The last thing Kaelen remembered was the rain—the grey, relentless drizzle of a city that had given up. It matched the hollow fatigue settled in his bones between student loan rejections and silent family dinners. Twenty-two, buried in debt, utterly alone. He stood on the rooftop not to jump, but because it was the only place the noise of his failure quieted.
Then, the air cracked.
It wasn't a sound, but a sensation—reality snapping. Rain hung suspended. Noise vanished. The world spider-webbed with gold and shattered.
From the glittering hole stepped a god.
Armor of polished dawn, a helmet hiding a constellation shaped like a snarling war-hound, a greatsword of solidified sunlight. Heat radiated from him, prickling Kaelen's skin.
"YOU".
The voice vibrated in Kaelen's marrow. Too empty for fear, he pushed his rain-smeared glasses up. "If you're here to repossess my soul for the student loan default, there's probably a line."
The golden helmet tilted with amusement. "IAM VALERIUS. THE GILDED FIST. AND I HAVE WATCHED YOUR QUIET, BUREAUCRATIC DAMNATION. IT OFFENDS ME."
"Join the club," Kaelen said flatly.
"PRECISELY! SUCH WASTED POTENTIAL FOR STRUGGLE! YOUR SUFFERING LACKED CATHARSIS. IT LACKED STYLE." Valerius boomed. "I COLLECTUNDERDOGS. AND YOU ARE A FINE SPECIMEN. A SOUL BEATEN BY PAPERWORK AND APATHY."
He leaned in, heat making the air waver. "I
OFFER YOU A SWORD. A BATTLEFIELD. A SYSTEM. DIE IN GLORY WITHIN THE HOUR, OR BECOME A LEGEND THAT BURNS THE EYES OF KINGS."
A savage curiosity stirred in Kaelen's gut. "What's the catch?"
"THE CATCH IS THAT I WILL BE WATCHING. AND I HAVE EXCELLENT TASTE."
Valerius's fist clenched and punched the space between them.
The universe folded. Kaelen felt poured through a keyhole, his consciousness stretching, merging, colliding with something else—a fading, feverish awareness, stone corridors, quiet disdain, the name Falken—
---
Cold stone slapped him awake. The scent of mildew and dried herbs. Kaelen gasped, eyes flying open to a narrow bed, a thin blanket, a guttering candle on damp stone walls. His body felt wrong—younger, weaker, aching with sickness.
Flash. Call center headset, fluorescent lights.
Flash. A stern man in fur-trimmed tunic turning from his sickbed in disgust.
The fusion was a jagged weld. Kaelen the modern ghost, and Kaelen the sickly second son of failing House Falken. Memories seeped in: a crumbling tower, Mournhold village, a father's disappointment, an older brother's contempt. A lonely death from fever in this bed… leaving a vacant vessel just as a war-god needed one.
"Saint's mercy, you're awake," croaked old Marta, her face wrinkled with worry. "The fever broke. Though what's left to salvage, the gods only know."
The door banged open.
A young man in chainmail filled the doorway, face sharp with cold arrogance. Ser Jannik Falken. His brother. The memory-ghost supplied the name with a surge of fear.
"Still breathing?" Jannik didn't enter. "A waste of herbs. Get up. Count Vollmar calls his banners. We march within the week. Even you will hold a spear in the back ranks, little brother. Try not to faint."
He left, bootsteps echoing like judgments.
Kaelen sat up, world swimming. The modern part of his mind analyzed: Isekai. Noble family. Disposable second son. Immediate conscription. Classic set-up. A bitter smirk. Even my fantasy is generic.
Then, the air shimmered.
Clean, angular lines of blue light etched a transparent screen into reality, starkly modern amidst the medieval gloom.
[ VIGIL PROTOCOL - INITIALIZING ]
[ HOST: KAELEN FALKEN - SYNCHRONIZATION: 87.4% ]
[ PATRON: VALERIUS, THE GILDED FIST ]
[ DIRECTIVE: QUANTIFIED ASCENSION ]
[ ATTRIBUTE MATRIX ]
STR: 4 (Frailty)
AGI: 5 (Clumsy)
SKL: 3 (Untrained)
IQ: 14 (Analytical)
SOC: 2 (Reviled)
[ SYSTEM MEMO #001 ]
FROM: Vigil Protocol Admin (Valerius)
"WELCOME TO THE ANVIL. NOW, LET US SEE WHAT KIND OF BLADE WE CAN BEAT YOU INTO. YOUR FIRST TRIAL AWAITS IN THE MUSTER YARD. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME."
[ NEW QUEST ]
TITLE: Do Not Die Immediately
OBJ: Survive muster yard training. Last 5 minutes vs. Ser Jannik Falken.
SECONDARY: Land a single hit.
REWARD: 100 XP, Unlock Skill Tree, +1 Attribute Point.
FAILURE: Death. And divine scorn.
Kaelen stared. A system. Clean, quantified. His high IQ—the one thing that never failed him—latched onto the data. He understood numbers, variables. This was a problem he could solve.
Marta helped him stand. Legs trembled, but the stubbornness that got him through night shifts solidified into a cold core. He caught his reflection in a polished shield—a pale, gaunt youth with dark circles. A stranger's face. A new prison.
But a prison with a user interface.
As he dressed in rough-spun tunic, a final, grander screen flashed, brass text burning against blue:
[ THE LEDGER OF GLORY ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 0 ]
[ FIRST ENTRY PENDING... ]
Valerius's voice echoed in his mind, distant thunder: "THE LEDGER IS OPEN, LITTLE GHOST. WRITE YOUR FIRST LINE IN BLOOD OR ASH. I AM WATCHING."
Kaelen Falken, ghost of two failed lives, picked up the rusty practice sword leaning in the corner. Pitifully light. His STR: 4 a cruel joke. His brother waited to humiliate him. A god expected spectacle.
He looked at the system screen defining his helplessness.
A slow, dark smile spread across his young face.
Fine. You want a legend, you golden lunatic? Let's see how the system handles a player who's read the manual.
He walked toward the door, toward the muffled shouts of the muster yard, toward his first glorious, statistically-improbable defeat.
The Ledger awaited its first entry.