Jack bled out on the floor of his one-room apartment, cheek pressed to cheap laminate that still held the ghost-smell of spilled energy drink and protein powder. A string of LED lights under his desk cast the room in gamer-neon—purple, blue, smug. His expensive PC tower sat a meter away, fans whining steadily, RGB pulsing through the glass panel like a happy aquarium.
Calm. Cheerful. Obscene.
A minute ago he'd felt immortal.
He'd been live—shirtless, half-drunk, riding that thin edge where adrenaline pretends it's confidence. His chat loved it when he went loud. Loved it when he turned every match into theatre. He'd been waving his fake AR-15 around like it was a prop in a comedy skit, screaming threats at strangers through a headset because his viewers ate it up.
They always ate it up.
Emojis vomited down his screen. Donations popped like fireworks.
LOL KING. DO IT AGAIN. HE'S UNHINGED. W STREAM.
He flexed for the camera, eight-pack catching the LED light. He hammered the punching bag hard enough to make the drywall shiver and his neighbor bang on the wall. He laughed. He shouted. He acted like the world was a stage built for him, like consequences were something that happened to other people with boring faces.
Then the knock came.
Not a knock—thunder.
The door didn't open. It ceased being a door. It blew inward like it was made of paper.
A small dark object spun into the room, kissed the air—
BANG.
The flash took the world and turned it into white.
Sound became a knife.
Jack's eyes burned. His ears rang. The taste of smoke and metal filled his mouth like he'd bitten a battery. Instinct yanked his arms up, and in his blind panic—still fueled by gamer rage, still trapped in the logic of "this is content"—he grabbed the rifle off the desk and swung it toward the shapes he could barely see.
Black helmets flooded in. Black vests. Visors like insect eyes. Red dots jittering on walls, on furniture, on him. Voices stacked on top of each other—POLICE! GET DOWN! DROP IT!—warped and crackling like a busted speaker.
Jack tried to speak, but the alcohol turned his tongue thick and stupid. His veins were pure adrenaline. His brain chose defiance because that's what his online persona did.
"Fuck you, you motherf—"
That was as far as he got.
The shots came fast—decisions made by multiple fingers at once. Muzzle flash strobed the room. Impact thudded into flesh. His body jerked like a puppet on bad strings. Something punched the air out of him. Something punched the feeling out of his legs.
The absurd part—his brain clung to it even as it broke—was that they didn't hit his PC.
The stream kept going.
RGB pulsed. Fans whined. The chat kept moving. His face—half off-camera, jaw slack, eyes wide—was still there in the corner of his own life, framed in a little rectangle like a meme.
And Jack, in the thin stretch between pain and shock, thought:
This is so unfair.
He wasn't even eighteen. He hadn't finished school. He hadn't gotten properly rich. He hadn't gotten the real girlfriend—just the hookups, the ego snacks, the flirty DMs that never became anything. And the sick joke of it all—
There wasn't even a real gun in his hands.
Just an old, busted airsoft he used for bit content.
But the world didn't care about intent. The world cared about shapes. About timing. About a twitch in the wrong moment.
Now he lay cooling, blood spreading under his ribs and pooling dark beneath his chest. His fingers twitched once, uselessly. The shouting became distant. The LED lights blurred into soft stars.
Then even the PC went silent.
Or maybe his ears did.
Darkness didn't fall like sleep.
Sleep had edges. Sleep had breath. Sleep had dreams.
This was different.
This was… forgetting what sleep even was.
There was no body. No pain. No air. Just a vague awareness that something had ended—violently, stupidly—and something else hadn't bothered to begin yet.
Then—
Light.
Not holy. Not dramatic.
Just… there.
Like a lamp flicked on by someone who wasn't fully sure where the switch was.
Warmth touched him.
Jack's eyes snapped open.
He was lying in a field of wheat.
The stalks were tall and golden, brushing his skin in dry whispers. Above him the sun hung high in a clean blue sky that looked painted—too perfect, too simple, like a child's drawing of a good day. The air smelled like bread and summer.
Peaceful.
Impossible.
Jack blinked again—hard, like he could blink reality back into place.
He was naked except for his boxers.
He was breathing.
He was not bleeding.
"What the fuck…?"
A voice answered him, soft and halting, like someone speaking through a mouth that hadn't learned confidence yet.
"D-do you ever w-wonder what's u-up there… up in the stars?"
Jack turned his head.
Beside him lay a baby.
A diaper. Chubby limbs. Tiny hands. And from its back—ridiculous, impossible—white angelic wings, folded like a bird's at rest.
Curly silver hair framed its head like a halo someone had made too fancy. Violet eyes looked up at the sky—wrong eyes, in the way that made a part of Jack's brain recoil. Too old behind that soft face. Too aware.
The baby sucked its thumb like this was normal, like this was a Tuesday.
"L-like," it continued, thoughtful, "if s-someone up there is w-wondering what's d-down here?"
Jack sat up so fast his vision pinched black at the edges. His heart kicked hard in his chest, furious and alive.
"…Nope," he rasped. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming for hours. "No. I'm dead. This is a hallucination. This is my brain firing off the last good chemicals before I disappear forever."
The baby turned its head and smiled—bright, pleased, almost proud.
"O-oh! You are d-dead. Very d-dead."
Jack squeezed his eyes shut.
"Oh come on," he groaned into his palms. "How? Why? Did one of my viewers seriously call the police on me? Did I get swatted and die because of that? That's not fair, man."
The baby pushed itself upright, wings ruffling with the careful seriousness of someone adjusting precious luggage. It sat there, thinking hard, thumb finally leaving its mouth.
"Yes," it said, and then, with the tone of a child reporting a fun fact, "and also it w-was live."
Jack froze.
"Millions," the baby continued, as if reciting weather. "C-clips spread. Thousands s-saw it live. Some l-laughed. Some g-gasped. Many c-closed their browsers. Some even w-went outside for the first time in a long time."
It beamed.
"They t-touched grass. I-it was very moving. For a while."
"My death made people log off?" Jack asked, voice thin, like he didn't want the answer but needed it.
"F-for days at least," the baby said proudly. "S-screen time dropped. G-gyms filled up. T-three divorces were avoided. A man in Ohio s-stopped doom-scrolling and f-finally found a job, and years later a wife, and made a family."
Jack stared up at the sky, at the innocent sun that didn't care about anything. His mouth worked once, like he was chewing something bitter.
"So I got executed by SWAT," he muttered, "and the universe gave me a participation trophy."
The baby frowned, offended like he'd insulted a sacred toy.
"N-no, no. Not participation." It huffed. "I-impact. You were an i-impact event."
It adjusted its wings again, as if the conversation required proper posture. Then it held out a tiny hand.
Light bloomed.
A soft white ball formed in its palm—warm, steady, alive. It hummed faintly, like a held breath, like a heartbeat without a body. The wheat around them leaned away from it as if it understood respect.
"My chosen one," the baby said.
Something shifted in its tone. Still childish. Still stuttered. But heavier. The stammer eased just enough to matter, like a mask slipping.
"Y-your time is n-not up. Because your s-soul value is extremely low… I have chosen you to go and change humanity's fate. Far future. D-distant universe."
Jack's stomach went cold.
"Wait—no," he blurted, words tumbling out ugly and fast. "Can't you just give me a second chance as myself? I don't want to save anything. Please, no. I am not saving the world. I am not chosen. You have the wrong guy."
"S-sorry," the baby said brightly, as if explaining bedtime rules. "This is not a democracy. You don't get to choose."
Then it smiled, and the seriousness evaporated like it had never existed.
"Now stop whining."
The white light drifted forward—slow, certain—and touched Jack's chest.
Jack jerked back and tried to shove it away, but it sank into him like a cannonball through water.
Pain detonated behind his ribs.
He screamed.
It wasn't the sharp pain of a wound. It was deep, spreading, absolute—like something heavy and ancient settling into the space where his heart lived. Like a coin pushed under skin. Like a brand pressed into the inside of him.
Jack collapsed into the wheat, clawing at his own chest, rolling, gasping, shaking, trying to dig the thing out with his fingers like an animal caught in a trap.
The baby leaned close, voice suddenly gentle—almost fond.
"H-happy hunting, my c-champion," it whispered. "M-make big dreams come true."
Jack tried to answer—tried to curse, tried to beg, tried to bargain—
But the wheat dissolved.
The sky cracked like glass.
And the world went dark again, fast and total, as if someone had simply decided the scene was over.
There was no gentle fade. No soft waking.
One moment he was choking on pain and sunlight and angelic nonsense—then reality grabbed him by the collar and threw him.
He came back to the world of the living on one knee.
Stone under his knee. Cold, rough, ancient stone. His body felt wrong—heavy in every joint, loaded down, as if someone had replaced his bones with iron bars. He looked down and saw armor: bronze-gold plate that hugged his chest, a lion's head stamped into the breastplate like a warning and a prayer. Greaves. Gauntlets. Leather straps biting into his forearms. A cloak tugging in the wind.
A sword in his right hand.
A shield on his left—thick, metallic, dented, real.
It looked cool as hell. Convention-level cool.
And it felt like he'd been wearing it for years.
Jack blinked, slow, stupidly, because his brain was still trying to decide if this was a dream or a new kind of death.
But everything had weight.
Everything had smell.
Everything had sound.
This wasn't a dream.
This was reality—and reality was angry.
He pushed up from his kneel, knees shaking with the strain of the armor, and the world widened.
A siege.
Not a fantasy painting. Not a cinematic montage. A siege in full motion—loud, filthy, alive.
Archers—Scandinavian-looking men in furs and mail—leaned over battlements and loosed arrows in steady rhythm, the bowstrings snapping like teeth. Along the wall, militia in mismatched gear fought with whatever they'd had time to sharpen: spears, axes, hooked farm tools, battered shields. Some wore helmets. Some wore prayers.
Below them, ladders slapped against stone.
And climbing those ladders were black-armored warriors—tall, broad, disciplined. Their plate was midnight-dark, swallowing sunlight, their movements practiced and brutal. They came up in waves, fell, and came again. A metal tide refusing to be refused.
Smoke rose from somewhere beyond the wall—thick and oily. A bucket of burning pitch went over the edge and the air filled with screaming that didn't sound human anymore. The smell hit Jack a second later: scorched meat, shit, blood, fear.
He swallowed.
His pants felt… damp.
He didn't want to look down and confirm which kind of damp it was.
A roar cut through the din. A heavy shadow lunged toward him on the wall—one of the black-armored giants charging, a massive two-handed sword swinging up like a guillotine.
Jack's body locked. His mind screamed move, but his legs were still learning what legs were in this world—
—and then, right in front of him, that black-armored warrior took a blade to the neck from a defender in pale steel.
The cut was fast. Clinical. Hideous.
The head went flying—helmet and all—sailing off the wall and down into the city below, tumbling end over end like a kicked bucket. A wet spray glittered in the sun. Men shouted. Someone laughed like they'd lost their mind.
Jack stared, frozen, as if the world had just shown him its teeth.
He forced himself to look past the battlements.
Inside the walls sprawled a tight little city—rooftops packed close together, chimneys smoking, narrow streets like cuts between buildings. A blacksmith's shop. Stables. Small houses. Not a kingdom. Not a capital. Just a stubborn pocket of life clinging to stone.
And behind it—carved into the mountainside like a god had taken a chisel to the cliff—sat the keep.
Not built on the mountain.
Built into it.
A fortress grown from rock, half-swallowed by the cliff, as if the mountain itself had decided to become a castle.
Jack's eyes flicked left, right.
Fur and mail. Vikings and knights fighting shoulder to shoulder. Militia with terror in their faces and fury in their arms. Everywhere the same desperate rhythm: stab, shove, slash, scream, breathe, repeat.
Beyond the wall—beyond ladders and arrows and bodies—he saw the enemy massing in a dark surge. Thousands. Maybe more. Black armor packed tight, their formation like ink spilled across the valley floor.
And beyond even that—past the disciplined darkness and the climbing ladders—he saw something so beautiful it made his brain stutter:
A mountain valley, clean and bright. Wheat fields like gold cloth. Rivers ribboning through green. Forest lining the edges. Mountains rising on both sides like the smooth walls of some enormous, perfect bathtub—ridiculous, peaceful geometry holding all this violence in place. Snow sat untouched on the peaks, white and indifferent, as if the sky refused to get involved.
For half a heartbeat, Jack forgot to breathe.
He looked down at himself again.
The armor fit.
The sword sat naturally in his grip.
The shield was strapped like it belonged there.
Dents. Scratches. Proof of use. Proof of time.
He wasn't wearing a costume.
He was wearing history.
A shriek snapped through the haze beside him.
"My king—danger! Protect His Majesty! Your Majesty, you must get to safety, the walls are too dangerous!"
The voice was sharp and panicked, like an old hen discovering her eggs were gone.
And that word—king—hit Jack harder than the angel's light ever had.
His mind snapped awake inside his skull.
King.
A king in armor on a wall.
A king in a siege.
A king in a story.
A king with a sword.
A king—him.
A stupid, traitorous part of him wanted to laugh. Wanted to cheer. Wanted to raise the sword and pretend he was built for this, like the world had finally recognized his greatness.
The American dream, but with a crown, his brain whispered. You made it, Fritz. You made it—
Then an arrow came up from below.
It didn't whistle. It hunted.
Jack saw it only at the last instant—black shaft, bright tip—then it slammed into his helmet with a dull, brutal THUNK that rang through his skull like a bell.
Stars exploded behind his eyes.
His legs went loose.
The world tilted.
"Oh shit," he choked, stumbling backward. "Not again—!"
He went off the wall.
For a heartbeat he was weightless, floating over stone and screaming and sky—his life flashing in a stupid, useless strobe: SWAT lights, wheat fields, baby wings, chat emojis, blood on laminate—
Then he crashed into a cart stacked with grain sacks.
Wood splintered. Wheat burst. Flour erupted in a pale cloud like a small explosion. The cart collapsed under his armored weight with a wet crunch of timber and pain.
Jack hit hard, the armor turning the impact into a full-body punch. Something in his ribs sang. Something in his back cracked.
He lay there in the flour-dust haze, choking, eyes watering, pain blooming like fire in his bones.
Above him, voices slammed down from the wall.
"By the War God!? The King has been shot! Save him!"
"Soldiers—quickly, go check on the King!"
"Andy! Andy! You idiot—what are you standing there for? Go! Invite a magician to heal him!"
"Attention! Those black-clad bastards are sending in another wave to besiege the city—!"
"Damn it! Damn it!! Who the hell can tell me why these black scoundrels got siege ladders? I thought they were supposed to be too stupid to make ladders!"
"Attention! Archers—prepare… shoot!"
Boots pounded stone. Metal clanged. Panic rose and fell like waves.
Jack's mind tried to grab onto something—anything—that made sense.
King?
Magician?
Archers?
Siege?
Where is this? Is this a movie? What the hell kind of play is this?
But none of it mattered, because his helmeted head had slammed into something hard and unforgiving—cart axle, stone edge, fate itself.
Pain detonated behind his eyes.
The golden stars multiplied. The screaming became syrup. The sky smeared into bright nonsense.
"Am I… truly a king?" he thought, thick and slow, like his brain was drowning in honey. "How… why does it sound like they're talking about me?"
His anger still stayed loyal, even as consciousness slipped.
"But screw it," he tried to snarl inside his head. "Who cares about some damn king. They better not let me find out which bastard shot me with an arrow, or I'll—"
His thoughts broke apart mid-threat.
A heavier wave of pain rolled over him—deep, pounding, ancient—like his skull had become a drum and someone kept striking it.
He lay there twitching weakly, buried in flour and splinters and humiliation.
Like a hamster that had eaten a heroic amount of rat poison and immediately regretted every choice it ever made.
His legs jerked a few times. His fingers tried to clench the sword, but couldn't remember how.
And then—honestly, mercifully—
Jack's consciousness slipped sideways…
…and went out.