Chris was twenty-four years old, and already, he knew he had wasted his life.
Empty soda cans lined the desk like spent ammunition. Cold pizza boxes slumped against the walls, monuments to late-night battles fought not in the real world, but on a glowing screen. Strategy games were his only outlet. His parents had stopped calling. Friends had stopped inviting him out. The girl he once loved? She had married someone with ambition.
But here, in front of the screen, Chris was a god.
He could take starving tribes, peasants armed with sticks, and turn them into empires that spanned continents. He knew supply lines, attrition rates, the delicate balance between farming villages and professional armies. He had beaten every grand strategy game on the hardest difficulty.
And still, when he shut down the computer, the silence crushed him.
No medals. No crowds. No one cared.
Chris leaned back in his chair, rubbing at tired eyes. "Maybe I'll try again tomorrow," he muttered. But tomorrow never came.
The accident was small, stupid. A glass of water tipped, cords tangled, the desk lurched forward. His skull cracked against the edge before he could even shout.
The light went out.
Game Over.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in his apartment.
He floated in a void of stars, surrounded by hundreds—no, thousands—of glowing human figures. All young. All bewildered. All modern. Some were in school uniforms, others in business suits, some in pajamas like they had been yanked from their rooms mid-scroll.
A voice like thunder shook the cosmos.
"You wasted your lives. You lived small, forgettable, weak. But the cosmos grants you one chance at redemption. You will be reborn in the Proving Ground."
The stars twisted, and before them banners of history unfurled—each one blazing with power.
The iron discipline of the Roman Legions.
The code-bound steel of the Samurai.
The thunderous charge of the Steppe Horde.
The vast manpower of China's dynasties.
The armored might of the Medieval Knights.
The zeal of Mamluks and Caliphates.
The colossal beasts of India's war elephants.
Each glowing soul began to tremble with excitement, reaching instinctively for their choice.
The voice rolled on:
"You will be reborn not as mere rulers—but as kings, generals, emperors. You will inherit your nations at their peak, their full military might at your command. Build them. Expand them. Survive the waves. The last remaining shall ascend."
Cheering erupted as souls reached out and banners branded themselves upon their forms. A boy barely out of high school raised the Roman eagle and laughed. A girl with sharp eyes chose the banner of the samurai and bowed solemnly.
And then—
The cosmos darkened.
"All… but one."
Chris froze as the starlight bent inward, spearing down upon him. The other souls turned to look.
"You." The voice rumbled like judgment itself. "You wasted your days mastering the games of war, but never the life you were given. Your punishment is this: you will not be emperor. You will not be king. You will not even be soldier. You shall begin at the bottom. A peasant child. In Sparta."
Laughter rippled through the void.
"A dirt farmer?"
"Already lost."
"He won't last until the first wave."
Chris's fists tightened. It was the same ridicule he had endured in life. The sneers, the dismissal, the quiet scorn of people who thought he was nothing.
And then he saw her.
She stepped out of the starlight like a goddess—tall, proud, every motion regal. Blond hair spilled like sunlight over polished steel armor. Her blue eyes, cold and piercing, surveyed the crowd. Her body, voluptuous yet powerful, was sculpted for command.
Her banner ignited: The Knights of Medieval Europe.
Behind her rose castles of stone, banners fluttering, the thunder of cavalry shaking the void. She was already a queen.
Her gaze fell on Chris. Just a flicker of recognition, then dismissal. A faint, condescending smile touched her lips.
"A peasant among kings," she said, her voice rich, clear, and cutting. "Best pray you die before the first wave. It would be… merciful."
She turned, uninterested.
Chris swallowed hard. He had no crown. No armies. No gleaming knights or castles. Only dirt. A nameless family in a land where weakness meant death.
But then, something flickered in the corner of his vision. A faint, hidden light no one else seemed to see.
[Faction Assigned: Sparta (Peasant Lineage)]
[Status: Newborn]
[Time until First Wave: 18 Years]
And one more line:
[System Bonus Granted: Player Insight – Hidden Potential Revealed.]
Chris exhaled slowly. A spark of defiance burned in his chest.
"Fine. Start me as dirt. Laugh while you can. You play for crowns. I'll play for survival."
The void shattered into white.
When Chris next opened his eyes, it was to the cry of a newborn child, the coarse calloused hands of a peasant mother, and the smell of woodsmoke drifting from a rough clay hearth.
And the world of Sparta awaited.