Cold stone.
That was the first thing Ethan Black felt—raw, unfiltered, biting cold seeping straight into his palm like the world had decided to remind him it had weight. Not the polite numbness of a desk, not the familiar grain of wood, not the synthetic chill of plastic or metal. This was stone. Ancient. Unforgiving. Real enough that the nerves in his hand screamed their protest before his thoughts could catch up.
"…What the hell—?"
He sucked in a sharp breath, more out of surprise than pain, and pushed himself upright.
For half a second, his brain refused to cooperate. Muscle memory insisted he should feel the edge of his gaming chair, the faint wobble of one wheel that never quite rolled straight. His left hand twitched instinctively, expecting the keyboard. His right shoulder tensed, waiting for the familiar resistance of a mouse pad.
Instead, his boots scraped against the floor with a sound so crisp and solid it echoed.
Stone on stone.
Ethan blinked once. Then again.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh?" he muttered, voice low, amused. "Okay. Full-dive, huh?"
He laughed softly, rubbing his palm against his thigh as if testing the sensation. The cold lingered. The texture lingered. No fading, no artificial dampening. If this was a dream, it was already breaking all the usual rules.
"About damn time the haptics caught up," he added, tone light. "Fifteen years for this kind of feedback? You guys really milked the budget."
He stood.
And froze.
There was no delay.
No fractional hitch between thought and movement. No subconscious expectation of latency that his brain had grown used to over years of gaming—years of controllers, keyboards, VR rigs that always, always had that imperceptible pause.
This was instant.
Perfect.
His body moved because he wanted it to, not because a system interpreted an input.
That alone should have unsettled him more than it did. But Ethan had spent fifteen years alone in a game that rewarded obsession and punished hesitation. His instincts didn't jump to fear.
They jumped to curiosity.
His eyes finally lifted.
The Guild Hall unfolded around him like a memory sharpened into a blade.
Towering black pillars rose into darkness, their surfaces etched with patterns he recognized down to the smallest curve. Not procedurally generated nonsense. Not randomized assets. These were his designs—every groove, every line drawn by hand years ago during sleepless nights fueled by cheap coffee and stubborn perfectionism.
Banners hung between the pillars, heavy and unmoving, each bearing the sigil of the Black Guild: an abstract, jagged crest that looked like a crown cracked down the middle. He remembered tweaking that design for three days straight because the symmetry felt "too polite."
At the far end of the hall stood the throne.
Ethan's breath caught despite himself.
He had seen it a thousand times on a screen. From fixed camera angles. From zoomed-out tactical views. From static menus and mock-ups. It had always been impressive.
It had never been this.
The throne was massive, carved from obsidian-black stone that drank in the light. Its edges were sharp, angular, deliberately hostile—less a seat than a declaration. Dark metal veins ran through it like frozen lightning, pulsing faintly, as if something inside it was breathing.
"This is…" he murmured, trailing off.
The realization slid into place quietly, without drama.
This wasn't a variation.
This wasn't an update remix.
This was exact.
Not "accurate." Not "faithful."
Exact.
Every measurement. Every proportion. Every deliberate asymmetry that only existed because he'd made it that way.
Ethan exhaled slowly through his nose.
"…Okay. That's actually impressive."
He turned his head, scanning the hall more carefully now. The light sources were subtle—no visible torches, no glowing crystals in obvious places. The illumination came from nowhere and everywhere, a soft, oppressive glow that emphasized shadows rather than banishing them.
Again, exactly as he remembered designing it.
His amusement dimmed, just a notch.
Out of habit, his gaze flicked to the corners of his vision.
Nothing.
No UI.
No minimap.
No floating notifications or system text.
He frowned.
That was new.
He raised a hand experimentally, half-expecting a translucent menu to snap into place. When nothing happened, he snorted.
"Alright," he said aloud, voice echoing naturally through the vast space. Not digitally processed. Not compressed. Real echoes, bouncing off pillars and fading into the distance. "Hardcore immersion mode. I see you."
He rolled his shoulders, listening to the soft creak of leather and fabric. He hadn't noticed his clothes before, but now he looked down.
Black coat. Long. Tailored perfectly to his frame. Subtle embroidery along the cuffs, almost invisible unless the light hit it just right.
Guild Master attire.
He'd designed that too.
"Nice touch," he muttered. "At least you didn't cheap out on the drip."
Still, the lack of UI nagged at him. Even experimental modes had something. A system prompt. A disclaimer. A blinking warning about beta instability.
This? This was silent.
Ethan lifted his arm and pinched himself hard.
Sharp pain flared instantly, bright and clean—and then stayed.
He hissed, releasing his grip and shaking his hand.
"…Ow."
The sting didn't fade after a second or two. It didn't dull into a vague pressure the way dreams did. It remained, persistent enough to demand attention.
His smile thinned.
"Okay," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "That's a little excessive."
He took a step forward, boots striking the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoed again, layered and natural, each footstep distinct.
Another step.
Another echo.
As he moved, something subtle shifted.
The air changed.
It wasn't visible, not exactly. More like the space itself adjusted—like a massive structure settling its weight differently. The sensation crawled up his spine, instinctual and immediate.
Ethan stopped mid-step.
The Guild Hall… responded.
The pillars seemed to lean, just a fraction, their shadows stretching toward him. The light dimmed and brightened in slow pulses, synchronized not to any visible source, but to him.
"…Huh."
His gaze snapped to the throne.
Without thinking, he walked toward it.
With each step, the pressure in the air increased—not oppressive, not painful, but aware. Like entering the personal space of something enormous that had only just noticed you existed.
He reached the base of the dais.
The throne loomed above him now, impossibly large, its surface etched with sigils that began to glow faintly as he approached.
Ethan froze.
The sigils weren't activating like a system effect.
They were… acknowledging.
Dark light traced the carvings, flowing smoothly, almost lazily, before sinking back into the stone as if satisfied.
No pop-up appeared.
No confirmation window.
No Welcome, Guild Master message.
The throne simply… accepted him.
Ethan let out a short laugh.
"Wow," he said. "No tutorial either? Bold."
He climbed the steps and dropped into the throne with casual familiarity, one arm draped over the armrest, posture relaxed to the point of disrespect.
The moment he settled, the hall exhaled.
That was the only way he could describe it.
A deep, resonant shift rippled outward, like a massive beast finally settling after recognizing its rider. The pillars straightened. The shadows stabilized. The air became still.
Ethan blinked.
"…Okay," he admitted quietly. "That was new."
Something pressed gently behind his eyes.
Not pain.
Awareness.
It felt like standing in the center of a room filled with people who weren't looking at him—but were absolutely listening.
His fingers tightened against the armrest.
For a split second, memories surged unbidden.
Fifteen years.
No guildmates.
No alliances.
No wipes.
No resets.
Just him.
Him and monsters the world had forgotten.
Hours spent tweaking spawn rates. Days balancing evolutions. Weeks designing a realm no one else would ever see. Conversations typed into empty guild chats that no one replied to. Jokes made for an audience of zero.
He'd told himself he liked it that way.
He laughed, shaking his head as if to dislodge the strange tightness in his chest.
"Damn," he said. "You guys really went all in on memory simulation, huh?"
The pressure behind his eyes receded slightly, as if… disappointed.
Ethan didn't notice.
He leaned back, stretching, completely at ease despite everything.
"Well then," he said casually, voice carrying easily through the hall. "If we're doing this…"
He tilted his head and called out, tone light, almost playful.
"Alright, Alfred. If you're loaded, come say hi."
The words didn't echo.
They traveled.
Not through air—but through the space itself.
Something deep within the hall stirred.
Not footsteps.
Not movement.
A response.
Ethan's smile faltered—just a fraction.
"…Huh," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "That loaded faster than I expected."