The cold, a gnawing phantom limb, clung to Noah, a stark betrayal of the digital warmth he'd commanded within DragonWar's higher echelons. He wrestled with the VR headset, the smooth plastic a treacherous landscape slick with the icy sweat of pure, unadulterated panic. Each frantic swipe, each desperate tap against the unyielding interface, was a nail hammered into the coffin of his hope. He was trapped. Not in some cleverly designed dungeon, not facing a boss coded with impossible mechanics, but ensnared within the very code, the very soul of the game itself.
The ghost of the game window flickered behind his eyelids, a cruel taunt:
CHARACTER
GUILD
BAG
CHAT/CALL
[Logout… the simplest command, the ultimate escape, he thought, his breath hitching in his throat. Gone. Vanished. Like a phantom limb I can still feel but can no longer control.] A raw, animalistic fear clawed its way up his spine. This wasn't a bug report waiting to be filed. This wasn't a vivid, immersive dream he could jolt himself awake from. This was his new, terrifying reality.
"No… no, this can't be happening," he choked out, his voice a ragged rasp swallowed by the oppressive silence of the digital forest. "There has to be a backdoor. A command. Something!"
Just moments ago, the vibrant, chaotic symphony of Augusto City's marketplace had enveloped him. The air had thrummed with the digital pulse of a hundred players, their avatars a kaleidoscope of fantastical races and gleaming gear, haggling over shimmering potions and artifacts crackling with arcane energy.
"Dorber, you old goat!" he'd boomed, his voice laced with playful exasperation as he leaned across the virtual stall, his level 98 Battle Mage avatar radiating an aura of formidable power. "Ten thousand gold for a Greater Mana Elixir? Last week you were practically giving them away!"
Dorber's digital dwarven beard, meticulously rendered down to individual braided strands, had bristled indignantly. "Demand, lad! Demand! Since the Obsidian Peaks opened, those mana-hungry mages are practically bathing in the stuff!"
Noah had countered with a sly grin, his fingers already dancing across the virtual transaction interface. "Come now, Dorber. We've done business for years. How about… nine thousand? For old times' sake?" He'd eventually secured the elixirs for a slightly reduced price, the thrill of the bargain now a distant, mocking memory. Augusto City, his hard-won perch on the game's 100th floor, a testament to his dedication and skill, now felt light-years away.
Now, the towering, unnaturally verdant canopy of ancient trees pressed in on him, their digital leaves an almost luminous, unsettling shade of green. The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of unseen blossoms and the damp, earthy scent of decaying leaves and pine needles. A primal shiver, colder than any arctic wind he'd encountered in-game, snaked down his spine.
This… this forest… His mind reeled, a chilling recognition dawning within him. The way the sunlight filters through the impossibly dense leaves… the gnarled, almost skeletal branches reaching like grasping claws… the specific pattern of moss on that ancient oak…
He knew this place with an intimacy that bordered on the subconscious. This was the forest bordering Arthur Village. The beginner's zone. The digital cradle where his adventure in DragonWar had begun ten long years ago.
A wave of nostalgia, sharp and poignant as a forgotten melody, crashed over him. He remembered the clumsy, hesitant steps of his first avatar, a wide-eyed human with a perpetually bewildered expression. The thrill of his first, awkward swing of a pixelated wooden sword, the unexpected surge of triumph at the digital demise of his first foe – a comically small, snarling goblin. He recalled the tentative camaraderie of the other fresh spawns, their shared confusion and wide-eyed wonder in this vast, overwhelming world.
"Uh… hi," a shy voice had stammered beside him, belonging to an elf avatar with ears that twitched nervously. "Is… is this how you attack?"
"I… I think so?" Noah's noob avatar had replied, fumbling with the rudimentary controls. "The tutorial was kind of… vague."
"Hey, watch out!" another newbie, a stout dwarf whose digital beard seemed to defy gravity, had yelled, narrowly avoiding a swipe from a particularly aggressive squirrel-like creature. "These things bite!"
A profound longing, a visceral ache for that simpler time, for the innocence before the endless grind, the political machinations of guilds, the relentless pursuit of power, washed over him. He had left Arthur Village behind with a burning ambition, eager to climb the ranks, to conquer legendary dungeons, to forge his destiny as a hero. Now, he was unceremoniously, terrifyingly, cast back into the beginning.
Panic, a venomous serpent, coiled in his gut, constricting his breath. He slammed his fist against the rough bark of a nearby tree, the dull thud a pathetic counterpoint to the storm raging within him. His fingers, now slick with a fresh wave of sweat, scrabbled at the headset, a desperate, futile attempt to rip himself free from this digital prison.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of frantic gestures, the character screen flickered into view, a ghostly, ethereal glow against the oppressive green of the forest. His heart plummeted, a leaden weight dragging him down into the abyss of despair. His avatar, the magnificent level 98 Battle Mage, his digital self a testament to years of dedication and hard-won victories, was gone. In its place, a stark, humiliating reality stared back at him:
NAME: Noah
LEVEL: 1 (0/100)
FACTION: Light
RACE: Human
JOB: No Avaible
BARRIER: 10/10
QI/MANA: No
SKILL: No
"This… this is a nightmare," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It has to be."
A strangled cry escaped his lips. "Darn it all!" he hissed, the sound swallowed by the uncaring trees. Then, a long-dormant memory stirred, a forgotten piece of early game mechanics resurfacing like a message from a distant past: only players level 10 and below could access the first floor, and crucially, at level 3, they gained access to the relative safety and services of Arthur Village.
Level 1… stripped bare, he thought, his mind reeling. But why? What twisted logic could have led to this?
The game creator's design choices, once dismissed as minor annoyances, now felt like deliberate cruelties.
"I remember raging about this back then," he muttered, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "The grind to level 3 felt like an eternity of swatting flies with a toothpick."
He vividly recalled the agonizingly slow accumulation of experience points, the endless, repetitive slaughter of the same few weak monsters.
"Those blasted goblins…" he groaned, a wave of weary frustration washing over him. "They were practically mini-bosses for a level one."
He remembered the countless deaths, the humiliating respawns back at the starting point, the sheer, soul-crushing tedium of those early hours.
And the jobs… the very essence of character progression, locked away until level 3, he mentally cursed. Utterly defenseless. Relying on this pathetic excuse for a weapon.
"It was supposed to teach you patience, resilience," he vaguely recalled a forum post from the game's early days. "But this… this feels less like a lesson and more like a punishment."
A grim determination, born not of ambition but of sheer desperation, hardened his gaze.
Ten years… ten years of mastering intricate spell combinations, of dodging lethal attacks, of leading raid parties through the most treacherous dungeons, he thought, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. That experience… it has to count for something. My knowledge of the game… that's all I have left.
"I know this game," he said aloud, his voice gaining a fragile edge of resolve. "Every hidden path, every monster patrol route…"
He hefted the simple wooden sword that had materialized at his side, a crude, unadorned thing that felt alien in his calloused, experienced hands.
"This… this twig?" he scoffed, a flicker of his old sardonic wit surfacing despite the terror gnawing at him. The familiar weight, however insignificant, offered a tiny anchor in the swirling chaos of his fear.
He moved into the dense undergrowth, his senses on high alert, the cloying sweetness of the air now tinged with a metallic scent he recognized – goblin blood.
"Alright, you little green menaces," he murmured, his eyes scanning the shadows with the predatory focus of a seasoned hunter. "Let's see if you've learned any new tricks in the last ten years."
He would reach level 3. It wasn't a goal; it was a necessity. He would navigate this beginner's zone not with the wide-eyed wonder of a noob, but with the honed instincts and strategic mind of a veteran general forced to fight with a butter knife. He knew his limitations. Even with his vast experience, his current level one stats were pathetic. He could barely handle the weakest of creatures without taking significant damage. He remembered the early struggles all too well. He could only realistically take on goblins around his current level – level one or maybe, at a stretch, level two.
"One hundred experience points for level one, two hundred for level two, and four hundred for level three," he muttered, his mind already calculating the agonizingly slow progress. "Seven hundred total. Level one and two goblins give ten experience. Level three to five give twenty-five. Level six to eight… fifty. Forget the bigger ones for now. Survival first."
He spotted a flicker of movement in the deepening shadows – a pair of beady red eyes glinting from behind a moss-covered log. A low, guttural snarl echoed through the trees.
"A level one or two, please," he whispered, his grip tightening on the wooden sword. He edged closer, his movements silent. The goblin that emerged was small and scrawny, its rusty dagger looking barely capable of scratching paint.
Definitely a level one, Noah assessed.
He moved with a fluid grace that belied his level 1 stats, ten years of reacting to lightning-fast attacks still ingrained in his muscle memory. The goblin lunged, its attack clumsy and predictable. Noah sidestepped it with ease, his wooden sword connecting with the creature's thin frame. A dull thud, and the goblin dissolved into a puff of green smoke, leaving behind a single, tarnished copper coin and a notification: +10 EXP.
"Ten down, ninety to go for level one," he said, his voice flat. "Then two hundred for level two… this is going to be a marathon." He picked up the coin. "And then four hundred more for level three. Seventy goblins at least, assuming they're all this weak."
He pressed deeper into the forest, his senses hyper-alert, now specifically targeting the smaller, weaker goblins. The familiar sounds of the beginner's zone – the incessant chirping of digital insects, the rustling of unseen creatures, the distant snarls – now held a monotonous, frustrating quality. He wasn't just trying to survive; he was locked in a tedious grind he thought he'd left behind a decade ago. The air grew colder, the shadows lengthening, and the forest, once a nostalgic memory, now felt like a suffocating, inescapable treadmill. He had to be meticulous, to avoid any unnecessary damage. His barrier was low, and without any skills or potions, even a few hits from a higher-level goblin could send him back to… wherever level one characters respawned. He didn't even want to think about that.
"Come on, Noah," he urged himself, his pace slow and deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning for the telltale green of his prey. "One at a time. Just keep moving."
The image of Arthur Village, the potential for some semblance of safety and perhaps even a clue to his predicament, remained his only focus. The night was drawing in, and the forest, once a nostalgic memory, now felt like a menacing, inescapable prison. The climb to level 3 had become a desperate, painstaking crawl, and the limitations of his weakened state were a constant, terrifying reality.