This chapter is to emphasis Voren's life before he transmigrated. It will serve as a foundational prologue to the story. So enjoy
....
"Let it burn! 🔥"
Someone muttered the words under his breath, his voice raspy from hours of silence and cheap energy drinks. He didn't look away from the screen, even though the flickering light was starting to make his head throb.
The screen itself was a mess. A jagged crack ran from the bottom left corner all the way to the top middle, spider-webbing across the glass. It distorted the colors, turning the vibrant greens of the game map into a muddy, bruised purple. He had to tilt his head at a weird angle just to see his character's health bar.
On the screen, a digital village was burning down. His character, a high-level pyromancer, stood in the center of the square while non-player characters—villagers designed to look like they were screaming—ran in circles.
"Is the objective done yet?" a voice crackled through his headset. It was 'DeathStroke69,' a guy he had been playing with for three hours but didn't actually know.
"Almost," he said, his fingers moving across the keys. "Just a few more houses."
"Kill the kids too," another voice joined in. This was 'Viper.' "The loot drops are better if you clear the whole demographic. Plus, it's funny watching the AI pathing glitch out when they try to find their parents."
"Whatever. It's just pixels."
"Exactly," Viper said, his tone turning snide. "Unlike the real world, where you're probably rotting in a basement. You still haven't fixed that screen, have you, Voren? I can hear the fan on your laptop screaming for mercy through your mic."
"Mind your business," Voren snapped.
"I'm just saying, man. We've been at this for thirteen hours. My back hurts, and I'm actually successful. You? You've got nothing else to do. If we stop this raid, what are you gonna do? Look at the wall?"
Voren went quiet. The comment stung because it was true. He looked around his room during a brief loading pause. Empty ramen cups were stacked like tiny plastic towers on his desk. A pile of laundry that hadn't been touched in two weeks sat in the corner, smelling faintly of sour sweat, and the only light came from the cracked laptop.
He was twenty-one, unemployed, and his only social interaction came from people who mocked him while they burned virtual villages together. His life was a loop of sleeping until noon, gaming until the sun came up, and feeling a hollow ache in his chest that no amount of 'Level Ups' could fill.
"I'm out," Voren said suddenly.
"Wait, the loot's about to drop!" DeathStroke yelled.
"Keep it," Voren muttered and disconnected the chat.
The silence that followed was heavy. As It pressed against his ears. He closed the game, the fan on his laptop finally slowing down from a jet-engine roar to a pathetic whine.
Voren then stared at his desktop wallpaper—a generic dark knight. He felt pathetic. The thirteen-hour marathon had left him feeling greasy and hollowed out. He should go to bed. He should probably take a shower. He should definitely look for a job.
Instead, his mouse hovered over a new icon.
He'd downloaded it yesterday on a whim. Ages of Legends.
It was a weird one. The marketing called it a "Western-Xianxia crossover." It promised the classic Chinese cultivation tropes—meridians, sects, and flying swords—but set in a world that looked more like medieval Europe. The reviews were a battlefield.
"The most generic trash I've ever played," one top review read. "The protagonist is an arrogant brat who gets everything handed to him because of his bloodline. It's a power fantasy for people with zero personality."
Another review praised it: "The immersion is insane. It feels more real than any RPG I've ever touched. Just ignore the cheesy dialogue."
Voren didn't care about the writing. He didn't care about the "arrogant protagonist" trope. In fact, he kind of preferred it. In this world, he was a guy with a broken screen and a stained shirt. In a game, he could be the guy who looked down on everyone else.
He double-clicked the icon.
The screen went black for a long time. Voren wondered if his laptop had finally given up the ghost. He reached out to poke the power button, but then, a soft, golden glow began to bleed through the cracks in the glass.
Then Words began to scroll across the cracked display, perfectly legible despite the damage:
[Welcome to the Ages of Legends.]
[A world where the strong dictate the heavens and the weak crawl in the dust.]
[You have spent 4,745 days living a life of insignificance.]
Voren flinched. That was roughly thirteen years. The game was... counting?
[Do you wish to be immersed into the world of "Ages of Legends?"]
[Yes / No]
Voren paused. Usually, "immersion" just meant a first-person camera angle or haptic feedback. But the way the light was pulsing from his laptop felt different. It was rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
He felt a strange urge to walk away, but the thought of his empty room and the smell of the ramen cups stopped him. Anything was better than this.
He moved the cursor. It felt heavy, like he was dragging it through water.
Click.
[Yes]
The Shift
The first thing that happened was the sound. The low hum of his laptop fan didn't just stop; it vanished, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that vibrated in his teeth.
Then came the vertigo. Voren felt like the chair had been pulled out from under him, but instead of hitting the floor, he was falling upward. The cracked screen in front of him expanded, the golden light swallowing the room, the laundry, and the shadows.
He tried to scream, but his lungs felt like they were filled with cotton candy—sweet and airy, but impossible to breathe. His vision blurred into a swirl of colors. The dark grey of his room was replaced by a blinding, crystalline white.
The dizziness was sickening. It felt like being spun in a centrifuge while someone hammered on his skull. This is a stroke, he thought wildly. I'm having a stroke because I didn't drink enough water.
Then, darkness.
Absolute, silent darkness.
It lasted for what felt like seconds and centuries at the same time. His consciousness felt stretched thin, like a piece of gum being pulled until it was transparent.
And then, he felt a weight.
Not the weight of his body on a gaming chair, but a different kind of weight. He felt... small. Compact.
The smell hit him next. It wasn't sour sweat and dust. It was the scent of roasted meat, fresh rosemary, and old wood. It was warm.
Voren then opened his eyes. The world slowly emerging out. He then blinked, his vision slowly coming into focus.
He wasn't in his room. He wasn't looking at a cracked screen.
He was sitting at a heavy table. The wood was polished to a high shine, reflecting the flickering light of a nearby fireplace. In front of him sat a ceramic bowl filled with a thick, creamy stew.
He looked down at his hands.
He nearly fell off his chair. These weren't his hands. They weren't the pale, bony hands of a twenty-one-year-old with bitten fingernails. They were tiny. Chubby. The skin was smooth and unblemished, the fingers short and soft.
He was wearing a tunic made of fine, soft wool. It was a deep forest green, edged with brown embroidery.
"Eat your vegetables, dear. You can't grow up to be a Great Mage if you only eat the beef."
The voice was like a bell. Voren looked up, his heart hammering against his ribs—a tiny ribs.
A woman sat across from him. She was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, like a painting brought to life. Her hair was a rich chestnut, tied back in a loose braid, and her eyes were a soft, kind violet. Beside her sat a man with broad shoulders and a jawline that looked like it was carved from granite.
They were looking at him. Not with the disappointment his real parents used to show, but with a terrifying amount of love.
Voren was frozen. His mind was screaming, trying to process the "Yes" he had clicked.
He then realized he was holding a spoon. It felt heavy in his small hand. As he stared at the man—his father?—his hand trembled. The reality of the situation, the physical presence of the room, the heat from everything, it was all too much.
The spoon tilted. A large, soft piece of carrot slid off the edge and landed on his tunic with a wet thud, before rolling onto his lap.
The woman's expression shifted from warmth to a playful, practiced sternness. She sighed, reaching over with a cloth.
"Voren!" she scolded, though her eyes were still dancing with amusement. "Honestly, you're seven years old now. You should be able to get the food into your mouth without making a mess of your father's finest silks."
Voren.
The name echoed in his head.
How did this people he had never met know his name??
Coincidence?
"I... I..." Voren tried to speak, but his voice came out as a high-pitched squeak.
"Don't 'I' me," she laughed, leaning forward to wipe the stain off his chest. "If you put as much effort into your manners as you do into chasing the hounds around, you'd be a mage by now."
The man chuckled, "Leave the boy alone, Mary. He's probably just thinking about the Awakening ceremony in the coming years. Aren't you, son?"
Still confused, Voren looked at the woman that sat beside him, Mary, as she tucked a stray hair behind his ear. Her hand was warm and real.
"Voren?" she asked, her brow furrowing in genuine concern. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He swallowed hard. He felt a tear prick the corner of his eye, and he wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was the fact that someone was finally looking at him like he mattered.
"I'm okay," he whispered, his voice trembling.
He then picked up the spoon again, his small fingers gripping it tight. He didn't know how he got here, and he didn't know how to get back. But as he looked at the two people smiling at him, he realized he didn't particularly want to go back to the room with the empty ramen cups.