The cart jolted violently, rattling awake. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was seated in a wooden cart, its wheels creaking as it rolled along a dirt road. The air was cold, biting at his skin, and the sky above was a dull gray, heavy with clouds.
To his left sat a man with a rugged face and a fur-lined cloak—Ralof, his mind supplied, though he couldn't recall how he knew the name. Across from him was a woman with fiery red hair and piercing silver eyes. She looked tense, her hands bound like his, but her gaze was sharp, scanning the road ahead.
he blinked, trying to shake off the disorientation. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep at his computer after a long gaming session. The smell of smoke had woken him, and then… nothing. Now, he was here, in a world that felt both familiar and alien.
The cart rolled to a stop, and a soldier barked orders. "Get out! Move it!"
stumbled out of the cart, his legs unsteady. He glanced down at his hands, bound by rough rope, and then at his reflection in a puddle. He was younger—much younger. His face was that of a 17-year-old, with golden eyes and brown hair cut to the end of his neck. His build was medium, not fat but not lean, and he stood at 1.86 meters tall. This was his face from a decade ago, but stronger, more defined.
"You there," the soldier snapped, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Move!"
he followed the others into the village of Helgen. The air was thick with tension, and the sound of distant thunder rumbled overhead. As they lined up for execution, he noticed the woman with red hair standing beside him. Her expression was calm, but her eyes burned with defiance.
---
### **The Execution Block**
The Imperial captain stood before them, her voice cold and authoritative. "Step forward when your name is called. One at a time."
A scribe stood beside her, holding a ledger. He began reading the names:
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
A man with a scruffy beard and a nervous demeanor stepped forward. "I'm not with them! I'm innocent!" he protested, his voice trembling. "I'm not a rebel! I'm just a horse thief!"
The captain ignored him, her expression unyielding. "Next."
The scribe continued. "Edla of…?"
The woman with red hair stepped forward, her silver eyes locking with the captain's. "Edla Cloud-Crow," she said, her voice steady.
The scribe nodded and wrote down her name. "Next."
he hesitated as the scribe turned to him. "And you? What's your name?"
For a moment, Gilgamesh's mind went blank. Then, like a flash of lightning, he remembered. His Skyrim character—the one he had spent countless hours playing as. The name came to him as if it had always been his.
"Gilgamesh," he said, his voice firm.
The scribe raised an eyebrow but wrote it down without comment. "Next."
---
### **The Executions Begin**
The captain gestured toward the execution block. "Step forward, Lokir of Rorikstead."
Lokir's face paled, and he shook his head frantically. "No! Please! I don't deserve this!"
Before the soldiers could restrain him, Lokir turned and bolted, his bound hands flailing as he ran. An archer stepped forward, drawing his bow with practiced ease. The arrow flew true, striking Lokir in the back. He fell to the ground, his cries cut short.
The captain's expression didn't change. "Anyone else feel like running?" she asked, her voice icy.
No one moved. The line shuffled forward, and Edla was next. She stepped up to the block, her head held high. The executioner raised his axe, its blade gleaming in the dim light.
Gilgamesh's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to do something, to stop this, but his hands were bound, and the soldiers were everywhere. He clenched his fists, his mind racing.
Just as the axe began its descent, the ground shook violently. A deafening roar echoed through the valley, and a massive shadow blotted out the sun. Alduin, the World-Eater, had arrived.