The hum of the computer was the only heartbeat in the room.
It was an old machine, its cooling fans screaming like a jet engine as it struggled to render the high-definition images on the dual monitors.
In the suffocating darkness of the apartment, the screens provided the only illumination, casting a sickly, flickering blue light over a landscape of utter ruin.
Kobayashi Masaru sat—or rather, was embedded—in a reinforced gaming chair that groaned under his 181-kilogram frame.
His breathing was heavy, a wet, rhythmic wheezing that whistled through a nose perpetually stuffed from poor air quality.
Around him, the "decor" consisted of a staggering collection of plastic waste: crumpled convenience store wrappers, half-empty ramen cups with mold blooming like tiny green forests.
And the infamous "yellow fleet"—dozens of plastic bottles filled with varying shades of dehydrated urine, because the walk to the bathroom felt like a marathon he wasn't prepared to run.
His fingers, thick and slick with the orange grease of generic cheese puffs, moved with a surprising, practiced dexterity across the keyboard.
On the screen, a smut novel was reaching its climax.
The text was lurid, descriptive, and entirely detached from the reality of Masaru's existence.
He was a "gooner," a man who had traded the sun, the wind, and the touch of human skin for the digital dopamine of the infinite scroll.
As the story on the screen reached its "heat moment," Masaru felt the familiar surge of excitement.
He reached for a bottle of lotion nestled between a mountain of used tissues and a stack of expired manga.
His heart hammered against his ribs—not from romance, but from the sheer effort of existing and the thrill of the digital fantasy.
Crack.
The sound was small, like a dry twig snapping.
Masaru didn't notice.
He was too deep in the prose, his eyes darting across words describing a world of beauty and passion he would never know.
CRACK.
This time, a fine dusting of white plaster fell onto his greasy keyboard.
Masaru blinked, his vision blurry.
He looked up, his double chin folding over his chest.
For the first time in weeks, he looked at something other than a screen.
The ceiling wasn't there anymore.
There was no explosion, no thunder, no warning.
The structural integrity of the neglected, rot-infested apartment building simply gave up.
One moment, Masaru was an king of a squalid hill; the next, the world was a crashing weight of gray darkness.
He didn't even have time to scream.
The heavy roof, the flooring of the unit above, and the accumulated weight of a life wasted came down in a singular, crushing blow.
Then, there was nothing. No light, no smut, no grease. Just a cold, silent void.
"Wake up."
---------------------
The voice was cold.
It wasn't the voice of a digital avatar or a roleplay bot.
It was crisp, authoritative, and carried a terrifying weight.
Masaru's eyes snapped open.
He expected to see the white light of a hospital or the flames of hell.
Instead, he saw a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
Behind them were eyes the color of a winter sky—piercing, blue, and filled with a profound sense of loathing.
He tried to move, but his arms were pulled back, tied firmly to the rungs of a heavy wooden chair.
He felt… strange. He didn't feel the suffocating pressure of his own belly.
His chest didn't wheeze.
In fact, he felt incredibly light, as if he had been carved out of stone rather than molded out of dough.
"I will ask you one more time," the woman said.
She was breathtaking.
Blonde hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant bun, and she wore a high-collared dress that screamed of 18th-century nobility—deep blues and silvers, structured and expensive. "Who do you work for, and what were you doing in the Royal Castle gardens at midnight?"
Masaru stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
His brain, still foggy from the sensation of being crushed to death, could only process one thought: She's 3D. And she's beautiful.
"Is… is this the afterlife?" Masaru stammered. His voice sounded different. It was deeper, smoother, lacking the nasal whine of his previous life.
The woman's expression shifted from coldness to genuine confusion.
She leaned back, crossing her arms.
"The afterlife? Do not play the fool with me. You were caught lurking near the Princess's private chambers. You are either a very bold assassin or a very stupid spy."
Masaru's eyes welled with tears. He was convinced. This was it.
This was the Judgment.
"I'm sorry!" he wailed, his voice cracking with genuine emotion. "I'm so sorry for how I lived! I know I was a piece of trash! I'm sorry for the browser history! I'm sorry for the bottles! I didn't mean to be like that, I just… it was easier to stay inside! Please, Goddess, don't send me to the bad place! I'll change! I'll be better!"
The blonde woman stared at him as if he had just started speaking in a forgotten tongue.
She looked over her shoulder toward the corner of the room. "Guard?"
A man in polished silver plate armor stepped forward, the metal clanking softly.
The room they were in wasn't a dungeon; it was an elegant interrogation room with stone walls, velvet drapes, and a gas-burning chandelier that cast flickering shadows.
"Yes, Lady Rosalind?" the guard asked.
"Is it possible the fall from the garden wall scrambled his brains?" Rosalind asked, gesturing vaguely at Masaru.
"He's speaking utter nonsense. 'Browser history'? 'Bottles'? He sounds like he's escaped from a sanitarium."
"He was found facedown in the petunias, My Lady," the guard replied. "He may have hit his head."
Masaru was barely listening.
He was looking down at himself.
His hands were large, calloused, and clean.
He was wearing a white linen shirt with billowy sleeves and dark, fitted trousers.
He could feel muscles—actual, defined muscles—in his arms and core. He wasn't 181 kilograms anymore.
He was… a statue of a man.
"Goddess Rosalind," Masaru sobbed, "I'll do anything. Just don't judge me too harshly. I was a gooner, yes, but I never hurt anyone!"
Rosalind's face contorted in a mask of pure disgust.
"I have no time for this. If he is a lunatic, he is of no use to the Ministry. We cannot hang a man who doesn't even know his own name; it's a waste of rope and paperwork." She turned on her heel, her silk skirts hissing against the floor.
"Untie him and throw him out of the castle gates. If I see him within the walls again, guard, don't bring him here. Just put him in the stocks."
"Wait! Goddess! Don't cast me out!" Masaru cried out as the guard approached with a dagger to cut the ropes.
"Be silent, filth," the guard grumbled, hauling Masaru to his feet.
Masaru gasped. He stood 6'1", towering over the guard.
He felt a surge of strength he had never known, but his mind was still that of a panicked shut-in.
To him, "the castle" was the pearly gates, and Rosalind was the gatekeeper. Being "thrown out" could only mean one thing.
"He's sending me to hell!" Masaru screamed as he was dragged down a long, opulent corridor lined with portraits of stern men in powdered wigs and regal women.
"Please! I don't want to burn! I'm not ready for the pitchforks!"
"Shut up, you madman," the guard hissed, shoving him toward a massive set of oak doors.
The doors swung open, and Masaru was unceremoniously shoved out.
He stumbled, his new, athletic legs catching him before he could face-plant onto the cobblestones.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the smell of sulfur and the heat of eternal damnation.
Instead, a cool, crisp evening breeze hit his face. It smelled of jasmine, woodsmoke, and clean mountain air.
He opened his eyes.
He was standing on a grand stone bridge leading away from a towering, white-stone castle that looked like something out of a dream.
Below him, a city sprawled across the rolling hills, illuminated by thousands of flickering gas lamps and the soft, magical glow of blue crystals embedded in the streetposts.
The architecture was grand—18th-century elegance meet fantasy wonder.
Tall spires, bustling plazas, and the distant sound of a carriage's hooves on stone.
"This… this isn't hell," Masaru whispered, touching his face.
His skin was smooth. He ran a hand through his hair—it was thick, soft, and reached his neck. Silver. He saw a lock of it fall over his eye.
Suddenly, a sharp ping echoed inside his skull.
Masaru jumped, looking around for a speaker, but there was nothing.
Then, a rectangle of translucent blue light shimmered into existence exactly three feet in front of his face.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZED ]
[ Welcome, Tristan Silverbrook ]
Masaru froze. "Tristan… Silverbrook?"
The screen flickered, shifting to a display of text that looked like a character sheet from the RPGs he used to play for twenty hours a day.
NAME: Tristan Silverbrook
RACE: Human
RANK: 1st Circle Mage
CONDITION: Confused / Healthy
STATS:
STRENGTH: 1 / 1000
MANA: 1 / 1000
IQ: 1 / 1000
DURABILITY: 1 / 1000
ESCHATON LEVEL: 1 / 1000
"One?" Masaru muttered, his old gamer instincts kicking in despite the shock. "My IQ is one? That's… that's offensive. And what the hell is an Eschaton?"
He noticed a small, flickering [i] icon next to the Eschaton stat. With a trembling finger, he reached out and "clicked" the air.
The screen expanded.
[ ESCHATON: The Blade of the Final Hour. A weapon of pure light that can be summoned at will. Its power and form are tied directly to the user's level. At Level 1, it is a dagger-length shard. At Level 1000, it is the Sundering of Worlds. ]
Masaru's heart raced. A magic sword.
A new, handsome body. A beautiful city. This was every light novel he had ever read. He was Tristan Silverbrook. He was a hero in the making.
He began to smile, a genuine, wide smile that felt strange on his new face.
"Okay," he whispered, his confidence growing. "Okay, I can do this. I know how systems work. I just need to grind. Slimes? Goblins? Fetch quests? Show me the way to level up."
He scrolled down to the bottom of the screen, looking for the "Experience Points" or "Levelling" tab.
There, in a gold-bordered box, was the requirement for progression.
[ ATTENTION: STAT GROWTH PROTOCOL ]
To increase Stats and Eschaton Level, the user must engage in Sexual Encounters with female partners. Points are awarded based on the target's Social Standing, Magical Prowess, and Genetic Rarity.
Note: Points are only granted for the FIRST successful encounter with each unique individual. Subsequent encounters do not provide Stat increases.
Masaru's smile didn't just fade; it evaporated. He read the text again. Then a third time.
"Sexual… encounters?"
He thought back to his room.
The grease. The lotion. The tissues.
The only "woman" he had spoken to in the last three years was a subscription-based AI named 'Mistress Lexi' who was programmed to call him a 'good boy' for five dollars a month.
He had never held a woman's hand. He had never even had a conversation with a girl that didn't involve a keyboard as a shield.
He looked back at the castle, thinking of Lady Rosalind—the cold, terrifying princess who had looked at him like he was a smear of excrement on her shoe.
She was "High Social Standing." She would probably be worth a thousand points.
She would also probably execute him if he even breathed in her direction.
The weight of the task hit him harder than the roof ever had.
He was in the body of a god, gifted with the weapon of the apocalypse, and the only way to power it was to do the one thing he was pathologically, fundamentally incapable of doing.
Tristan Silverbrook, formerly Kobayashi Masaru, let out a long, slow, rattling sigh that seemed to carry the weight of two lifetimes.
He looked out over the beautiful, hill-side capital of Valdoria, the moon reflecting off his silver hair.
"This," he whispered to the empty bridge, "is definitely worse than hell."