I slowly opened my eyes.
The faint scent of hay and dust filled my nose. Wooden beams hung overhead, light filtering through the cracks between them.
A barn?
Why was I inside a barn?
The confusion lasted only a moment before a wave of memories crashed over me — pain, blood, darkness.
I died.
Then… where was I?
And why was I here?
Pushing the rising panic aside, I sat up, wincing at the stiffness in my limbs. My gaze swept the space — rows of horses shifting in their stalls, the faint rustle of straw, the heavy, irritating smell of livestock.
It made me frown. I'd always liked keeping things clean. Even my quarters back in the army were spotless.
I looked down.
A bed of straw. Rough, itchy fabric clinging to my skin. My hands — smaller, smoother, not my own.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
This wasn't my body.
And when I checked my chest and side, there were no wounds. No blood. No scars.
Nothing.
My heart began to race, my body tense, ready for combat instinctively—
Then a sound.
Ding.
A bright blue holographic screen shimmered into existence before me.
Welcome, Player.
"…Player?" I murmured. "As in… a game?"
Before I could make sense of it, the text began to shift, the letters rearranging like living things.
Character Information
Name: Atlas Frest
Level: 0 (17%)
True Name: None
Strength: D
Speed: E
Agility: E
Intelligence: E
Mana: 0
Passive Skills: None
Receptive Skills: None
Spells: None
Store Currency: 10
E? D? What did that even mean?
And "Store Currency"? Could I… buy things?
At the bottom, a glowing tab pulsed faintly — Store.
Curiosity got the better of me. I reached out and tapped it.
The screen shifted again.
Player Store
Skills: Understanding (1), Berserk (1), Visual Replication (2), Detachment (2)
Artifacts: Necklace of Alice (1), Gloves of Suppression (1), Ring of Atlas (2)
Potions: Mana Potion (1), Numbness Potion (1), Healing Potion (1), Resistance Potion (1)
Breathing Techniques: Common (2), Uncommon (4), Rare (6), Legendary (8), Mythical (10), Divine (Locked)
Store Currency: 10
My eyes scanned the list. Skills, artifacts, potions… breathing techniques?
The last one was clearly the most important — expensive and locked at the top tiers.
Potions seemed situational, so I ignored them for now.
"Breathing Technique," I muttered. "Something to cultivate mana, right?"
That mattered most. Everything else seemed to rely on it.
Without thinking further, I purchased the Rare Breathing Technique. Six points gone.
Four left.
I bought Visual Replication and Understanding next — the synergy between them was obvious. If I could see something, I could copy it. And with understanding, I could improve it.
A simple process that would put me above the rest.
When my currency reached zero, the screen flashed again.
You have accepted the terms.
"Terms?" I frowned.
The Player can now gain currency through quests.
Another tab appeared.
Player Quests
Main Quest: Save Stringast from The Seven Calamities. Reward: One wish from the Creator. Penalty: The Player's right to exist will be removed.
Side Quest: Beat up Guillen Frest. Reward: 2 Currency. Time Limit: 1 day.
My eyes widened.
A wish from the Creator?
My chest tightened. If it was the Creator… that meant God.
I could go back.
I could return to my world. Make them all regret it. My parents, the world, every single person who let me suffer.
They'd all see what they'd thrown away.
"Stringast…" I whispered. "The Seven Calamities…"
That name—it struck a chord.
Stringast was the RPG game those three from the army used to play nonstop.
A vast fantasy world set on a continent ruled by the Empire. The Lockstar Empire—nine great houses beneath the royal bloodline. Lords ruling cities, patriarchs commanding armies, an emperor reigning from the capital.
I remembered it vaguely. I never played much. The lore was interesting, sure—but games weren't a luxury I could afford.
But one character always stood out, even to me. The hardest one to play.
Atlas Frest.
My pulse quickened.
Atlas Frest… that's me?
The bastard son of Lord Fredric Frest. The cursed child whose birth killed his mother—the only woman the Lord ever loved. The boy his father locked away, despised, forgotten.
Another terrible father, just like mine.
A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Of course. The universe wouldn't give me a clean slate. It gave me a mirror.
Memories of a night at the army camp surfaced in my mind—
A dimly lit room, three soldiers slouched on a couch, their rifles propped against the wall, faces glowing under the flicker of a TV screen.
"Damn, this is too hard," one groaned, sinking deeper into the cushions.
"Crazy," the woman muttered beside him. "The stronger we get, the smarter the enemies become. They counter everything. It's like they're alive."
The third man smirked. "Didn't I tell you? Masterpiece. Even the lore feels real."
"Let's play again," said the first, fire returning to his eyes.
Then I walked in.
"What are you guys doing?" I'd asked, tired from a briefing.
"A game," the woman replied, holding out a controller. "C'mon, Leon. Try it. You'll love it."
I hesitated. "You remember we have a mission tomorrow, right?"
"Just one round," she said with a grin. "We won't have time after this."
Reluctantly, I sat down.
And there he was on the screen — a fifteen-year-old boy with dark, messy curls, sharp eyes, and a burden far too heavy for his shoulders.
Atlas Frest.
The bastard son, hated by his father, mocked by his peers, feared for his red eyes — eyes said to mirror the demons that had destroyed the Second Continent. The Seven Calamities.
They were gods of this world—watching, waiting, feeding. And the only beings strong enough to oppose them were the Ancient Species: dragons, earth guardians, leviathans, snow titans. But they cared nothing for mankind.
I remembered playing through his story—training in secret, enduring torment, finally surpassing his brother Guillen… only to be executed by his own father.
"Damn," one of my squadmates had said. "Fredric is ruthless."
"The only way to progress is to make him send Atlas to war," another replied.
I had frowned. Sent to war just to survive?
I'd put the controller down. "I've had enough war," I'd said quietly.
The others laughed and kept playing, but I had walked away. I had debts, obligations, a mission.
Now here I was—living the very story I once turned away from.
Inside the body of the boy doomed to die.