What happened?

  One moment, I was in my bedroom. The next, nothing.

  No light. No sound. No body.

  I wasn’t falling, but I wasn’t standing either. There was no sense of up or down, no weight, no breath. Just awareness, suspended in an endless void, like a thought that had forgotten who was thinking it.

  I tried to move. Nothing happened. The emptiness offered no resistance, no response.

  Am I dreaming?

  The idea came instinctively, but it didn’t sit right. Dreams were messy. Fragmented. They slipped when you tried to grasp them. This wasn’t like that. My thoughts felt… intact.

  My mind scrambled for explanations.

  The cheap beer, maybe? I remembered the green cans stacked carelessly in my room, bought in bulk because of some ridiculous discount.

  …No. Even if I’d gone overboard, this wasn’t what being drunk felt like.

  Panic crept in, slow and insidious.

  I tried to scream, an absurd impulse given that I had no mouth or lungs, yet the urge was there all the same. I pushed against the void with everything I had, pouring desperation into a space that offered nothing in return.

  The panic faded, replaced by something colder.

  If this wasn’t a dream… then there was only one other possibility.

  I was dead.

  The realization settled with cruel clarity.

  What a way to go.

  Dead as a virgin. Alone. Unnoticed. The kind of death that wouldn’t make the news or even disrupt anyone’s routine. Maybe someone would find my body eventually. Maybe they wouldn’t. The thought stung more than I wanted to admit.

  One stupid, mundane regret surfaced uninvited: a message I’d drafted weeks ago and never sent. I couldn’t even remember what it said anymore. Only that I’d thought, I’ll do it later.

  But wallowing wouldn’t change anything.

  If this really was death, then I needed to understand it.

  Was this all there was? An eternity of nothing? Awareness trapped in some cosmic waiting room with no doors, no end, no release?

  The thought threatened to pull me under.

  Then something changed.

  Tiny points of light appeared in the darkness.

  At first they were distant, scattered like stars. Slowly, they drifted closer, glowing softly, warm against the void. As they gathered, the darkness receded, revealing shapes behind the light.

  Six figures stood before me, perfectly aligned.

  Not people.

  Characters.

  Characters I knew better than myself.

  My thoughts froze.

  Dreadspire.

  A wave of memories crashed into me all at once.

  Dreadspire was a single-player roguelike RPG that was brutal, unforgiving, and infamous. It burned bright when it launched twelve years ago, then faded just as fast.

  The reason was simple. It didn’t forgive mistakes.

  Death wasn’t a setback. It was deletion.

  I still remembered my first run, hours of careful progress erased in seconds. The screen hadn’t even bothered with dramatic flair. Just a quiet confirmation that everything I’d built was gone.

  Most players never made it past the third floor.

  And yet… I kept playing.

  Because beneath the cruelty was brilliance. Deep mechanics. Endless build paths. Secrets that rewarded patience and punished complacency.

  It had taken me two years to break past the third floor. Another ten to master everything beyond it.

  The realization struck like a blade.

  Was that it?

  I searched my memory, replaying the last moments before the void.

  As usual, I’d been playing for hours, completely absorbed, when I reached a place I had never stood before.

  A massive golden door.

  The entrance to the final boss.

  I could still see it clearly: ornate carvings etched with ancient symbols, radiating both majesty and dread. I’d hesitated only a moment before reaching out.

  Twelve years. Tens of thousands of hours. Endless failed runs.

  I had finally reached the Tower’s summit.

  My heart had raced with anticipation. Fear, too, but the good kind. The kind that sharpened focus.

  What kind of monster waited beyond that door?

  What instant-kill move would it have?

  I never expected to win on the first attempt. That wasn’t how Dreadspire worked. I just needed information.

  I took a breath.

  “Okay,” I’d murmured. “I’m ready.”

  Then, as I clicked the golden door, an unfamiliar message appeared.

  [Do you wish to proceed?]

  [You may not be able to return]

  That was new.

  But after everything I’d sacrificed to get there, hesitation was pointless.

  I clicked [Yes].

  The screen flickered.

  [Welcome to Dreadspire]

  [Reach the top floor and claim your wish]

  Light erupted across my vision. My head spun violently. Sound vanished.

  Then came silence.

  When I opened my eyes again…

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I was here.

  Somehow, impossibly, I had entered the world of Dreadspire.

  If this were an exhaustion-induced hallucination, it was far too detailed. Too real.

  One question eclipsed all others.

  What happens if I die here?

  Three possibilities surfaced.

  The first, and most hopeful, was I’d wake up in my bed, this entire experience nothing more than an elaborate dream.

  Unlikely.

  The second was that I’d be forced to restart from the beginning, trapped in an endless cycle of death and rebirth until I completed the game. Annoying, but manageable.

  The third possibility chilled me to the core.

  What if death here meant death, for real?

  I pushed the thought aside. Fear wouldn’t keep me alive.

  Survival would.

  If my knowledge still applied, it was my greatest weapon. So I focused on the obvious choice.

  Dragonian.

  Highest base stats. Strongest early game. Safest odds for the lower floors.

  To my surprise, I actually felt myself being pulled toward the dragonian figure. My thoughts raced as I began planning my first moves.

  Deepnest Tunnel.

  With that trick, I could stockpile offerings and uncover the hidden altar. That alone would guarantee a smooth climb to the third floor.

  My heart pounded as I drew closer.

  [WARNING: Insufficient Stats]

  An invisible force slammed into me, hurling me backward.

  What?

  In the game, all I ever had to do was click the damn character.

  I tried again.

  The same result. Each attempt ended with me being tossed aside like a rejected Tinder swipe.

  Fine.

  Human, then. Balanced. Privileged by sheer population alone. The safest fallback.

  [WARNING: Insufficient Stats]

  Another invisible wall.

  Denied.

  My calm cracked.

  I rushed through the remaining races, one after another, desperation bleeding into my thoughts. Each attempt ended the same way: silent rejection, no explanation given.

  My options dwindled until only one remained.

  My favorite.

  And the worst possible starting choice.

  The weakest early game. The least popular race for a reason. Even at Dreadspire’s peak, barely anyone touched it. To my knowledge, no one had ever made it past the second floor.

  No one…

  Except me.

  After countless failed runs, I’d mastered it through sheer stubbornness and unconventional strategies.

  With resignation, I accepted my fate. Anything’s better than being stuck here forever.

  I willed myself forward.

  This time, there was no resistance.

  I slipped into the final figure.

  [Druid Selected Successfully]

  [?????]

  [Soul Capacity: 1

  Vitality: 2

  Strength: 3

  Agility: 3

  Wisdom: 21

  Willpower: 134]

  ***

  I gasped.

  Air rushed into my lungs as sensation flooded back all at once. My body felt stiff and cramped, as if it hadn’t moved in years.

  I reached out blindly.

  My fingers brushed something solid, damp and fibrous, like aged wood. When my hand encountered something softer, thin and membranous, instinct took over.

  I tore through it.

  Light burst through the opening. I squinted, coughing as fresh air filled my chest, crawling forward until I tumbled out into the open.

  “This… is real,” I whispered.

  My voice sounded familiar, yet softer, as if it belonged to someone who hadn’t lived very long.

  I looked down.

  A human-like body, slender and bare. I lifted a hand, fingertips grazing my scalp, then catching on something firm.

  Small, budding antlers.

  The realization stole my breath for a moment. Not fear. Not panic.

  Just a quiet, disorienting certainty.

  Movement came easily, disturbingly so, as if I’d worn this body for years instead of seconds. Thought and motion flowed together without friction. That, more than anything, unsettled me. There was no sense of piloting this form.

  I simply was.

  Clothes lay neatly nearby. I dressed automatically, hands steady even as a tremor worked its way through me.

  Okay. Focus.

  Next, the status window.

  In Dreadspire, it had always been a button press away. A constant. Comforting, even. I reached inward, searching for that familiar pull.

  Nothing.

  I tried again. Concentration. Intent. Even a few awkward hand gestures, half-expecting to feel stupid.

  Still nothing.

  No translucent screen. No numbers. No confirmation that I existed within a system I understood.

  A spike of anxiety pierced my chest.

  Fine. Not now. I’ll figure it out later.

  But the absence lingered, an invisible weight pressing against my thoughts. For the first time since awakening, the possibility settled in fully:

  What if my knowledge wasn’t enough?

  I turned and froze.

  Behind me stood a massive tree. Its curved trunk was ancient and immense, bark etched with faint natural patterns, branches cascading with shimmering leaves that hummed softly with life.

  A Sacred Willow.

  Understanding settled into place. So this was my birthplace.

  Druids weren’t born like humans. They slumbered for ten years within these trees, bodies and minds forming together in slow harmony. When they emerged, they weren’t infants, but self-aware beings, bearing the form and awareness of late adolescent humans. Their long lives were tied to the land itself, stretching centuries for some, sustained by the same forces that nurtured the forests around them.

  As my awareness widened, I noticed more trees.

  Dozens of Sacred Willows surrounded the grove.

  From each, figures emerged. Newborn druids dressed themselves with practiced ease.

  Before I could process it, the grove fell silent.

  Not gradually.

  Instantly.

  The hum of the Sacred Willows faded to a low, reverent whisper. Their shimmering leaves bowed as if caught by an unseen current, and the air thickened, pressing gently against my skin.

  A group of druids approached, their movements precise and practiced. At their center stood a figure whose presence seemed to anchor the grove itself.

  His antlers were vast and intricate, bigger than the rest, branching outward like a living crown. Veins of soft emerald light pulsed faintly through them, each glow slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of the forest. Age lined his face, but it carried no frailty, only patience and authority earned across centuries.

  When he stepped forward, the earth answered him.

  “We have been waiting.”

  His voice was calm, yet it resonated through the grove, not loud, but impossible to ignore.

  “Welcome to Willow’s End.”

  The language was foreign, layered with unfamiliar cadence, and yet… I understood every single word.

  “You stand where every druid begins,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over us, unhurried and measuring.

  A pause.

  “Whether you leave stronger… is not guaranteed.”

  With a subtle gesture, every druid present bowed in unison.

  Only then did I understand.

  This wasn’t merely respect.

  It was instinct.

  “I am Thaloras Galfurion. Archdruid. Keeper of this grove.”

  A faint, almost wry edge entered his voice. “For as long as the forest allows me to be.”

  His eyes settled on us again.

  “You are confused. That is expected,” Thaloras went on, neither harsh nor comforting. “You awaken burdened by questions you lack the words to ask. Do not fear this. Clarity is earned through motion, not stillness.”

  A brief pause.

  “But understand this. Our time together is short. Listen well.”

  His antlers pulsed once.

  “To walk as a druid is not to wield magic for its own sake. We are balance made flesh. When the land suffers, we answer. When it thrives, we endure.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Forget this, and the world will remind you.”

  His words wove a tapestry of lore, each phrase layered with weight. I listened intently, committing every line to memory. I had no choice. In this world, ignorance could mean death.

  Gradually, understanding aligned with what I already knew.

  Nearly everything matched Dreadspire’s lore. Antlers were not mere adornment, but a visible mark of status and authority. And every newborn druid, without exception, was destined for the Tower.

  My pulse quickened. Not with fear.

  With anticipation.

  A familiar excitement stirred in my chest, sharp and undeniable. Before I realized it, a faint smile tugged at my lips.

  “One final truth you must remember,” Thaloras said, his eyes gleaming softly. “A name holds power. The name you choose will shape your path and bind itself to your destiny. Choose wisely. Once spoken, it cannot be taken back.”

  Just like in Dreadspire.

  Druids chose their names upon awakening.

  And I already knew which name would be mine.

  “I believe that is sufficient for now,” the Archdruid said, turning away. “Come. We proceed to the Sanctum of Trials.”

  Finally… time to learn some spells.

  You made it!