Chapter 1: Death and Glyphs
POV: Viktor
The first thing Viktor registered wasn't the cold—it was the taste of rot and copper flooding his mouth as murky water forced its way down his throat. His lungs burned, convulsing as they fought between drowning and breathing, and somewhere in the chaos of synapses misfiring, a single, crystalline thought cut through the panic:
This isn't how I died.
He thrashed upward, breaking the surface of what looked like a medieval swamp straight out of a fever dream. Mud and algae clung to his face as he gasped, retching up water that tasted like death itself. The memories hit him in waves—his apartment, the laptop screen flickering with Netflix, the sudden pain in his chest, the darkness—
"No. No, no, no." The words came out as a croak, barely audible over his ragged breathing.
This was wrong. All of it. The gnarled trees twisted like arthritic fingers, the mist that hung in the air like cobwebs, the way the very light seemed filtered through something ancient and malevolent. He knew this place. Not from memory, but from somewhere deeper—recognition that made his skin crawl.
The Witcher.
Viktor's hands shook as he pushed himself up from the swamp floor, his legs unsteady beneath him. Water dripped from his clothes—clothes that weren't his, rough-spun wool and leather that reeked of sweat and travel. His reflection rippled in the dark water: same face, same brown hair, but leaner, harder, like someone had taken twenty pounds off him and carved away everything soft.
The panic was building again, that familiar tightness in his chest that meant a full-scale meltdown was seconds away, when the air in front of him shimmered.
Golden light erupted from nowhere, coalescing into symbols that hung suspended like they were burned into his retinas. Ancient script that hurt to look at directly, all flowing curves and sharp angles that seemed to move when he wasn't focusing on them.
[PRECOGNITION SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[HOST STATUS: CRITICAL]
[INITIATING EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS...]
The words materialized in his mind, not heard but known, like someone was writing directly on his consciousness with a pen made of lightning.
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: DEATH'S DOOR]
[Survived with less than 1% vitality remaining]
[REWARDS: +0.6 STAMINA, +0.3 STRENGTH, 50 SYSTEM POINTS]
Viktor stared at the floating display, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The glyphs pulsed with each heartbeat, casting everything in an ethereal glow that made the swamp look even more otherworldly.
[DISPLAYING HOST STATISTICS...]
[STRENGTH: 1.0]
[STAMINA: 3.6]
[AGILITY: 1.2]
[MAGIC: 0.5]
[HEALTH POINTS: 10/10]
[MANA POINTS: 36/36]
[SYSTEM POINTS: 50]
"This is actually happening." His voice came out strangled, disbelieving. "I'm in the fucking Witcher universe with a goddamn system."
The absurdity of it hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't some power fantasy—this was a death sentence. He knew this world. He'd watched every episode, absorbed every piece of lore. This was a place where monsters ate people for breakfast and destiny had a sick sense of humor.
A splash behind him cut through his existential crisis.
Viktor spun around, heart hammering, and found himself face-to-face with something that looked like a corpse that had been marinating in swamp water for about six months. Gray-green skin hung in tatters from its frame, revealing patches of muscle and bone underneath. Its eyes were milky white, but they tracked his movement with predatory focus.
Drowner.
The creature's mouth opened in a wet hiss, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. It lunged forward with surprising speed, webbed claws extended toward Viktor's throat.
Viktor did what any rational human being would do when confronted with an aquatic zombie: he screamed and flailed backward.
His foot caught on a submerged log. His arms windmilled frantically as he toppled sideways, crashing into the water with all the grace of a sack of wet cement. The drowner, apparently not expecting such an elegant defensive maneuver, overshot its target and slammed face-first into the same log.
There was a wet crack, like someone stepping on a rotten fruit.
The drowner slid off the log and disappeared beneath the surface. A few bubbles rose to mark its passing, then nothing.
Viktor lay half-submerged, staring at the spot where his would-be killer had just... died. From slipping. On a log.
"You've got to be kidding me."
[DROWNER ELIMINATED]
[EXPERIENCE GAINED: 10 SYSTEM POINTS]
[CURRENT TOTAL: 60 SYSTEM POINTS]
The system's cheerful announcement felt like cosmic mockery. He'd just "defeated" his first monster through sheer, blind panic and environmental hazards. This was his legendary origin story: the man so incompetent he won fights by accident.
Viktor hauled himself out of the water, his whole body shaking from adrenaline and cold. The system interface still hovered in front of him, patient as a predator. He focused on it, trying to understand what he was looking at.
"Skills. There have to be skills."
[ACCESSING SKILL MENU...]
[AVAILABLE SKILLS:]
[TEMPORAL SENSE - 100 MP COST]
[Duration: 2 minutes]
[Effect: Receive mental messages showing opponent's actions 1-60 seconds before they occur]
[ITHLINNE'S PROPHECY - DAILY VISION]
[Cost: 15% of total MP (5.4 MP)]
[Effect: See 3-5 still images of events occurring within the next 24 hours]
[ADDITIONAL SKILLS LOCKED - INSUFFICIENT STATISTICS]
Viktor's blood turned to ice water as the math hit him like a falling brick. Temporal Sense cost 100 MP. He had 36. He was 64 points short—6.4 Stamina points short—of being able to use the one skill that might keep him alive.
And he knew exactly when he'd need it.
Blaviken.
The name whispered through his mind like a death sentence. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, earning his title in a massacre that would happen in approximately two weeks. Viktor could see it all playing out: the Princess Renfri, her band of cutthroats, the wizard Stregobor's machinations. Blood in the marketplace. Steel singing its deadly song.
"Daily Vision." His voice cracked on the words.
The world blurred around the edges as 5.4 MP drained from his reserves. Images flashed through his mind like a slideshow from hell:
A white-haired man in black leather, amber eyes cold as winter.
A marketplace, cobblestones slick with morning dew.
A sword—steel singing as it cleared its sheath.
Blood. So much blood.
The visions faded, leaving Viktor gasping and disoriented. The system helpfully updated his MP: 30.6 remaining.
"Two weeks." The words tasted like grave dirt. "I have two weeks to get strong enough to survive Geralt of fucking Rivia."
He looked down at his hands—soft, unmarked by calluses or scars. These weren't the hands of a warrior. They weren't even the hands of someone who'd ever been in a real fight. They were the hands of a software developer who'd died of a heart attack at twenty-eight because he'd lived on energy drinks and delivery pizza.
But they were all he had.
Viktor closed his eyes and did the math. 0.1 Stamina per day of intensive training, according to the system's documentation that somehow existed in his head like inherited memory. Six hours minimum of brutal, medieval conditioning to eke out that pathetic gain.
He opened his eyes and stared at the swamp that had almost claimed his life twice in the space of ten minutes.
"Alright, universe. You want to play hardball? Let's play hardball."
Viktor spent the next hour fashioning crude weights from rocks and pieces of deadwood, his hands already blistering from the rough work. The system watched in silence, its golden glow a constant reminder of how far he had to go.
He started with running. Not the casual jog of someone trying to get in shape, but the desperate sprint of prey that knows the predator is coming. Through the forest, over fallen logs, around trees that seemed to lean in closer with every step. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. His vision started to gray around the edges.
He kept running.
When he couldn't run anymore, he did push-ups in the mud until his arms gave out. When he couldn't do push-ups, he lifted his makeshift weights until his back felt like it was on fire. When he couldn't lift anymore, he forced himself into meditation, trying to regenerate even a fraction of his MP.
The meditation was almost worse than the physical training. Sitting still meant thinking, and thinking meant confronting the reality of his situation. He was alone in a world that wanted to kill him, with powers he couldn't use, racing against a clock that was counting down to his probable death.
"Focus." He gritted his teeth, feeling sweat and grime mix on his skin. "One day at a time. One rep at a time. One breath at a time."
Hours crawled by. The sun moved across the sky like a lazy predator, and Viktor moved with it, pushing his body past every limit he'd thought he had. By the time darkness started creeping through the trees, he could barely stand.
He collapsed in the mud where he'd started, gasping like a landed fish. The system interface materialized without being called, its glow the only light in the growing darkness.
[TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE]
[STAMINA INCREASED: 3.6 → 3.7]
[PROGRESS TO NEXT LEVEL: 0.1/1.0]
[MANA POINTS: 37/37]
[CURRENT STATUS: EXHAUSTED BUT STABLE]
One-tenth of a point. After six hours of torture, he'd gained one-tenth of a single stat point.
Viktor stared at the numbers, and for a moment, the despair was so complete it felt like drowning all over again. Sixty-three MP to go. Sixty-three days of this hell, if he could maintain this pace. If he didn't get killed by monsters. If he didn't die of exposure or infection or sheer exhaustion.
If he was lucky.
"Eleven days," he whispered to the darkness. "Eleven days to gain 6.3 Stamina, or Geralt cuts me down like wheat."
The system said nothing. The forest said nothing. Only the wind answered, rustling through leaves like the whispered prayers of the dead.
Viktor closed his eyes and began planning day two.
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