The world returned in fragments.
A faint ringing.
A heartbeat that didn't feel like his own.
Then… wind.
It brushed across his cheek, cool and almost alive.
Nick's eyes snapped open.
He lay sprawled in a field of tall silver grass swaying under a dim sky. The horizon shimmered like molten steel where the sun crawled upward, and the air smelled of ash. Every breath hurt—every sound echoed sharper than it should.
For a second, he didn't move.
What… where am I?
Memory hit him in flashes—the final duel, the storm of steel, that blinding light.
The game.
He'd finished the damn game.
So why could he feel the dirt beneath his fingers?
Nick sat up slowly. His head spun, vision sharpening into terrifying clarity. Each blade of grass moved on its own rhythm, each gust of wind carried dust and salt. This is real.
"Menu," he said aloud.
Nothing.
"Pause?"
Silence. Only the wind answering with a lazy sigh.
He blinked. "Okay, developers, funny bug. You're killing me with realism here."
He lifted his hands. Gloves—stitched leather. Armor plates over his forearms. His reflection winked faintly off a curved blade resting beside him. The katana's edge caught a line of sunlight that glowed pale silver.
Nick reached for it, half-expecting a vibration or controller rumble. Instead, warmth pulsed through the hilt, like a heartbeat answering his own. The weapon felt weighty yet balanced, perfectly molded to his grip.
A rustle.
Smoke rose in the distance—black, thick, curling above the remains of a village. He could hear the distant clash of metal, the screams, the guttural foreign shouts.
Mongols.
His breath caught. "You've got to be kidding me… I'm in the game."
The idea was insane. But the fear clawing through his chest was not.
He crouched low, instinct from a thousand stealth missions kicking in. The silver grass hissed softly as he crept toward the noise. Each movement felt natural, too natural. He could feel the armor's weight, the tug of his sword, the dirt gripping his sandals.
At the edge of the field, the world opened to chaos.
The village burned. Houses collapsed under the orange sky, and three armored riders circled a single survivor crawling through the mud. The man was unarmed, his leg bleeding badly.
Nick's first instinct screamed: Stay hidden.
His second—the gamer instinct—said: That's an NPC quest trigger.
He exhaled shakily. "Guess side quests don't come with difficulty settings."
Before he realized it, he was moving. His feet found the rhythm of stealth, one he'd repeated a thousand times behind a controller. But this time, it was heartbeat and breath.
The first rider dismounted to finish the survivor. Nick surged forward, every sense narrowing.
Don't think. Move.
The katana flashed.
Steel met flesh in a single, desperate strike. The Mongol fell with a strangled cry. The other two spun around, startled, shouting words Nick couldn't understand.
Adrenaline burned through him. He parried, barely blocking the next swing. Sparks burst against the blade. His arms shook from the impact—God, this isn't a game. This hurts!
He twisted, dodged a spear thrust, then countered with a wild slash that carved across armor. Pain flared in his shoulder where another strike grazed him. He shouted, both in fear and rage, and drove his blade through the attacker's chest.
Silence followed, broken only by his ragged breathing.
Nick stared down at his hands, trembling. Blood—dark, real—dripped from the blade.
He felt nausea rise but swallowed it down.
The wounded villager was staring at him with wide eyes.
"The wind…" the man whispered weakly. "Kami's wind guided you…"
Nick froze.
The breeze stirred again—gentle, circling him like recognition. Grass bowed in a spiral around his feet. He could almost hear a voice within it, faint and familiar.
That same voice from the white light.
He looked around. "Who's there?"
No answer—only the wind curling toward the forest path beyond the burning houses.
Nick stared at the forest, wind tugging gently at his clothes.
It wasn't random. It wasn't natural. It moved with purpose—like it wanted him to follow.
"Alright," he muttered, sheathing the sword with a shaky hand. "Following mysterious wind voices… sure. What could possibly go wrong?"
He glanced back once more. The villager had passed out, but breathing shallowly. Nick tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, tied it around the man's wound, and dragged him under the shade of a broken hut.
"Hang in there, buddy. I'll… figure out what's happening and maybe find a tutorial."
Then he turned toward the forest and stepped into the whispering green.
The deeper he walked, the quieter the world became. The roar of battle faded, replaced by the hum of cicadas and the rush of wind through leaves. Shafts of sunlight spilled between branches, painting the path in shifting silver patterns.
It felt sacred.
Alive.
Every step echoed with memories of the game — the countless hours exploring, sneaking, fighting. But this time, his boots pressed real soil, his breath fogged in the chill shade, and the air carried the faint scent of rain and steel.
If this is a dream… it's the most beautiful one I've ever had.
Then he remembered the weight of the blade, the scream of dying men, and his stomach twisted.
No… not a dream.
He paused at a small stream crossing the path. The wind swept over it, rippling the surface like a silver hand brushing water. A faint shimmer danced across the stream — faintly luminous, guiding forward.
Nick tilted his head. "Okay… that's either divine guidance or a really advanced AR system. Either way, I'm impressed."
He followed the shimmer.
The forest began to thin, and in the clearing ahead, he saw it — a ruined shrine, half-swallowed by moss and time. The torii gate leaned sideways, one beam split and wrapped in vines. Yet the air hummed with a quiet reverence, as if spirits still lingered.
The silver wind swirled around him again, soft but insistent.
"Alright, I'm here," Nick said. "Now what?"
The breeze grew colder. On the stone altar beneath the gate lay a mask.
Black. Curved. Hauntingly familiar.
The face of the Ghost.
Nick's breath hitched. He stepped closer, drawn like metal to magnet. The mask's edges shimmered faintly, catching the same ghostly silver hue that danced in the grass and wind.
He reached out slowly. His fingers hovered an inch away, and suddenly the world went still.
The forest stopped breathing.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
> "NatyGhost."
His gamer tag.
Whispered not from a mouth, but from everywhere at once.
Nick froze. His heart thundered.
"What did you just—?"
> "The wind remembers you."
"You've returned."
The mask pulsed with faint light, as if waiting.
Nick hesitated, torn between awe and pure disbelief.
Returned? I've never been here before…
But something deep inside—something older than memory—stirred.
His hand trembled as he touched the mask.
A shock ran through him, not pain but revelation. Visions flared—blades, blood, moonlight, the roar of battles he'd never fought. He saw faces, voices, fragments of another life.
The voice whispered again, softer now.
> "The island remembers the Ghost."
"Now, rise again."
The mask melted into light—flowing like water—then surged straight into him.
Nick gasped, falling to his knees as the silver wind howled through the shrine. His armor rippled, shifting, reforming into darker shades. His blade glowed faintly along its edge, the same ghostly hue.
Then silence.
Nick lifted his head slowly. The mask was gone.
But when he caught his reflection in the stream beside him—
a pale, faint outline of it shimmered across his face.
He didn't know whether to laugh or panic.
"…Well. That's new."
And then the voice returned one last time, fading into the distance—
> "Welcome home, Ghost."
Nick exhaled shakily, staring at his reflection. The silver wind brushed past him once more, carrying with it a feeling he couldn't explain.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Something else.
Purpose.
He rose slowly, the katana whispering as it left the sheath.
"Alright," he muttered, squinting toward the horizon. "If this is the new game plus, I guess it's time to make some noise."
The wind answered, swirling around him in silent agreement.
And somewhere deep within the island's shadows, something ancient stirred in response.