The first thing Aamon registered was the smell. It wasn't the suffocating, metallic stench of rotting vegetation and damp earth that had filled his final conscious moments. Instead, it was the sharp, sterile bite of antiseptic, bleached cotton, and the faint, chemical tang of ozone.
The second thing he registered was the blinding, bruising headache pulsing directly behind his eyes. It wasn't just a physical ache; it felt as though someone had taken a crowbar to his skull, pried it open, and forcefully shoved an entire encyclopedia's worth of data directly into his cerebral cortex.
He groaned, a dry, raspy sound that tore at his throat, and slowly fluttered his eyes open.
A stark white ceiling greeted him, illuminated by the harsh, artificial glare of fluorescent lights. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision. He was lying on a crisp, somewhat rigid mattress. The soft, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of a heart monitor echoed in the quiet space.
I'm alive, was his first coherent thought. I must've been rescued.
A wave of profound, bone-deep relief washed over him, so intense it made him feel physically light. He let his head loll to the side, taking in the standard private hospital room. Pale blue curtains were drawn half-shut over a large window, high-end medical equipment was neatly arranged by the bedside, and an IV drip fed clear fluid into a vein on the back of his left hand.
But as the relief settled, the avalanche of memories finally broke free, crashing into his conscious mind with dizzying force.
He remembered everything.
He remembered the life-crushing meeting at Nexus Interactive Studio. He remembered the bleak, dimly lit confines of his apartment, the taste of stale ramen, and the glowing monitor displaying the final, glitching screen of Arcane Frontier. He remembered the bizarre message he had encountered when playing the last level of the game, holding down the power button on his PC, and falling into a dreamless sleep.
And then, the impossible. Waking up in the emerald hell of an Unstable Spatial Rift, staring down three E-rank Wood Trolls with zero mana and a body that felt completely alien.
But it wasn't just his memories assaulting him. It was a second set of memories, entirely foreign yet intimately familiar, layering perfectly over his own like two transparencies aligning on a projector.
He was Aamon Maverick. But he was also Aamon Maverick.
The boy whose body he now inhabited was a seventeen-year-old orphan scratching out a living in District 4 of Solmire City, the sprawling, fortified metropolis that served as the primary hub for the game's first act within the Aurelion Republic. The original Aamon had led a tragically mundane life. He lived in a cramped, subsidized apartment, attended the local public high school as an eleventh grader, and worked grueling part-time shifts at a convenience store just to afford synthesized nutrient packs and electricity.
The memories of the previous night played out in his mind, sharp and horrifying. The original Aamon had been walking home from his shift in the pouring rain, taking a shortcut through a narrow, neon-lit alleyway. Suddenly, the air pressure had dropped violently. The fabric of reality in the alley had rippled, fracturing like a shattered mirror.
An Unstable Spatial Rift had spawned directly on top of him.
The unawakened human body is simply not built to withstand the raw, unfiltered radiation of an Unstable Rift.
The moment the original Aamon was pulled into the emerald twilight of the forest biome, his respiratory system began to fail. The overwhelming density of the ambient arcane energy forced its way into his lungs, essentially drowning him in magic. His heart, unable to process the sudden, violent mutation, had given out. The boy had died in the mud, terrified and alone.
And in that exact fraction of a second, across the boundaries of reality, a disgruntled game developer from Earth had slipped into the empty vessel.
"Excessive arcane exposure," Aamon whispered, his voice cracking. He rubbed his temples, feeling the slight dampness of a cold sweat on his forehead. "The system forced an awakening to stabilize the body, but the soul couldn't handle the reboot. So I took the wheel."
It was a grim realization, but Aamon didn't have the luxury of mourning a boy he had technically just replaced.
He was in Arcane Frontier. A world where humanity constantly teetered on the edge of extinction, besieged by monsters, cosmic horrors, and corrupt corporate syndicates wielding magical weapons of mass destruction.
If I want to survive long enough to figure out why I'm here, I need to understand my loadout, he thought, his gamer instincts rapidly overriding his existential dread.
In this world, upon awakening, every Arcanist gained access to a personal System Panel. It was a manifestation of their soul's connection to the arcane network permeating the planet. It was entirely private; no one could see another person's panel unless they possessed a highly specialized, and extremely rare, information-gathering skill.
Aamon closed his eyes, focused on the faint, vibrating warmth in the center of his chest—his newly formed arcane core—and willed the interface to appear.
Ding.
The crisp, synthesized chime echoed in his mind, and he opened his eyes. Hovering roughly two feet above his hospital bed was the translucent blue interface.
[ Name: Aamon Maverick (Awakened)
Talent: Hidden Player (Epic Grade)
Class: ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽
Level: F-Rank
Traits: System Interface, Map Sensitivity, Clutch, Gaming Sense
Skills: Frame Lag, Technical Glitch, Spectator Mode, Replay Value, Exclusive Avatar, ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽, ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽, ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽ ]
Aamon stared at the glowing blue text, dissecting it with the meticulous, calculating eye of a lead beta-tester. Last night, in the panic of the forest, he had only skimmed his abilities. Now, he needed to analyze them deeply.
He mentally selected his Traits, expanding their descriptions.
[ Trait: Clutch ]
[ Description: When the user's life is in imminent danger, or when subjected to extreme psychological stress, the user's base physical stats (Agility, Endurance, Strength) are temporarily boosted by 200%. Adrenaline production is optimized to prevent bodily damage from overexertion for a limited duration. ]
"No wonder," Aamon muttered, letting out a long breath.
He had wondered how an unawakened, malnourished teenager had managed to outrun three E-rank Wood Trolls for even a minute. The original body was weak, its muscles underdeveloped from a diet of cheap ramen and constant fatigue. It was Clutch that had kept his legs moving, overriding the lactic acid and forcing his body beyond its biological limits just long enough to activate Spectator Mode.
He shifted his focus to the next trait.
[ Trait: Gaming Sense
Description: Grants the user an unnatural psychological detachment during high-stress scenarios. Panic, fear, and emotional interference are heavily dampened, allowing the user to process environmental data and formulate optimal strategies with the cold clarity of a player observing a game from behind a screen. ]
Aamon felt a profound sense of gratitude toward whoever, or whatever, had designed his talent. Gaming Sense was the reason he hadn't frozen in terror when the Wood Troll's grotesque face was literally clipping through his ethereal shoulder. If he had panicked, his focus would have broken, Spectator Mode would have shattered early, and he would have been torn to bloody ribbons.
"It literally forces me to treat reality like a video game," he mused. "Psychologically protective, but potentially sociopathic. I'll take it."
He then looked at his Class.
[ Class: ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽ ]
Eight blank squares. A hidden class. In Arcane Frontier, the meta was defined by the nine standard classes: Warrior, Magician, Guardian, Marksman, Assassin, Beastmaster, Summoner, Healer, and Artificer. Every single piece of gear, every skill book, and every guild recruitment flyer in the world was tailored to those nine archetypes.
To have a hidden class was both a blessing and a curse. It meant his growth trajectory was entirely unknown, unmapped by the world's academic institutions. But it also meant he possessed abilities that defied conventional counter-measures.
Eight letters, Aamon noted, counting the squares. Magician has eight letters. Guardian, Marksman, Assassin, Summoner... they all have eight letters. The system is censoring the actual name, but maintaining the character count. If anyone asks, I can claim any of those eight-letter classes to explain the redaction length if they happen to have an appraisal skill or item.
Deep in thought, calculating the optimal way to farm F-rank spatial rifts without drawing the attention of the major corporate guilds, Aamon didn't immediately notice the sound of the doorknob turning.
He dismissed the panel with a mental flick mere seconds before the heavy composite door to his hospital room pushed open.
Three individuals stepped into the room.
The first was a standard hospital doctor—an older man with a stethoscope draped around his neck, name plate on his coat, looking intently at a digital tablet he carried.
But Aamon's eyes immediately locked onto the other two. His breath hitched slightly, his heart giving a small, involuntary stutter.
Standing right there, in the flesh, breathing and moving, were two characters he had spent hundreds of hours interacting with on a flat monitor.
The first was a girl who looked to be exactly his age. She wore an immaculate, pristine unifork—a sharp, dark navy blue blazer with silver trim, a pleated skirt, and a crisp white blouse. Her hair was a cascade of thick, wavy black locks that framed a face of striking, almost delicate beauty. But what gave her away entirely were her eyes. They were a vivid, unnatural shade of amethyst purple.
Seraphine Blackwood. The quintessential NPC-guide and canonical companion to the game's Warrior main playable character. In the game's lore, Seraphine was a brilliant, pragmatic Healer who guided the protagonist through the convoluted missions of the city's underbelly. She had a sharp tongue, exceptional utility, and one defining quirk—she was incredibly, ruthlessly greedy. She charged the protagonist for everything, especially healing.
Beside Seraphine stood a woman in her late twenties who exuded an aura of sharp authority and seasoned competence. She wore a tailored black tactical shirt underneath a pristine white coat, the hem of which swished sharply as she walked. Dark sunglasses rested atop her auburn hair, which was pulled back into a severe ponytail. Pinned to the lapel of her coat was a silver badge shaped like a compass rose intersecting with a stylized eye.
The crest of the ARIES Bureau—the Arcane Rift Investigation and Emergency Surveillance Bureau.
Agent Myra Elswright. A high-ranking field operative known for her unparalleled tracking abilities in the game. Her powers and specialty is irreplaceable and highly-valued by the ARIES Bureau.
They're real, Aamon thought, his hands gripping the white bedsheets tightly to ground himself. It's one thing to know I'm in the game. It's another entirely to see the 3D models of those NPCs breathing right in front of me.
Instinctively, Aamon willed his third trait into action. System Interface.
In the game, viewing another character's stats required the player to cast the active skill Identify. It cost a significant amount of mana, had a cooldown, and if the target possessed a higher rank or strong mental defenses, the skill would fail and alert them to the intrusion.
But System Interface was a trait. Traits were passive. They operated completely outside the realm of active arcane energy usage.
They cost zero mana, had no cooldown, and generated absolutely zero arcane fluctuations. It was an information-gathering tool that fundamentally broke the rules of the world's magic system.
Without a single spark of energy leaving Aamon's body, two distinct, translucent blue panels materialized in the air beside Seraphine and Myra.
Aamon kept his face perfectly neutral, a confused, groggy expression painted on his features as his eyes rapidly scanned the data hovering invisibly beside the two women.
[ Name: Seraphine Blackwood
Talent: Poisonous Beauty (Unique Grade)
Class: Healer
Level: E-Rank
Traits: Toxin Assimilation, Liquid Synthesis, Poison Perception
Skills: Noxious Touch, Purifying Cleanse, Vitality Injection ]
Aamon's mind raced, analyzing her profile. Poisonous Beauty. It was a paradoxical talent for a Healer. Her trait, Toxin Assimilation, allowed her to absorb any poisonous or healing liquid into her body without harm. Liquid Synthesis allowed her to biologically recreate those liquids using her mana, essentially turning her own body into a limitless potion factory, provided the liquid didn't exceed her unique-grade limits. Her skills were a perfect balance for a support of her caliber and talent. First the Noxious Touch to poison enemies, then Purifying Cleanse to detoxify allies, and lastly, Vitality Injection to rapidly heal wounds. One could say she was the ultimate survival support.
He shifted his gaze slightly to read the agent's panel.
[ Name: Myra Elswright
Talent: Star Teller (Unique Grade)
Class: Guardian
Level: B-Rank
Traits: Astral Resonance, Stellar Navigation
Skills: Constellation Tracking, Aura Trace, Aegis of the Stars, Meteor Vigor ]
A B-Rank Guardian, Aamon noted, slightly intimidated. In the early stages of the game, a B-Rank was a legitimate powerhouse. Her talent, Star Teller, made her the ultimate search-and-rescue operative. Constellation Tracking and Aura Trace meant that once she had a scent or a mana signature, you could not hide from her. Aegis of the Stars provided massive, localized shielding, while Meteor Vigor was a potent area-of-effect buff that boosted the stamina and defense of her allies.
"Mr. Maverick," the agent spoke, her voice smooth but carrying a weight of command that snapped Aamon out of his UI-reading stupor. She stepped forward to the foot of his bed, her sharp gaze assessing him. "It is good to see you awake. I am Agent Elswright of the ARIES Bureau."
Aamon blinked, playing the part of the bewildered teenager perfectly. "ARIES... The rift surveillance guys? Wait, how did I get here? The last thing I remember was..." He feigned a shudder, his breathing quickening slightly for effect. "The forest. The monsters."
Agent Elswright's expression softened just a fraction. "You experienced a spontaneous, unstable spatial rift generation. It is an exceedingly rare and unfortunate event. But more importantly, you survived it. Your quick thinking to dial the Bureau's emergency hotline, despite the chaotic arcane interference of an unstable rift, allowed my team to lock onto your localized spatial coordinates and extract you."
She paused, crossing her arms over her chest. "The extraction team found you unconscious, your arcane reserves completely depleted, in a clearing filled with the footprints of three Wood Trolls. The fact that you managed to evade them as a newly awakened, unranked civilian is nothing short of miraculous."
"I... I awakened?" Aamon asked, widening his eyes in feigned surprise, looking down at his hands.
"You did," Seraphine chimed in. Her voice was melodic, with a crisp, educated enunciation. She stepped up beside Agent Elswright, her purple eyes locking onto Aamon's. "The ambient arcane density inside the unstable rift was lethal. Your body forcefully catalyzed an awakening sequence to keep your organs from failing. It's a brutal process. Most people who undergo a forced awakening don't survive the strain."
Seraphine offered a polite, practiced smile. "I was accompanying Agent Elswright on a supervised field-training exercise when your call came through. I administered the immediate medical attention upon your extraction. I utilized my Purifying Cleanse to flush the excess, toxic arcane radiation from your system, and several Vitality Injections to repair the micro-tears in your muscles caused by your... extreme physical exertion."
Aamon looked at her, noting the slight, calculating glint in her amethyst eyes. He knew exactly what was coming.
"Thank you," Aamon said earnestly, his voice thick with genuine-sounding gratitude. "You saved my life. Both of you."
Seraphine's smile widened by a millimeter. "You are very welcome, Mr. Maverick. It was my duty. And speaking of duty, the standard Bureau subsidy covers your extraction and the hospital room. However..." She elegantly slipped a small, neatly printed card from her blazer pocket and placed it on his bedside table. "The specialized, on-site, rapid-response healing utilizing a proprietary Rare-grade talent is considered an auxiliary service. I've itemized the bill. You can transfer the credits whenever you are financially stable, though a prompt payment does waive the standard five percent late fee."
Agent Elswright sighed softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Seraphine, he literally just woke up from a near-death experience."
"Proper compensation ensures the highest quality of continuous care, Agent Elswright," Seraphine replied without missing a beat, her tone perfectly pleasant. "I am simply establishing clear professional boundaries."
Aamon had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing. It was perfect. She was exactly as the lore had written her. Unapologetically transactional.
"I'll... I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Seraphine," Aamon said, picking up the card. It had a sleek QR code and a staggering number of zeroes for a high school student's budget.
Agent Elswright cleared her throat, redirecting the conversation. "Moving on to more pressing matters, Mr. Maverick. We have reviewed your civic file. You are seventeen years old. An orphan, currently enrolled as an eleventh grader at District 4 Public High, with one term remaining before your twelfth year."
Aamon nodded slowly. "That's right. Am I... am I in trouble? For the rift?"
"Heavens, no," Elswright said, her tone reassuring. "You are a victim of a natural disaster. However, your situation has drastically changed. The law dictates that any individual who awakens, regardless of age, must be registered and properly trained to manage their arcane energy to prevent public hazard."
She pulled a sleek, black tablet from her coat pocket and tapped the screen a few times.
"The ARIES Bureau is officially affiliated with Polaris Academy, the premier institute for arcane research, combat sciences, and Arcanist development in the Aurelion Republic. Because you underwent a forced, early awakening without the use of an arcana stone—a phenomenon that typically indicates a highly adaptable arcane core—I am officially extending you a hand of special admission to the Academy."
Aamon's mind whirred. Polaris Academy. The central hub for the game. It was where the player received quests, trained skills, and interacted with the major factions. Gaining entry normally required passing grueling entrance exams or being born into a wealthy corporate guild family.
"Special admission?" Aamon asked, playing the hesitant teenager. "But I haven't even finished high school."
"Special recruits follow an accelerated curriculum," Agent Elswright interjected smoothly. "You will complete your remaining eleventh-grade foundational studies within the Academy's specialized preparatory wing. Once completed, you will be fully admitted to the academy as an official student, and your status as an Arcanist guarantees you a full scholarship grant."
Seraphine gestured gracefully to her own uniform. "I, too, am a special recruit. The Bureau and the Academy heavily invest in early awakeners. We are considered... high-yield assets."
"You would be our third special recruit of the year," Agent Elswright added, her eyes sharp behind her sunglasses. "Seraphine was the first. And we just admitted another young man under similar, highly unusual circumstances last week."
Aamon's heart did a subtle, triumphant flip. Last week. He knew exactly who that "other young man" was. The Warrior with the Epic-grade-talent Otherworldly Swordsman. Only his character had a storyline established with the ARIES Bureau and Polaris Academy. If that guy had just been recruited last week, it meant the main storyline of the game was barely in its prologue phase. The beast disasters, monster wars, the massive rift breaks—none of it had happened yet. He was at ground zero.
"This is..." Aamon stammered, looking down at his hands, feigning overwhelming emotion. "This is a lot to take in. I was just working at a convenience store yesterday. Now you're telling me I'm going to an elite academy?"
"I understand it is overwhelming," Agent Elswright said gently. "But returning to a civilian life with an untrained arcane core is dangerous. The Academy will provide you with a stipend, housing, and the training you need to survive in this new reality of yours. Will you accept the offer, Mr. Maverick?"
There was no hesitation in his mind. Refusing meant missing out on the game's main resources and essentially signing his own death warrant in a world designed to kill the weak.
"I accept," Aamon said firmly, looking up to meet Agent Elswright's gaze. "I'll join Polaris Academy."
Elswright smiled, a genuine expression of approval. "Excellent decision. Now, for the preliminary paperwork, I need to log your basic registration data. The system monitors at the hospital already recorded your core formation, but the specifics are tied to your private panel." She held up her tablet, ready to type. "May I ask what your Class and Talent grade are?"
Aamon had prepared for this exact question the moment he analyzed his hidden class. He needed a class that explained his survival, justified his skill set, and conveniently masked his true, system-breaking nature.
"My class is Assassin," Aamon said smoothly, after pretending to check his panel for a moment. His voice was steady. "And my talent... the panel says it's Epic-grade."
A heavy silence fell over the hospital room.
The doctor, who had been quietly charting vitals in the corner, stopped typing and stared.
Seraphine's purple eyes widened in genuine shock, her perfectly composed mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
Agent Elswright's hands froze over her tablet. She slowly lowered it, her eyes intense. "Epic-grade? Are you certain?"
"Yes, ma'am," Aamon said, projecting a mix of innocence and certainty.
In Arcane Frontier, Talents were the absolute ceiling of potential. Common and Uncommon made up the working-class arcanists. Rare talents were the elites, the guild officers. Unique talents were talents that could grow into city-level powerhouses and high-ranking figures one day.
Agent Elswright and Seraphine could grow into such height in the near future. Agent Elswright is already one actually, considering her strength and status in ARIES Bureau.
Epic talents were national treasures. They were individuals with the potential to become one-man armies. The game's warrior character he play had an Epic talent which evolved into Legendary talent, that allowed him to fight mythical beings by the endgame. Although he didn't explore what are the specific storylines of the other playable characters, they too have epic-grade talents and with the mechanic being similar, their talent must have evolve too as the storyline progress. He just didn't know if a player before, aside from him, was able to progress that much or maybe they don't because they quit halfway the game.
The point being is that Epic-grade talents were treasured because of this possibility. Up to this date in this country, powerhouses with Epic-grade talents are considered nuclear-level powerhouses, especially those who have already managed to evolve their talent into legendary grade.
Elswright let out a long, slow breath. The pieces were rapidly clicking together in her seasoned, tactical mind. "An Epic-grade Assassin. That... that explains everything."
She began typing rapidly on her tablet. "No wonder you survived an encounter with three Wood Trolls with zero combat experience. An Epic-grade Assassin awakening would undoubtedly prioritize survival and stealth. Did you trigger a camouflage skill?"
Aamon nodded eagerly, leaning into her deduction. "Yes! Exactly. They were right on top of me, and suddenly everything went gray. I couldn't move, but it was like I turned into a ghost. They looked right at me and couldn't see me. The skill was called... Spectator Mode."
"An absolute presence-erasure skill tied to immobility," Elswright murmured, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovering a rare asset. "A perfect, high-tier Assassin skill mechanic. Incredible. The Bureau's higher-ups will be very pleased to have secured you, Mr. Maverick."
Seraphine cleared her throat, her composure seamlessly returning, though the way she looked at Aamon had changed. It was no longer the polite, transactional gaze she gave a patient. It was the calculated appraisal of someone viewing a highly valuable investment.
"An Epic-grade talent requires a massive caloric and arcane intake to develop properly," Seraphine noted smoothly. "You will need specialized nutritional supplements. Luckily, the Academy stipend will cover a portion of that. I look forward to working with you more in the future, Aamon. Should you ever require elite-tier medical support during your training, you know who to call." She tapped the billing card on his nightstand with a manicured fingernail.
"I'll keep you on contact list," Aamon promised, offering a weak smile.
"I will leave you to rest," Agent Elswright said, slipping the tablet back into her coat.
"The Bureau will handle the termination of your lease and the transfer of your meager belongings. I will personally pick you up in three days to escort you to the Polaris Academy campus and begin your fundamental training as a prospect agent of the Bureau."
She pulled a sleek, silver smartphone from her pocket and placed it next to Seraphine's bill. "A secure Bureau-issued comm-device. Your old phone was severely damaged by the arcane radiation. My contact is pre-programmed. Rest well, Aamon."
"Thank you, Agent Elswright."
With a crisp nod, Elswright turned and exited the room. Seraphine offered a final, graceful bow of her head and followed the agent out, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
The doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat awkwardly. He checked the monitors, flashed a penlight into Aamon's eyes, and examined the IV drip.
"Your vitals are perfectly stable," the doctor muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Between the forced awakening jumpstarting your cellular regeneration and Miss Blackwood's healing prowess, there is absolutely no trace of arcane-burn in your system. You are functionally at peak physical health for an F-Rank. You'll be discharged by tomorrow morning."
"Thanks, doc," Aamon replied quietly.
Once the doctor finally left, plunging the room into a quiet stillness accompanied only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor, Aamon let out a massive, shuddering exhale. He slumped back against the stiff hospital pillows, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He had done it. He had successfully navigated his first major dialogue tree. He had secured entry into the game's central hub, gained the backing of a major faction, and established a flawless cover story that hid his terrifyingly overpowered loadout.
He raised his right hand, staring at the pale skin under the harsh fluorescent lights.
A faint, distorted glitch—a ripple of static resembling broken television snow—crackled across his fingertips for a fraction of a second before vanishing. It was a manifestation of Technical Glitch.
Aamon Maverick, the lead beta-tester, was dead in his dingy apartment on Earth.
But Aamon Maverick, the anomaly, the Epic-grade Hidden Player with skills that could manipulate the very code of reality, had successfully loaded into the game.
"Arcane Frontier," Aamon whispered into the empty room, a sharp, genuine smile spreading across his face for the first time since he had been fired. "Let's see just how badly I can break this game."