outfits, testing mounts, and posing with emotes. Technically, it also served as her main storage space, but that had always felt secondary somehow.
Today, it served as her first real look at herself in this new body.
She'd known what to expect, but it was still a bit surreal to meet her own eyes in the glass and see a slightly different face staring back.
She was taller now, a little sharper around the edges. Smooth silver-gray hair swept over one eye in a loose, uneven fringe that somehow didn't get in the way. Clear silver eyes. Her expression looked more severe than she felt—like someone who'd long since run out of patience for anyone's nonsense, including her own.
The outfit was familiar enough: a sleeveless deep red battle tabard with gold trim, belted at the waist with a polished gold emblem to match the armband on her left arm. Dark trousers tucked into worn boots, a rough black mantle draped over her shoulders—just enough dramatic flair to sell the look. The faint sigil-scars winding up her arms completed the picture of a semi-casual, half-mythic, half-menacing divine channeller.
It wasn't her fanciest getup. Or her strongest. But she liked the understated style, and most of it was still Mythic-tier equipment. She'd always preferred gear with a bit of presence over raw stats—when she could afford to.
All in all, she didn't hate what she saw. At the same time, the sudden change came with its fair share of complicated emotions.
After giving herself a final once-over, she took the opportunity to check whether any of her in-game belongings had made the jump. A glance into the enchanted mirror vaults revealed a handful of recognizable crafting mats: mid-tier runestones, basic enhancement shards. A good sign—though she decided to save the full inventory sweep for later.
She made her way down to the lowest level of Sablewatch Hollow, into the Ashledger Archive, which was now a bona fide crypt library. Rows of shelves stretched into shadowed alcoves, packed with thick tomes, faded scrolls, and ornate display cases. More than a few corners already looked unfamiliar.
In-game, this had been where she stored lore items, questline memories, PvP records, and the occasional chat log she'd felt like keeping.
And possibly one or two half-finished pieces of embarrassing faction propaganda fiction she'd written using the journal editor. But she did not mention those.
She continued her slow wander through the estate, marveling at all the absurd, fantastic little details. It was all there. The Trial Chamber. The Summoner's Nook. Even the Cradle of Embers up on the roof, where she used to stand around brooding and farming screenshots like she had a tragic backstory.
It was all so stupidly dramatic.
She loved it.
She spent a while on the roof, standing before the namesake fire pit—a shallow, circular brazier of wrought-iron bone and slow-burning cinders—when, for the first time, she let herself pause and really think about her situation.
Let herself consider what it all meant.
The view beyond Sablewatch Hollow stretched long, narrow, and sharp—breathtaking in its detail. Jagged mountains encircled the horizon like the spines of some ancient godbeast, with a sapphire lake tucked like glass into the valley's curve and forest canopies swaying below in velvet green, broken only by drifting patches of white mist. There was no sign of civilization. No lights, no settlement. Just land, sky, and shadow.
She really had, undoubtedly and unreasonably, been transported into the world of Ashen Legacy.
The world of her obsession.
The world of her dreams.
A fictional realm that, in so many ways, had felt more like home than the real one ever had.
She'd considered waking up in this place a bad thing earlier—but now, standing here, she wasn't so sure.
Her life had been shitty. But not shitty-shitty. All things considered, she'd been lucky. Despite the chronic pain, despite being functionally unemployable in any traditional sense, she'd been fortunate to have what she needed to survive. To carve out something resembling a life. She did what she loved. She had friends. She wasn't exactly miserable.
Some days were rough. Some days were better. She'd learned to ride the highs and weather the lows. She didn't daydream about magical portals or escaping to some world full of sunshine, magic, and praise-the-goddess power fantasies.
But even so…
How did this compare?
Right now, she had to admit—she was feeling the high. She was in a familiar, beautifully strange but brand-new place, in a new and much improved body, experiencing that electric, expanding sensation she always got when staring down the barrel of the unknown in-game.
That sense of possibility.
The same thrill she'd only ever felt during expansion launches. When new zones were unexplored, new bosses unknown, new mechanics just waiting to wipe the unprepared. That spark that no amount of Legacy Cycle grinding had ever quite recaptured.
It took her a moment to realize she was smiling.
And there, she supposed, was her answer.
This wasn't so bad after all. Maybe she could even enjoy this. Take a moment to relax.
Of course, it was right then that something caught Vera's eye—a flicker of movement in the distance, beyond Sablewatch Hollow's outer wall.
She squinted.
There was a structure down there. A cottage, maybe, tucked near the forest's edge where the trees thinned toward the lake. Small and modest. Stone base, thatched roof.
It hadn't been there in the game.
From it, a figure had emerged, heading steadily toward the estate.
Vera narrowed her eyes, trying to get a better look. Her eyesight was definitely improved—she used to be nearsighted, though she'd never bothered with glasses—but even so, she couldn't make out any features. The figure wore full-covering robes.
Their posture was straight. Purposeful. Not fast, not slow. Just... measured.
She kept watching as they approached the outer gates, which was a towering, wrought-iron monstrosity entwined with twin serpents and crowned by a split-moon crest. She remembered spending an entire evening designing that damn thing. It had absolutely zero mechanical value. It just looked like it should keep people out.
The gates opened.
The figure stepped through, crossing the estate's broad front courtyard—a cathedral-sized expanse flanked by ash-crowned trees, thornvine trellises, and several overly embellished statues of raid bosses Vera had soloed.
Whoever this was, they were heading straight for the front entrance without stopping.
Vera figured that was probably her cue.
She left the rooftop perch and descended through the Ember Gallery, which doubled as the estate's main entrance hall. Her footsteps echoed against obsidian tiles, the space lit by sconces burning low with emberlight. Sunlight streamed through arched overhangs and tall, slitted windows, catching dust motes drifting in slow, deliberate spirals.
By the time she reached the final landing, the front doors were already swinging open.
The robed figure stepped inside, pausing the instant they saw her.
They said nothing. Just stood there, perfectly still, studying her.
Vera mirrored their stillness, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
Several long seconds passed.
Then, at last, the figure lifted a gloved hand and pulled back their hood.
Vera's other eyebrow rose.
Huh.
He looked younger than she remembered.
Not that she'd ever really remembered him—not in any real, physical sense. She'd designed him, technically. Or more accurately, picked a preset and mashed sliders until his face stopped bothering her. But standing here now, framed in the doorway, Caldrin Emberlain looked the very picture of curated elegance. Composed, polished, and mildly self-satisfied.
His blond hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a clasp that caught the light in a faint, pearlescent flicker. His skin had the pale, opaline pallor typical of the Wane-born—not ghostly, but distilled. Like the color had been carefully bled out in all the right places.
A similar tone she'd seen on her own hand.
He was tall and slim, with relaxed shoulders, but not slouched. It was the bearing of someone who looked like they'd never hurried a day in their life.
His robe slipped back, revealing a high-collared coat of ash-gray velvet, edged with fine pearly thread and fitted with what she could only describe as surgical precision. Beneath it were layered tunics in muted shades of black and ivory, embroidery so subtle she was surprised she noticed it at all. Of course, her lore-obsessed brain immediately recognized the markings of House Hollow and the old gods of stillness.
His eyes met hers—pasty, with softly silvered irises—and he observed her a moment longer before smiling.
Just barely.
When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth. Too smooth, really. Too elegant and dryly amused to belong to a glorified steward who doubled as a butler.
"Welcome back, my lady. You've missed two storms, a mild haunting, and one particularly dramatic fog bank that I suspect the Hollow arranged in your honor." He dipped into a bow so precise it bordered on theatrical. "That said, you're rather early. I had three more days of brooding scheduled before your return. Now I'm left with far too many unread monologues and nothing suitably melancholy to do with them."
Vera blinked.
…What kind of personality had she written him to have again?
They regarded each other for another long, silent half-minute.
It was strange, seeing Caldrin like this. Like, strange strange. This was literally a person she had made. And now he was standing in front of her, speaking with fluidity and wit, reacting as if he genuinely knew her.
Actually, 'strange' didn't cut it.
It was freaky.
She'd created Caldrin in the Housing Management Tab of Ashen Legacy. He'd been an NPC, every other character in player housings. More decoration than function. Part of the ambience. They couldn't fight. Couldn't leave. Couldn't really do anything. Their levels maxed out at half the player's. Some players went wild with extensive backstories and scripts, but it was always just for flavor. Roleplay fodder.
Nobody expected to actually meet them.
Certainly not like this.
Eventually, with Vera saying nothing, Caldrin cleared his throat and gave a polite, clearly performative cough. "My lady—no words of welcome for your ever-loyal servant?"
Vera held his gaze a while longer, mentally cycling through at least three possible responses, before simply sighing and stepping across the gallery.
"Caldrin," she said, carefully. Her voice came out rougher than expected—lower, slightly raspy, but steady. "Mind telling me what's going on?"
"Going on with what, specifically, my lady?" he asked smoothly, removing his outer robe and draping it over one arm with practiced elegance. For a moment, he looked like the perfect cross between a royal attendant and a battlefield tactician. "There's a rather great deal to explain, though I'm unsure how much of it you'd care to hear."
Vera watched him a second longer. "…Let's start with how long I've been gone. I'm assuming I have been gone?"
Caldrin inclined his head. "Indeed. Or rather than 'gone,' it may be more accurate to say 'slumbering.' As far as I know, you have not left the Lucent Crypt in all that time, though I cannot confirm this firsthand. No one has been able to enter the estate gates until just now."
He glanced at his wrist, tapping two fingers against it as if checking a watch that wasn't there.
"By my estimations, it has been approximately six hundred seventy-eight days, thirteen hours, fifty-seven minutes, and… twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six seconds."
Vera stared at him. "So… two years."
He nodded. "In colloquial terms, yes."
"Make a habit of always being that exact?"
"Meticulousness is a vice I indulge on your behalf, my lady."
Vera shook her head, letting the information settle. If his math was accurate, then she wasn't too far off from the game's current timeline. MMO time was always a little fluid, but across the three expansions released so far, the general consensus was that about thirteen in-world years had passed. If two more had ticked by, then the next expansion's story arc had probably kicked off already.
Which begged the question: were there other players here?
Were people still logging into Ashen Legacy the normal way—safely behind their monitors, clicking away in familiar comfort?
Or had others ended up here like her? In person. Body and all.
She didn't know.
She looked at Caldrin again, studying him in the silence.
She also didn't know what he saw when he looked at her.
To him, she was Veralyth Mournvale—Chosen of the Hollow, Slayer of Tribulations. Ashborn Ascendant. Although she had no idea if her PvP titles or boss kill records translated here. Would he see her as a living legend? A war hero? A noble recluse with a flair for dramatic architecture?
Or just another player?
Either way, she wasn't that person.
Not really.
And that raised a question she hadn't quite figured out how to answer: should she tell him? Be honest? Pretend? Fake amnesia? Wing it?
There were too many unknowns. Too many consequences she couldn't predict.
Caldrin, meanwhile, had turned slightly, scanning the gallery as if searching for someone else.
"My lady," he said at last, tone still polite but edged with something gentler, "I hope you'll pardon the impropriety, but… might I ask something, given the circumstances of your return?"
Vera waved a hand, still half-lost in spiraling thoughts. "Go ahead."
"I couldn't help but notice the absence of Miss Serel," he said. "Given her prolonged residence within the estate during your slumber, I had expected her to be here upon your awakening."
Vera froze.
"…Can you repeat that?"
Caldrin met her eyes, hands folded neatly behind his back, voice steady and earnest. "Miss Serel, my lady. Your daughter. I was under the impression she entered slumber alongside you. Has she not… awakened? Or—have you perhaps misplaced her?"
Something howled in Vera's ears—distant and rising, like a pressure wave of realization and dread.
She stared at him.
Some players filled their player housing with dozens of NPCs—make-believe blacksmiths, stewards, guards, chefs, pets, and flavor characters for every aesthetic whim.
Vera had never bothered.
She liked things quieter. Cleaner. Fewer.
In her case, that meant two.
Two NPCs she had created. Written. Designed. Named. Personalized where it counted.
A sudden weight pressed tight across her chest.
It wasn't just dread. It was something deeper. Something hollow and echoing and cold.
She took back everything she'd thought earlier—about how this wasn't so bad. About how maybe she could relax and enjoy this.
This was bad.
Very bad.
The third bad.
How could she have forgotten?
How could she have forgotten that Veralyth Mournvale had a freaking kid?