"Don't jump! I'll say it again—when the Defile spreads, do not jump! Everyone, take your fingers off the space bar! Type 1 if you understand! Come on, guys! This is supposed to be a casual run! Stop being so sloppy!"
On the massive monitor, the chat box scrolled at light speed.
"111!"
"Are you all idiots? I said don't jump!"
"1112223!"
Aldric rubbed his stiff cheeks, eyes fixed on the screen where an undead rogue was hopping in place like it was a playground. He sighed into his headset. "One of you mages didn't listen. Ten points off your loot priority. Everyone else, get ready. Buffs up."
Glancing at the digital clock on his taskbar, Aldric frowned. It was past eleven. Even for a Friday night, his eyes were starting to burn.
"It's late," he added. "One more pull. If we wipe, we disband and try again tomorrow. Type 1 to agree."
"1"
"Let's kill the King!"
"Tomorrow works. 11"
Seeing the consensus, Aldric maneuvered his character—a Tauren Sunwalker Paladin marked with a golden star icon—into position at the center of the Frozen Throne. Once the healers were set, he hurled an Avenger's Shield straight at Prince Arthas's face.
Five minutes later, a towering Abomination summoned by the Lich King smashed his character into the ice. The world went gray.
A moment later, Aldric's ghost appeared at the graveyard outside Icecrown Citadel. He pressed his massive spirit-bull face against the Spirit Healer's translucent thigh, finding a weird comfort in the familiar NPC as the rest of his raid team materialized around him.
In guild chat, he typed: Disband. Same time tomorrow, 7 PM. Eat before you join. No AFK breaks for snacks.
The group vanished as players logged off. Soon, only Aldric remained. He opened his inventory, reviewing the night's haul. Friday was the guild's "trash clear" night. Because of the loot rules, his bags were stuffed with unwanted purple epics, piles of blue-tier crafting materials, and offset gear.
As the Main Tank, unclaimed loot defaulted to him—a small perk to offset his massive repair bills. Beyond the gear, his bags were heavy with Titansteel ore and epic gems. Every plate-wearer dreamed of Grandmaster Blacksmithing, and this hoard of "useless junk" was the price of that dream.
He checked his currency tab. Total: 325,810 gold, 86 silver, and 25 copper.
"Being the tank is a full-time job," he muttered. "Ugh. I'm not running back to my corpse. I'll just take the rez sickness."
He clicked the dialogue box above the angelic NPC and selected immediate resurrection. A familiar window appeared—but the text was entirely wrong.
Dear Hero, the continent of Westeros faces grave peril.
While the southern kingdoms descend into chaos and war, a threat from the northern wastes has quietly arrived.
Will you become the hero who saves this land?
[Confirm] / [Decline]
Aldric stared at the screen. "Since when did Blizzard update the Spirit Healer text?"
Confused, his finger drifted toward Confirm. As if he'd ever click Decline. He wanted his character alive so he could log off.
The moment he clicked, the orchestral music in his headset swelled into a deafening roar. Fragmented memories surged through his mind like a tidal wave. An agonizing heat tore through his chest—and then the world dissolved into black.
A golden light burst from his body and vanished into the atmosphere.
When Aldric regained consciousness, he was lying in sparse grass beneath a canopy of towering ancient trees. He scrambled to his feet, dazed. A dense, primeval forest surrounded him. He was alone, and he was heavy.
He looked down. He was clad head to toe in thick, polished metal plate armor. Scattered across the forest floor were weapons and equipment: hauberks, silken robes, shields, and blades. In one inconspicuous pile lay shimmering gems and a leather pouch the size of a rucksack.
A glint of yellow light caught his eye from the pouch's mouth.
"Is this...?"
Aldric crouched down. He pulled out a heavy coin, stamped with a lion's head, and bit it. The shallow marks his teeth left in the soft metal made his heart stop.
"It's real gold."
No prankster would leave ten thousand dollars worth of gold in a forest for a joke. This was real.
Aldric sat cross-legged, forcing his racing mind to slow down. The strange dialogue. Westeros. The pain. Had he... transmigrated?
"Oh, so I'm in another world," he muttered. "Like hell I am."
He'd had a perfectly good life. A steady office job, a decent apartment, an electric scooter that got him everywhere, and a five-year-old sister who waited for him to come home. Who would want to trade that for a muddy, medieval death-trap?
If this place needed a "Hero," it meant the place was a nightmare.
"What now...?" Aldric buried his face in his hands. He looked up at the sky. "Um. Whichever god is listening... I think I clicked the wrong button. Could you send me back? I have work on Monday."
The forest answered with silence. Shadows swayed. A large black raven flapped overhead, cawing a mocking, guttural sound.
"Got it," he sighed.
Depressed but practical, Aldric forced himself to move. Crying wouldn't refill his hunger bar. He began inventorying the items.
The "system" had been thorough. There were thirty-one pieces of gear—gorgeous plate, patterned robes, and razor-sharp blades. Multicolored gems reflected the dappled sunlight. Scrolls and crystal vials looked increasingly familiar.
These were the contents of his character's bags.
Heart pounding, Aldric unbuckled his current armor. It was the Lightbringer set—his Paladin's pride. His body felt different, too. His muscles were dense, his senses sharper. The armor, which should have weighed a hundred pounds, felt as light as a winter coat.
"If I'd known I'd bring my gear with me," he wailed to the trees, "I should've farmed the heroic tier shoulders!"
Power was temporary. Transmog was forever.
The good news: this wealth could buy him a kingdom. The bad news: anyone who saw it would probably try to kill him. Worse—he couldn't carry it all.
Food was his immediate crisis. As a tank, he relied on healers and potions. He only had a few hearth-baked pies and some "mystery meat" jerky he'd looted from mobs. Enough for three days.
Find civilization or starve.
He decided to cache the treasure. He found an abandoned bear den—a deep, dry hollow beneath a massive root system. He hauled the equipment inside, used his mining pick to collapse the entrance, and camouflaged the site with stones and brush. He drew a crude map on the back of a Scroll of Strength.
"Please let me find this again," he prayed.
He packed only his primary gear and set off downhill. Following the sound of water, he found a crystal-clear forest stream. He crouched by the bank and caught his reflection.
Black hair. Hardened jaw. Dark, sharp eyes.
"At least I'm not a cow," he whispered, relieved to be human.
He filled a vial, boiled the water over a small fire, and ate a cherry pie. He followed the stream until the sun began to dip below the horizon, where it joined a much wider, swifter river.
Aldric smiled. Rivers meant trade. Trade meant towns.
As night fell, visibility dropped to zero. Exhausted and wary of wolves, Aldric climbed a massive oak and strapped himself to a thick branch.
Above him, the stars were wrong. No Big Dipper. No North Star.
This wasn't Earth.
As he drifted off, his mind felt strange. Memories surfaced with terrifying clarity—ancient poetry, complex political theories, the exact temperature required to smelt dark iron. It was as if his brain had been upgraded into a perfect, searchable archive.
The Photographic Memory skill, he realized. Nice.
His last thought before sleep: This is a great cure for insomnia.
Aldric has entered the world. Would you like to proceed to his first encounter with the locals, or explore his "Grandmaster" skills further?