The lingering resonance of the signed covenant had yet to fully dissipate. The Imperial double-headed eagle Aquila, now seared into the depths of his soul, still radiated a faint, scorching warmth.
Daniel's (I Am Not God) consciousness remained half-submerged in that grand tableau of golden radiance, solemn proclamations, and weighty vows. His fingers still held the phantom sensation of touching the golden scroll.
He was just about to pull up a new command interface, check on the status of "The Endless Great Crusade," and use the authority he'd just obtained to decisively finish off the remaining resistance in Heralius Hive City—
And then—
CLANG! SCCRRREEEK!
A violent, utterly un-game-like tremor and mechanical grinding tore through his senses like sub-spatial interference, ripping everything apart with brutal force!
The nutrient fluid enveloping his body drained rapidly. The neural connections simulating battlefield sensation were forcibly severed. The grand warscape before him—the burning ruins, the Imperial banners, the golden insignia branded into his consciousness—shattered and dissolved like a smashed mirror, piece by jagged piece.
Blinding, cold, real-world white light replaced the soft simulated glow of the immersion pod.
A familiar, firm hand seized his shoulder without preamble and hauled him bodily out of the reclined pod!
"Daniel! Are you trying to kill yourself?! You've been soaking in there for nearly fifteen hours!!"
His mom's voice cut through everything like a blade.
"Do you know what time it is?! It's eleven o'clock at night!! You have class at seven tomorrow morning! Get to BED!! IMMEDIATELY!!"
Her voice—penetrating, laced with worry and fury, carrying the absolute authority of a force of nature—instantly obliterated every last reverie of Emperor, covenant, and war.
Daniel stood on unsteady legs, still wearing the simple loungewear he'd had on before entering the pod, damp with nutrient fluid residue. He blinked blankly. His gaze moved from his mom's face—flushed slightly red from anger—to the digital clock on the wall.
11:07 PM
His brain was still reeling from the violent whiplash of leaping from an epic battlefield directly into his own bedroom. For a moment he could barely string words together.
"I… the campaign was almost over…" he tried to explain, his voice a little hoarse.
"Over?! Even if the sky was falling you'd still have to sleep! Do you still want eyes?! Do you still want a body?! Get in that bed right now!"
His mom gave absolutely zero opportunity for argument. She herded him toward the bed with a combination of pushing and prodding.
"Okay, okay, I'm going… don't be so scary…" Daniel muttered.
Subdued by that irresistible real-world force—and his mom's very physical enforcement—he clambered obediently into bed. The instant his body met the soft mattress, a wave of exhaustion surged over him like a tide. Hours of peak mental concentration had suppressed it. Now it all came crashing back at once.
His mom tucked the blanket over him without any particular gentleness, delivered a few more sharp words, then switched off the light and pulled the door shut behind her.
In the darkness, Daniel lay with his eyes open, staring at the familiar ceiling.
Faintly, as if from a great distance, he could still hear it. The shriek of a boltgun. The howl of a chainsword. The commanding voice of Makarius.
His fingertips seemed to still hold the ghost of the chainsword grip's vibration and the illusive texture of the golden covenant scroll. The phantom pain where his arm had been severed hadn't fully faded.
"Covenant-bearer of the Emperor…"
He mouthed those words silently into the dark, feeling equal parts absurd and utterly real.
Minutes ago, he had been a figure who determined the fate of an entire warzone—someone who'd signed a covenant with a mythic being. Minutes later, he was a regular high school student who'd been physically hauled into bed by his mother, with class in the morning.
The sheer, violent contrast of it made him exhale a wry, helpless laugh.
But deep in his chest, the gravity born of that covenant—and its faintly smoldering heat—had not cooled with the act of logging out. It sat like a seed, quietly planted in some corner of his consciousness.
In the end, drowsiness conquered the adrenaline. Daniel's consciousness gradually blurred and sank into dreamless sleep. The starfire of Alacaster, the gaze from the Golden Throne—for now, they were buried beneath the quiet routine of school life.
---
The next morning, sunlight slanted through gaps in the curtains. The alarm went off on schedule.
Daniel sat up, rubbing eyes that felt slightly gritty. Last night's experience seemed like an exceptionally vivid and drawn-out dream. On instinct, he moved his left arm.
Intact.
His real body quietly reminded him that yesterday's "great deed" had existed only in a virtual world.
Wash up. Eat breakfast. Shoulder his bag under the soundtrack of his mom's urging. Walk out the door. The morning air carried the particular mild chill and bustle of the city—nothing at all like the smell of gunsmoke over the Hive City.
He walked into the familiar campus, crossed the yard, and stepped into the school building. Barely reaching the floor where his classroom was, he could already hear a lively roar of conversation spilling out—loud enough to carry clearly down the hall.
"—did you guys watch the finals match yesterday?! Holy crap, unbelievable!"
"Obviously! It's Warhammer 40K's first major competitive event—how could I miss it? Once it goes into open beta, I can say I'm an 'Alacaster veteran!'"
"The Astartes are genuinely sick! So many factions, but personally the Tactical Warriors scratch my itch the most. Who can resist a gold-and-blue armored giant? Who understands this level of refined taste?!"
"Honestly, I think Chaos has a pretty compelling aesthetic too—that wasteland punk vibe combined with demonic possession. Nobody else feeling that?"
"TRAITOR! HERETIC! I have nothing to say to heretics!"
"Dude, you—"
The corner of Daniel's mouth curved up without him meaning to. He pushed the door open and walked in.
Four or five classmates were clustered together, gesturing animatedly. The subject of their heated debate was, beyond any doubt, the game that had delivered last night's entire experience: Warhammer 40K: Battlefront.
One sharp-eyed classmate spotted him the moment he entered.
"Hey! Daniel! Perfect timing! Heard you applied for Battlefront's beta test access last week—did you get it?" His expression mixed anticipation with a hint of gleeful schadenfreude. "None of us managed to get a slot. Those access codes were dropped like scraps thrown to beggars."
The others looked over too, eyes bright. In this particular conversation, having beta test access was practically a form of social currency—a privilege that commanded both envy and rapt attention.
Something stirred in Daniel's chest.
A rush of smugness. A desire to share. And something that felt distinctly like the impulse to show off—all mixed together. He was the one who'd cut through the finals seven times over, gone sword-to-sword with a Chaos Champion, solo'd a Heldrake, and signed a covenant with the Emperor!
His ID might be I Am Not God, but standing here under his classmates' curious gazes, he could barely stop himself from launching into a triumphant account. He was going to nail that artfully nonchalant tone. Let slip some choice "insider" observation. Casually mention that yeah, he'd been in the finals last night, no big deal—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A crisp, rhythmic sound. High heels striking the floor, approaching steadily from down the hallway.
The heated discussion died instantaneously. The cluster of classmates scattered like startled rabbits. Each person vanished to their own seat at remarkable speed, sitting ramrod straight, producing textbooks, assuming the expression of diligent students deeply absorbed in pre-class review.
The homeroom teacher appeared in the doorway. Her gaze made a slow, measured sweep of the room.
The words rising in Daniel's throat were swallowed right back down. He rubbed his nose, hurried to his seat, and pulled out his textbook.
The classroom settled into quiet, filled only with the soft rustle of turning pages and the sound of the teacher's footsteps approaching the lectern.
Reality, once again, reclaimed everything with an authority that permitted no argument. Last night's covenant and warfare were temporarily locked away inside a box labeled "game." For now, he was high school student Daniel—and what lay before him was a blackboard, a textbook, and an ordinary, unremarkable day just beginning.
He glanced down at his right hand, as if he could still feel the grip of a chainsword.
Then he flipped to the first page, and turned his attention to the opening line.