I am some random dude in some random country living my not so cool life in year 2025 but I read all kind of nove and obsessed with it. On one certain day I was walking on street and encountered a robbery going on. I tried to stop robbery but got stabbed and died. But I opened my I eyes and found myself in void there of nothing and then I heard voice from behind. I looked behind and found a low rectangle of light hovering in the darkness like a screen: a menu. The voice was mechanical, amused.
"Welcome, Player," it said. "You may choose your save."
Confusion didn't cover it. It felt like I'd fallen through a book and landed in a console. My heartbeat stuttered. The menu had options. New Game. Load Game. Exit. Underneath, a smaller line blinked: SYSTEM: DETECTED — GAMER PROFILE: Loki von Lucifer.
I laughed, a sound that scraped the void. My name. My handle. The last thing I'd done before the knife had found me was argue about lore on a forum. I tried to touch the light. My hand passed through it, buzzing with a weird, digital static. The menu shifted: CHRONO-SELECT: 1920 — BEGIN?
"Why 1920?" I asked the voice without meaning to.
"1920: Anchoring era established. Reborn parameters: Minimal-tech environment. Objective: Survive. Secondary: Thrive." The voice was efficient, like an AI that had read every strategy guide. "Inventory activated. HUD offline until overlay achievable. Tutorial?"
My chest tightened. Survive. Thrive. It sounded like gaming jargon translated into life-or-death stakes. I thought of my apartment, the ramen wrappers, the bookshelf sagging under unread novels. I thought of the bright alley and the knife.
"Tutorial," I said, because panic loves a checklist.
A chime and a translucent crosshair appeared, then an inventory pane listing three items: Wallet — Empty, Phone — Damaged, Unknown Token — GLOWING. Beside them: SKILL: STORYCRAFT: LEVEL 1.
So it wasn't just a body swap. It was a UI. It handed me the ridiculous and the impossible in one breath. The voice continued, softer, as if reading something from memory.
"You once said," it intoned, "that stories are tools. Use them."
A laugh—this time not just mine—escaped. Of all the metaphors I'd mouthed, I'd never expected to be graded. The void pulsed, and the rectangle of light folded like a map. The world buckled. Expectation became motion; motion became a cobblestone street and the smell of coal and paper.
I landed in 1920 with a streetlamp pitching a long triangle of light. Around me, people moved in clothes that smelled of another century. My pockets were lighter, my phone a paper rectangle, but the HUD ticked at the corner of my vision: QUEST ACCEPTED — LEARN RULES, FIND PLACE.
I didn't know if I'd been punished or granted a second chance. Either way, the game had started.
I took a breath, and the token in my palm warmed slightly now.