The last light of the summer sun bled across the narrow road, gilding cracked stone and broken fences in fading gold. Alaric trudged along the path, his boots caked with dust, his thin shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His shoulders ached from swinging the hoe since dawn, the dull throb of overworked muscles echoing with each step. He walked like a man twice his age.
It hadn't been meant to end this way—this final summer before he turned twenty. He should have had freedom, a chance at a future. Instead, he was left behind.
His uncle and family had gone to the seaside. He had seen the photos on his aunt's social media feed: smiling faces framed by bright umbrellas, plates of seafood that steamed against ocean-blue backdrops. Meanwhile, he bent under the pitiless sun, an unpaid caretaker of fields that weren't his.
The man who had taken him in after his parents' death had not offered kindness. He had offered a contract unspoken: gratitude in exchange for exploitation. When Alaric was younger, he obeyed eagerly, too afraid of losing the roof over his head. But gratitude had become a currency long since spent. Now he was little more than a ghost in their household, kept only because he was useful.
The boy who had once dreamed of a better life was gone, hollowed out by years of servitude.
But there was one place where he still lived.
Night fell heavy, pressing silence against the empty house. Alaric brewed a cup of bitter instant coffee, the acrid scent rising like smoke. He carried it to his desk and set it beside the one possession that was truly his: a battered second-hand computer.
The moment he powered it on, the change came. The slump left his shoulders. The dull haze in his eyes sharpened to a piercing focus. He double-clicked the only icon that mattered: Civilization and World.
The screen bloomed into a mosaic of possibility—settlers ready to claim land, maps sprawling into unexplored wilderness, nations poised for war or diplomacy. He selected the "Highest Difficulty" setting, the one the forums swore was unwinnable. To him, it was the only one that felt like life.
Hours vanished. His hands moved with the rhythm of a conductor guiding an orchestra—managing food stocks, balancing tax rates, forging alliances with neighbors before betraying them at the opportune moment. The monotony of his real existence dissolved into nothingness; here, his mind breathed. He wasn't a farmhand. He was an architect of empires.
When the final screen flashed across his monitor—Victory—he leaned back, empty again.
Another empire conquered. And nothing to show for it.
"What's the point," he muttered to the dark.
That was when the new window appeared.
Its border shimmered with liquid light, not the jagged edges of an ad popup. Its words glowed with a weight that felt wrong, as if carved from something older than code.
Do you wish to embark on the Road of Domination and conquer a world in truth?
Alaric's heart thudded. Logic whispered virus. His gut whispered destiny.
What did he have here? A lifetime of servitude? A future of quiet resentment? No family. No friends. No path forward.
His finger hovered. His lips twisted into a bitter, reckless smile.
"What do I have to lose?" he whispered.
He clicked YES.
Light consumed the screen—and then the room. It poured outward in a flood that wrapped around his body like a storm, burning, searing, lifting him from his chair. The mug of coffee toppled, shattering across the desk, but Alaric no longer heard it.
The world dissolved into pure whiteness. For the first time in years, his heart felt weightless.
Release.
Consciousness returned with the sting of cold air. Alaric gasped, lungs drinking in oxygen that felt sharper, fresher, almost alive. His back pressed into something soft and damp—moss, thick as a mattress. The hum of his computer was gone.
Instead, he heard a chorus of alien sounds: the rush of water tumbling over stone, the rustle of leaves in a canopy impossibly high above, the distant cry of a bird whose song he had never heard.
He opened his eyes.
Towering trees reached into a sky the color of deep sapphire, their trunks so broad that three men could not have circled one with joined arms. Light dappled through the canopy, painting the ground in shifting mosaics. The air was rich with the scents of earth, wildflowers, and something faintly metallic.
Alaric sat up, his hands trembling. His breath fogged in the cool evening air.
"This… this isn't Earth."
A chime resonated, not through his ears but directly in his mind. A translucent screen materialized before his eyes, symbols shifting until they resolved into language.
[System Initialization… 12%... 60%... 100%]
[Host Confirmed: Alaric Aigel.]
[Welcome, Participant, to the Ancient Land.]
The voice that followed was neither male nor female, neither warm nor cold. It unfolded inside him like a truth whispered by the world itself.
One thousand chosen. Each bearing the seed of sovereignty. A world three times the size of Earth. Four dominant races: Human, Elf, Dwarf, Barbarian. One year of protection. Afterward, survival depends on your strength, your cunning, your dominion.
[Participant, do you want to use your real name or an alias.]
His mind reeled. It was impossible, yet undeniable. He wasn't a player anymore. He was inside the game—or something like it.
"Since I always use other names, this time let me use my real name"
Then the screen shifted.
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His status appeared:
Name: Alaric Aigle
Age: 20
Territory: Unfounded
Coins: 0.
Lord Rank: Village Chief. 0/1000 Prestige to Baron
Reputation: Unknown. 0/1000 reputation to Local Celebrity.
Strength: 12. A measure of physical prowess and personal combat ability.
Politics: 7. The innate talent for governance, bureaucracy, and internal affairs.
Negotiation: 4. The skill in diplomacy, persuasion, and trade.
Items: [Common Dagger], [Common Sword]
Quest: Establish a Village
Coins This represents the liquid wealth in gold, the Lord carries personally or has immediate access to in their treasury
Prestige is the measure of a Lord's political weight and territorial achievements. It is earned through concrete, tangible accomplishments that demonstrate power and stability, like: Winning wars, constructing advanced or unique buildings, advancing technology, successfully completing complex quests, and absorbing other territories.
Reputation is the measure of a Lord's renown and personal charisma. It reflects how their story and character are perceived across the Ancient Land. Gained by doing Heroic deeds (saving villages, slaying great beasts), upholding justice, discovering lost knowledge, generating great works of art or culture, and completing quests that aid the common people or major factions. A high-Reputation Lord attracts talented NPCs (especially high-Potential ones) who want to serve them.
Alaric's pulse hammered in his ears. He touched the dagger, the hilt worn but solid. The sword across his back felt heavy, real.
Fear curled in his gut, but beneath it—burning hotter—was exhilaration. This was a clean slate. No uncle. No debts. No dead-end future.
Here, he could build something that belonged to him. A home. A people. A dynasty.
He followed the sound of rushing water until he found a stream, its waters glass-clear, fish darting like shards of silver. He crouched, cupped his hands, and drank. The coldness shocked through him, waking every nerve.
He was still wiping his mouth when the growl reached him.
Low. Predatory. Close.
Alaric froze, crouching low behind a bush. Through the leaves he saw a clearing bathed in twilight. A wolf, massive and scarred, circled two children.
Elves.
The boy was no older than ten, his small frame trembling, yet he spread his arms wide to shield the girl behind him. His little sister clutched his tunic, sobbing, her pointed ears unmistakable. The wolf's lips curled back, strings of saliva dangling from yellowed fangs.
Something in Alaric cracked. Years of numbness shattered in a rush of hot clarity.
He seized a jagged stone and hurled it.
The rock struck the wolf's flank with a dull crack. The beast snarled and whirled, yellow eyes burning. Alaric didn't flinch. He snatched another stone, slammed it into the wolf's muzzle. Blood spattered.
The wolf howled and charged.
Alaric's heart thundered. Every instinct screamed to run, but he held. He waited until the beast was almost on him, claws slashing, before pivoting aside. Its talons ripped his arm, searing pain tearing through flesh. He gritted his teeth, spun, and drove his dagger into the base of its skull.
The wolf collapsed mid-snarling lunge, body twitching before falling still. Blood spread dark across the ground.
Alaric staggered, panting, clutching his torn arm.
[Ding! System Notification Slain 'Ancient Old Wolf'.]
[Prestige +20.]
[Reputation +40.]
[Item Gained: Wolf Fang Necklace.]
[Title Earned: 'Fearless'.]
He stared at the glowing words hovering in the air, then down at the beast at his feet. The ache in his arm was real. The stink of blood was real. This wasn't a game.
A voice broke through the haze.
"Y-you… you killed it."
The elven boy stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, lips trembling. He looked at Alaric as if he were something out of legend. The girl peeked out from behind him, still sniffling, her gaze caught between fear and awe.
Alaric forced a small smile, the pain was great, hands slick with blood.
"It's alright now," he said softly, voice steadier than he felt. "You're safe."
The boy hesitated, then took a step forward. His sister clung to him tighter, but he didn't stop. He looked at Alaric not as a stranger—but as a savior.
And Alaric, for the first time in years, felt the weight of something greater than survival pressing into his chest.
Responsibility. The Road of Domination had begun.