A dull ache throbbed in Dikun Silver's head, the pounding echoing through his skull like a war drum. The bitter taste of dirt lingered on his tongue as he stirred, his body half-buried in the tall grass. Warm sunlight filtered through the pale blue sky above, and the distant cry of crows rang across the plains.
Groaning, Dikun rolled onto his back. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling as he fought off the haze clouding his mind. He felt the rough fabric of a coarse tunic against his skin, its fibers irritating his arms. His fingers brushed the earth, feeling the dampness of the morning dew.
"Where… the hell am I?"
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the glaring sun. Blurred shapes slowly came into focus — the endless plains of golden grass, a dirt road winding through it, and in the far distance, the faint silhouette of jagged mountains. There were no skyscrapers. No cars. Only the vast emptiness of an untamed land.
Panic flickered within him. He pushed himself upright, his legs trembling as they struggled to support his weight. His head spun. The memories were fractured — echoes of laughter, the glow of a computer screen, the battlefield cries of men and horses. Bannerlord. The name resounded in his mind like a drumbeat.
The game.
"No," he whispered, the absurdity crashing over him. "That's impossible."
He staggered forward, his eyes darting to his own hands. Calloused and rough. The veins beneath his skin pulsed with warmth. There was no keyboard. No mouse. Only his trembling fingers stained with dirt. He glanced down, noting the patched brown tunic he wore. A cracked leather belt cinched his waist, and a pair of worn-out boots barely held together at the seams.
His gaze shifted, catching sight of the objects scattered nearby — a wooden shield, battered and splintered, and a dull, rusted sword. The crude craftsmanship was unmistakable. Vlandian. A basic arming sword, the kind used by militia or low-ranking recruits.
Dikun's heart pounded. He backed away, struggling to make sense of it all. "This isn't real. It can't be."
But the breeze that stirred his hair and the distant smell of smoke told him otherwise. Every sensation was vivid — the soreness of his body, the weight of the sword when he lifted it, the dry earth beneath his boots. There were no glowing UI elements. No health bars. No quick saves.
This isn't a game anymore.
A tremor ran through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing his panic into submission. Stay calm. Think. Years of military training surged in his mind, reminding him to assess before reacting. His eyes swept the landscape. Rolling plains stretched endlessly, with patches of trees scattered along the horizon. A dirt path carved its way through the grass, leading westward.
"Calradia," he murmured. The word felt foreign and yet achingly familiar.
He had spent countless hours conquering this world. He knew its regions, its factions, its rulers. The Western Empire, the Khuzaits of the steppes, the battalions of Sturgia. Every village, every mountain pass — burned into his memory. But knowing a map was one thing. Surviving it was another.
A low groan escaped him. "Why me?"
No answer came. Only the sound of the wind.
---
The Weight of Reality
Minutes passed as Dikun gathered himself. He checked his body for injuries — a few bruises, but nothing severe. He tested his arms and legs. The stiffness faded, replaced by a gnawing hunger. A quick search of his belt pouch revealed three copper coins and a stale piece of bread. Barely enough to last a day.
"Perfect," he muttered bitterly.
He knelt beside the discarded sword, running his fingers along the dulled edge. The blade was chipped and rusted, but functional. Not that it reassured him. In the game, weapons had stats — numbers that dictated damage and durability. Here, all he could rely on was what he felt.
The shield was no better. The wooden surface bore cracks, and the leather bindings were loose. It might block a few strikes before splintering. He sighed, fastening it to his left arm and gripping the sword tightly. The cold metal was a sharp reminder of what survival would mean.
"First step," he said to himself, his voice steadying. "Find shelter. Food. Water."
And figure out how to survive in a world where death was permanent.
---
A Distant Threat
The sound of hooves shattered the stillness.
Dikun's body tensed, instincts kicking in as he spun toward the noise. Dust rose from the dirt path. A group of riders approached, their silhouettes growing larger. Four of them, clad in ragged leather, with rusted weapons slung across their backs.
"Steppe Bandits," Dikun muttered.
He recognized them instantly. They were the vultures of Calradia, preying on weak villagers and travelers. In the game, they were manageable enemies — a mere inconvenience. But here, they were flesh and blood. Real men with twisted smiles and the gleam of greed in their eyes.
And they had seen him.
"Oi!" one of them bellowed, pointing in his direction. "Ain't this our lucky day?"
Dikun's grip tightened around his sword. His mind raced. Four against one. No armor. A cracked shield. He knew the odds. Bandits were cowards at heart, but cornered prey only invited mockery and bloodshed.
"Easy now, friend," the lead bandit sneered, pulling his horse to a stop. "No need to run. We only want a bit of what you have."
"And if I don't?" Dikun growled.
The bandits laughed, the sound grating. "Then we'll take it."
Dikun's thoughts churned. In the game, you'd just load a save. But here… there's no second chance.
He took a slow step back. The forest loomed behind him. Thick trees, dense underbrush. Horses couldn't maneuver well in there. He could use that.
"Run."
The command echoed in his mind. Survival. He spun, sprinting into the woods without a second glance. Twigs snapped beneath his boots as he pushed through the undergrowth. The bandits cursed and gave chase, their horses crashing through the edge of the trees.
But Dikun knew this world. Every moment of gameplay had been a lesson. Steppe Bandits lacked discipline. They relied on intimidation and speed, not tactics. The forest robbed them of that advantage.
"Come on," he snarled, weaving through the trees. He could hear the heavy breathing of a rider behind him, the clang of weapons shifting.
Dikun's muscles burned, his lungs screaming for air. But ahead, a narrow ravine came into view — a steep drop, with loose rocks scattered along its edge.
Perfect.
He slowed just enough to bait the rider closer. The bandit, blinded by the thrill of the chase, roared and swung his sword. Dikun ducked, the blade whistling past his ear. With a final push, he sidestepped and kicked the loose stones beneath his feet.
The ground gave way. The bandit's horse reared, its hooves scrabbling for purchase. Dikun caught a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes before both rider and mount tumbled into the ravine.
A sickening thud echoed below.
Dikun's chest heaved. His hand clenched around the sword. One down. Three remained.
And in this brutal world, survival had only just begun.