A sharp, searing pain jolted me awake, my entire body feeling as if it were on fire. I tried to move, but the agony was overwhelming, pressing down on me, paralyzing me. Memories of the last few moments—no, seconds?—rushed back: the blinding light, the strange message, the whispers echoing in my head. I struggled to open my eyes, my vision blurred, everything around me hazy and unfamiliar.
Slowly, I came to my senses. The first thing I felt was someone's arms around me, holding me in a tight, trembling embrace. When I finally managed to focus, I saw an woman in her 50s with shimmering, tear-filled eyes looking at me, her face mix of worry and relief look at me. Despite her age, she possessed an elegance that hinted at a striking beauty in her youth. Her hands cupped my face, her fingers shaking as if she couldn't quite believe I was there.
"Oh, thank the heavens!" she murmured, her voice rough yet filled with warmth I hadn't expected. "You're awake… I feared we'd lost you this time."
I looked around, trying to take in my surroundings, and noticed an old man standing a few steps away, relief softening his features. His shoulders, once tense, relaxed as he watched us. He wore finely crafted robes embroidered with deep blue and silver patterns—noble clothes unlike anything I had ever seen in real life. He caught my gaze, his expression softening further, as though he, too, had feared the worst.
As the pain dulled to a throbbing ache, I absorbed more of the room. That's when I saw them: several people dressed in pristine white and gold robes, adorned with the unmistakable symbol of the Imperial Holy Church. My stomach dropped, and a chill washed over me. That symbol was a fictional emblem from War of the Last Celestial. The attire, the colors, the insignia—I had seen it a thousand times before, yet here it was, real and right in front of me.
Panic surged within me, but I kept my face calm, masking the disbelief and fear bubbling beneath the surface. This had to be some bizarre dream or hallucination, but everything felt too vivid, too… real.
My eyes drifted past the church members and stopped on another figure. She stood in the doorway, clad in silver and blue armor, her dark purple hair cascading over her shoulders like a storm cloud. Her gaze was sharp, her lips set in a thin line. I recognized her instantly: one of the heroines from the game, the Thunder Empress. In War of the Last Celestial, she was one of the strongest heroine, blessed by God King Indra. Though her blessings were second only to Aiden's in Thunderhart family,In game developer made her both feared and admired. And now, she was standing here, looking right at me. The feeling that I was somehow inside the game world intensified.
"You survived again," she said, her voice calm but tinged with frustration. "Stop embarrassing your family. If you want to die so badly, come to me; I'll help you with that." With a single glance, she dismissed me, turning on her heel and striding out of the room.
Her words left a chill in the air, and I felt the old woman beside me stiffen, a frown crossing her face. The man's expression darkened, and both of them looked at me, studying my reaction as if they expected me to lash out in fury.
But I wasn't angry. My mind was spinning too fast for anger. Instead, I felt something else—a strange sensation like memories surfacing that weren't my own. Blurred images, thoughts, and feelings clashed with mine—memories of a life I'd never lived.
Images of this place flashed in my mind, of the old woman who'd called me "Aiden" more times than I could count, of the Thunder Empress's sharp words, of the insignia of the Holy Church I had both revered and scorned.
With a sinking feeling, I realized these memories belonged to Aiden Thunderhart—the character I had only ever controlled and criticized through a screen. This was his life, his world, and somehow, it was now mine.
The woman finally released me, though her hands lingered on my shoulders. She looked into my eyes, searching for something.
"You… really are alright?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable.
"Yes, Grandma," I replied instinctively, the word escaping my lips before I could think. I felt the connection between us, the love and worry in her eyes that Aiden—no, that I—knew so well.
The old man, whom I recognized as my grandfather from these foreign memories, approached and placed a steady hand on my shoulder. "We feared the worst this time," he said with a sigh. "That was a battle you shouldn't have agreed to; there's a huge gap between you and her."
I struggled to keep my voice steady, aligning the foreign memories with my own reality. "Sorry," I muttered.
They shared a brief, knowing look, as if my words carried unexpected weight. The memories continued to flow, each piece of Aiden's life slipping into place, solidifying into something almost comfortable yet fundamentally wrong.
The whispers of disbelief lingered at the back of my mind, but the longer I sat there, feeling my grandma's warmth and my grandfather's steady hand, the harder it became to cling to the notion that this was just a dream.
This was real. I was Aiden Thunderhart.
---
The first memories I received of Aiden's life were warm ones. As a baby, he was adored, the youngest son in an ancient family of noble heritage and legendary warriors. His older siblings doted on him, bringing him treats they'd snuck from the kitchen and taking him to play in the gardens. For young Aiden, life was filled with love and laughter, and it seemed like it would be that way forever.
But that illusion shattered on the day of his awakening.
It was his seventh birthday, a day meant for celebration. In this world, the seventh year marked a child's awakening—the moment when their inherent abilities and potential were revealed. That morning, dressed in ceremonial clothes, he entered the grand hall filled with family, elders, and his parents—the Duke and Duchess Thunderhart. He could still remember the pride radiating from his grandparents as he stepped forward for the ritual to reveal his potential.
When the results came, however, his world turned cold.
The assessment revealed his rank—a mere C, an average level that barely qualified him as a competent warrior, let alone a powerful leader. His mother and father's faces, once filled with anticipation, shifted to disappointment. His siblings, once so warm, now regarded him with disdain or, worse, indifference. He was no longer the promising young heir; he was a disappointment. The elders' voices offered hollow reassurances, but his parents had already turned away. The rejection from those he loved was clear.
From that day on, Aiden was pushed to the fringes of his family. His parents avoided him, no longer offering the care and guidance they had given his older siblings. His once-protective brothers and sisters barely spoke to him, and his life grew lonely. Only his grandparents and a few elders showed him kindness, often slipping him books, or treats when no one else was around. His grandmother whispered words of love and support, and his grandfather taught him skills beyond typical training—lessons in survival, reminders that he was not alone.
Then, at ten years old, Aiden found a glimmer of hope in someone new—the young saintess of the Holy Church. She was his age, a kind and powerful child who had become a symbol of purity in the land. They met one day in the gardens of the Holy Church, where she treated him as an equal, as if his low rank didn't matter. They shared stories, laughed, and, in time, he grew to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could love him back.
It was a foolish hope, perhaps, but Aiden was desperate for someone's love, for someone who would accept him as he was. So, at fifteen, he proposed to her, bringing a small gift and confessing his feelings. But rather than accept or even reject him kindly, she laughed, her voice ringing with disdain. The kindness he'd imagined vanished, replaced by a cold, cruel stare.
"You think I'd ever want you, someone as worthless as you?" she sneered, and with a single motion, she lashed out, striking him down. Her blows were brutal, the pain so intense Aiden could barely scream. She beat him until his body lay broken, blood staining the ground. He barely survived, lying in bed for months, haunted by the betrayal of someone he had thought was his lover.
But to my shock, his family did nothing, brushing off the attack as a minor incident and only demanded compensation for damage to family name.
In an effort to appease his family, the Church offered an engagement between him and the previous saintess of the church as compensation.