The wooden wheels groaned against the dirt road, their rhythmic creaks swallowed by the suffocating silence of the encroaching forest. A faint, distant rustle of leaves added to the unsettling stillness, like the quiet breath of something unseen. The dim, flickering glow of the tar-oil lantern hanging from the carriage swayed with every jolt, barely keeping the surrounding darkness at bay. The night pressed in from all sides, vast and smothering, threatening to consume the fragile sphere of light at any moment.

Inside the carriage, a man slumped forward, his knee bouncing with restless energy. His frame was lean, the subtle hollows of his cheeks contrasting with the pallor of his skin, bruises darkening around his eyes, as though his face had borne the brunt of a recent blow. His dark hair, unkempt and tangled, framed eyes that flickered between exhaustion and anxiety. Once fine clothing clung to his gaunt form, now worn and stained, the fabric creased and dirtied from long neglect.

Severin Hamlet. The name echoed in his mind, heavy with a sense of unfamiliarity, as if it had been carved into his memory, but did not quite belong. It was a name that felt like a stranger's, yet one that clung to him like a forgotten inheritance.

This was the name of the body's original owner, but it was not truly his own. His name was Caedmic. A roguelike enthusiast, he had recently been engrossed in a game called Darkest Dungeon. Lately, he had spent much of his free time on it, carefully planning each expedition, making calculated decisions, and pushing his party forward with growing determination. Until tonight. As he stared at the screen, frustration gnawed at him. His four heroes had fallen, crushed under the overwhelming power of the Ancestor. He had tried—planned, calculated, fought tooth and nail—but in the end, it hadn't been enough.

Then, the screen changed.

A line of text appeared:

"Would you like to start again?"

Below it, two options: YES | NO.

Without hesitation, Caedmic clicked YES.

His vision darkened instantly. A strange weightlessness gripped him, as if the world had been pulled out from under his feet. His pulse pounded in his ears—then, silence. And when he opened his eyes again, he was no longer sitting in front of the computer. He was in a carriage, the wheels groaning beneath him, the dim glow of an oil lantern flickering against the surrounding darkness. His body felt wrong, unfamiliar. His name was Severin Hamlet.

Caedmic, or rather, the man now known as Severin Hamlet. Memories seeped into his mind, bleeding through like faded ink on aged parchment. The life of this body, of Severin Hamlet, unfolded before him—disjointed at first, then gaining shape and weight.

Severin was the heir to a once-successful merchant family in Valmond, born into wealth and privilege. A young man who had spent his days in idle pleasure, indulging in excess made possible by his parents' fortune. He could have lived his entire life in comfort, untouched by hardship, but fate had other plans. Two years ago, tragedy struck. His parents died in a carriage accident, and with their passing, whatever structure remained in his life crumbled. He spiraled, his days consumed by vice and wastefulness, his inheritance dwindling at an alarming rate. Lavish parties, reckless spending, indulgence without restraint—it didn't take long before opulence turned to ruin.When his wealth ran dry, he turned to loans. At first, they sustained his lifestyle. Then they became his noose. The creditors came knocking. When money failed to answer, their fists did.

A few days ago, after another brutal beating at the hands of his debtors, Severin had stumbled back to his now desolate home. Broken, humiliated, and with nowhere left to turn, he found it waiting for him—a letter, lying just beyond the threshold, as if placed there by unseen hands.

This letter arrived from Hamlet, a town he'd never even heard of. And the sender claimed to be his ancestor. 

"Ruin has come to our family. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. Gazing proudly from its stoic perch above the moor. I lived all my years in that ancient, rumor-shadowed manor. Fattened by decadence and luxury. And yet, I began to tire of conventional extravagance. Singular, unsettling tales suggested the mansion itself was a gateway to some fabulous and unnamable power. With relic and ritual, I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long-buried secrets, exhausting what remained of our family fortune on swarthy workmen and sturdy shovels. At last, in the salt-soaked crags beneath the lowest foundations we unearthed that damnable portal of antediluvian evil. Our every step unsettled the ancient earth but we were in a realm of death and madness! In the end, I alone fled laughing and wailing through those blackened arcades of antiquity. Until consciousness failed me. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. It is a festering abomination! I beg you, return home, claim your birthright, and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows of the Darkest Dungeon."

Severin had never known of any such estate, nor did he believe in the horrors described in the letter. And yet, despite the unease curling in his gut, he hesitated only briefly before giving in to temptation.

Inheritance! A way out.

Without a second thought, he sold his last remaining asset—his home—trading it to the very loan sharks who had hounded him. The gold barely covered his debts, but it was enough. Enough to secure a new beginning. With what little remained, he sought out help, using his title as the manor's heir to recruit two mercenaries for the journey. The first was Reynauld, a crusader of bygone days, still clinging to faith like a rusted blade. The second was Dismas, a highwayman—less concerned with righteousness, more with coin. The last of his money went to renting a carriage. A battered, creaking thing, drawn by an aging horse. With nothing left to hire a driver, Dismas had no choice but to take the reins himself, grumbling all the while. After gathering some basic supplies, they set off for Hamlet Town.

And then, earlier this afternoon, as the body's original owner lay in a deep, unguarded sleep, Caedmic took his place.

The flood of memories settled. Caedmic shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He forced himself to stop bouncing his leg, to steady his breathing, to snap himself out of it—but it didn't help. His body still felt restless, his mind still refused to fully accept the truth.

He had crossed over!

This was no longer a game!

He knew this was the world of the game "Darkest Dungeon". A place of suffering, of madness, of horrors lurking in the dark. He knew the curses that festered in its depths, the abominations that prowled its ruins, the gods that answered prayers with cruelty. Here, a blade to the flesh meant real pain. A dagger through the heart meant death.

There were no second chances. No resets.

He knew the story, knew the horrors that awaited him—but what he didn't know was whether he could survive. Whether he could ever return to his own world.

The carriage jolted violently as the wheels clattered over the uneven cobblestone road. Caedmic's thoughts drifted with the rhythm, his mind wandering in time with the rattling frame and the dull thuds of hooves against dirt.

Suddenly—

"Jump! Now!"

Dismas's voice, sharp with urgency, snapped Caedmic out of his thoughts.

His breath caught as a jolt of adrenaline shot through him. His drifting mind slammed back into focus, the weight of reality crashing down all at once.

Caedmic instantly realized—the first battle of the game, the Old Road encounter, was about to begin!