Prologue: From Cubicle Zero to Baby Lich-Bait – A WoW Nerd's Bad Respawn
Picture me, Alex: 28, glued to a desk in the glow of hellish office lights at Data Solutions Inc. Job? Punching numbers into spreadsheets till my eyes crossed—like pushing a boulder uphill, but the boulder's made of emails from my troll boss. "Team synergy!" he'd bark in passive-aggressive chains, while my paycheck vanished into rent for a shoebox apartment thinner than a rogue's stealth. Exhausted? Bags under my eyes like Northrend blizzards. Broke? Wallet emptier than a post-raid loot table. And crushed? Sarah from HR—the gal with a laugh that could thaw Icecrown and eyes bluer than mana crystals. After months of "oops, coffee refill?" bumps, I asked her out. "Alex, you're sweet, but... not adventurous." Adventurous? I once pulled a 72-hour WoW binge on Red Bull and rage—survived a Molten Core wipe and the comedown! Stung like a crit, but I chuckled through pizza crusts and tears, wondering if my life's just one endless /wipe.
Escape? World of Warcraft. Azeroth wasn't pixels; it was my ticket out, a wild ride where I traded cubicle chains for hero capes. Hooked from login—the lore grabbed me like a voidwalker's tentacle: ancient wars, fallen kings, continents bursting with secrets. Story arcs? Gold—from Legion burnouts to Scourge chills. My guild, Shadowbane Slayers, was a global mess of night-shift weirdos, roasting fails on Discord while we farmed Northrend beasts or clutched Elwynn herb runs. "Alex, tank god!" they'd yell after I bubble-hearth'd a raid save. But damn, the gut-punches: Varian's sacrifice had me ugly-crying; Alleria vanishing into shadows? Screen-punch city. Wipes? My paladin eating dirt, rogue one-shot—tears flowed like a noob on tutorial hill. Yet I'd queue right back, 'cause real life? Work-eat-log-sleep. Pathetic? Sure. Hilarious? Me, adult man sobbing over pixels while Sarah dates the office Chad who "climbs mountains" (read: Instagram filters).
And yeah—virgin perv alert. WoW ladies? My brain's endgame raid. Jaina's smart-fire sass, Alleria's bow-slinging edge, Azshara's slinky queen tease, Tyrande's timeless elf glow, draenei tails curving just right, sturdy dwarf gals owning the forge vibe—even Sylvanas, that undead edge a twisted turn-on. Wildest? Female orcs—tusked tanks with ink and muscle, raw power that revved my engine. Post-raid cooldowns? "Research" time: Fan art tabs, modded cinematics, hand blurring through fantasies of conquests. Epic, right? One night, mid-Sylvanas strut on screen (leather tighter than a curse), caffeine hits critical. Forty-seven rounds in—hand numb as a frost-nova'd mage, heart thumping enrage—then blackout. Blue screen of doom: chest seize, vision fuzz, poof. Died mid-wank to my zombie waifu? If respawns had laugh tracks, mine'd be howling.
But nope—endgame glitch. In the black, some shadowy thing yanks my soul, voice like a glitchy GM: "Story's booting up." No pearly gates, just a server yank. "Wake-up" call? Midwife's hush in a golden nursery, royal silk on my butt, name-drop: Arthas Menethil. Baby wails, but my grown brain's screaming—holy fel, I'm in WoW! As HIM? Hope surges like a level ding: No more spreadsheets, no Sarah shade, no broke nights. I'm prince-baby, heir to Lordaeron—magic at my chubby fingertips, quests waiting, harem dreams real. Jaina thawing my throne room? Alleria scouting my bed? Orc warrior gals as "diplomatic" prizes? Grin splits my drool-face, tiny legs kicking like a level 1 Tauren in a starter zone. Azeroth's my server now—lore map in my head. Dodge Frostmourne, stack the empire, bang the roster. Death flipped the script: Loser logs in as legend.
Fear crashes quick, though—cold as Icecrown winds on my infant skin. I know the run: Arthas crumbles, crowns the Lich King, axes Dad, plagues the world. Foes stacked: Scourge zombies shambling, Deathwing's world-end roar, Legion demons gatecrashing. One slip? Puppet strings again, this time for Ner'zhul—my "prizes" rotting in frost. Midwives blur through my tears: Joy for the reboot, terror of the scripted doom. Where's my system cheat? Language Proficiency to sweet-talk elves without grunting like a troll? Gotta survive infancy first—don't wanna wipe as a drooler! Cruel joke, swapping desk jail for frozen throne? Cradle rocks, bells toll distant like Stratholme's clock, my wee fists ball. Vow time: Rewrite the script. No more Ls, no deaths. Azeroth, queue up—I'm grabbing the crown, the kills, and those forbidden flings. But shadows whisper: What if they glitch me first? Ding...? Please, universe—make it count.