"Don't jump! I'll say it again– when the black water spreads, do not jump. Everyone, remove your space bars! Type 1 if you understand! Come on, guys! This is supposed to be a tourist run! Stop being so sloppy!"
On the massive screen, replies flooded the chat box.
"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 the microphone.
"One of you mages didn't remove your space bar. Ten points off. Everyone else, get ready. Buffs up."
Glancing at the clock, Aldric frowned. It was already past eleven at night. Even for a Friday, that was late.
"It's eleven," he added. "One more pull. If we don't get it, we disband and try again tomorrow. Type 1 to agree."
"1"
"Let's clear this boss!"
"Tomorrow works! 11"
Seeing the consensus, Aldric maneuvered his character, a Tauren Sunwalker Paladin marked with a golden cross-star- into position at the center of the Icecrown platform. Once everyone was in place, he hurled an Avenger's Shield straight at Prince Arthas's face.
Five minutes later, a towering zombie summoned by the Lich King smashed him flat.
The world went gray.
A moment later, Aldric's spirit appeared at the graveyard outside Icecrown Citadel. He pressed his massive bull face against the Spirit Healer's thigh, finding comfort in the familiar sight as pale figures materialized one by one around him.
In guild chat, he typed:
"Disband. Same time tomorrow, seven. Eat dinner before joining. No eating during the raid."
Members left the group and logged off in quick succession. Soon, only Aldric remained.
He closed voice chat and opened his bags, reviewing the night's haul.
Friday was guild run night. Because of the loot distribution rules, his inventory was stuffed with unwanted purple items, piles of blue and green gear, and backup equipment. His bags were completely full.
Unclaimed loot defaulted to the main tank- a small perk meant to offset repair costs.
Beyond equipment, there were ores and gems. Every plate wearer dreams of blacksmithing, and this useless junk that couldn't be sold or used was the price of that dream.
There was also gold looted along the way. Not much—just a few thousand.
Added to his savings, Aldric's total came to 325,810 gold, 86 silver, and 25 copper.
"Being main tank is so expensive," he muttered. "Ugh. I don't want to run back. I'll just rez here."
According to World of Warcraft mechanics, resurrecting at the Spirit Healer cost 25% durability. For Aldric, that wasn't a serious concern.
He clicked the dialogue box above the angelic NPC and selected immediate resurrection.
A familiar window appeared—but the text wasn't familiar at all.
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 they change this dialogue?"
Confused, his finger drifted toward Confirm.
As if he'd ever click Decline. Ridiculous.
The moment the button grayed out, stirring music exploded inside his mind. Fragmented memories surged like a tidal wave. Agonizing pain tore through his soul—and then everything went black.
A golden light burst from his body and vanished into the sky.
When Aldric regained consciousness, he found himself standing in sparse grass beneath towering trees.
He looked around, dazed.
A dense forest surrounded him. He was alone and clad head to toe in heavy metal plate armor.
Scattered across the ground were weapons and equipment: armor, robes, swords, shields. In one inconspicuous pile lay shining gems, glass vials, and a leather pouch the size of a backpack.
Golden light glinted from its open mouth.
"This is…?"
Aldric's eyes lit up.
Before thinking further, he crouched down, pulled out a gold coin, and bit it.
The shallow teeth marks left behind made his heart skip.
"…It's real gold?"
No one would invest this much effort into a prank.
This situation wasn't simple.
Sitting cross-legged, Aldric reviewed everything that had happened. The strange dialogue. The mention of Westeros. The pain. The light.
Had he… transmigrated?
"…Oh, so I transmigrated," he muttered. "Like hell."
Damn it! He had a perfectly good life- a job (minor office worker), housing (company relocation apartment), transportation (electric scooter), and family (his five-year-old sister). Who would want to transmigrate to some godforsaken medieval continent?
If this place were actually comfortable, would the task of saving the world fall to him?
Didn't whoever sent him here know his capabilities?
Aldric buried his face in his hands.
"What now…?"
He looked up at the sky cautiously. "Um. Whichever powerful being did this… I think I clicked the wrong button. Could you send me back?"
The forest answered.
Tree shadows swayed. Black birds flapped overhead, cawing loudly. A splash of yellow-green paste splattered onto the ground in front of him.
"…Got it."
Depressed for a moment, Aldric eventually forced himself to calm down.
Begging the heavens was pointless. Crying wouldn't help.
First priority: stay alive.
He began inventorying the scattered items.
Whoever dragged him from Earth had invested heavily.
There were thirty-one pieces of equipment in total, gorgeous metal armor, intricately patterned cloth robes, and sharp, durable blades. Multicolored gems littered the ground, reflecting dazzling light. Scrolls, dried herbs, and crystal vials looked increasingly familiar.
These were… his items.
They were the contents of his Tauren Sunwalker's bags.
Heart pounding, Aldric removed the armor he was wearing and laid it out properly. It was the Lightbringer set—his paladin alt's gear.
His body, too, felt different. Stronger. Lighter. The armor fit perfectly.
"If I'd known I'd transmigrate with my gear," he wailed, "I should've stayed up all night farming those shoulders!"
Power is temporary. Style is forever.
Looking at the treasure pile, his feelings were complicated.
The good news: this wealth could sustain him for a long time. Even selling it as crafts would be enough to survive.
There was also a pouch containing over thirty thousand gold coins.
The bad news: anyone greedy enough to see this pile might kill him for it.
And even worse—he couldn't carry everything.
Food was another problem.
As a main tank, Aldric rarely stocked food. Buffs weren't as strong as potions, and health restoration was a healer's job.
On the ground were only a few drumsticks, pies, and some cans of "mystery meat" he'd picked up while looting trash mobs.
Enough for three days.
Meaning: find food or starve.
After less than two minutes of thought, Aldric decided to hide most of the items and search for civilization.
First, water.
Half an hour of searching led him to an abandoned bear den—a deep, wide cavity dug into the earth.
After confirming it was empty, Aldric hauled the unused equipment inside bit by bit. Then he collapsed the earth above it with his mining pick, buried everything, and camouflaged the site with stones and vegetation.
He marked the location only with a crude map drawn on the back of a strength scroll.
Looking at the abstract lines, Aldric sighed.
"Please let me find this again…"
He packed only essentials and set off.
Following survival instincts—and common sense—Aldric headed downhill until he found a small forest stream.
He crouched beside it and studied his reflection.
Black hair. Black eyes.
"…At least it's not a cow face."
Relieved, he filled an empty potion bottle with water, boiled it over a small fire, cooled it, and ate a cherry pie while drinking.
Then he followed the stream.
As the sun set, the stream joined a wider river.
Aldric smiled for the first time that day.
Night fell. Visibility dropped. Exhausted, Aldric climbed a large tree near the river and slept against a thick branch.
Above him, unfamiliar stars glittered.
This wasn't Earth.
As he drifted off, memories surfaced—clear, vivid, complete.
Ancient poems. Political theory. Forging techniques.
It was as if his mind had become a perfect archive.
"…Nice," he murmured.
His last thought before sleep:
This skill is pretty good for curing insomnia.