The automatic glass doors of Solmire Central Hospital parted with a soft pneumatic hiss, and Aamon Maverick stepped out into the blinding reality of his new life.
He stood at the top of the pristine, white-marble steps of the medical complex, his expression conflicted. For two years, he had explored this exact city through the glowing rectangle of a 32-inch monitor. He knew its layout, its hidden quests, its NPC patrol routes, and its lore. But knowing a place and breathing in it were two entirely different concepts.
Solmire City, one of the largest city of Aurelion Republic's eastern seaboard, was a staggering testament to humanity's desperate, arcane-fueled evolution. It was a living, breathing leviathan of steel, glass, and raw arcane engineering.
Above him, the sky wasn't just blue. It was a vibrant, almost painted azure, sliced by the shimmering, translucent hexagonal grids of the city's Zenith Ward—the massive, city-wide arcane shield that protected the populace from airborne monster raids. Towering skyscrapers of glass, steel, and pale arcane-stone pierced the skyline. Some buildings had massive, glowing runes etched into their sides, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic neon blue that powered the city's infrastructure. In the sky lanes above, sleek, anti-gravity transport vehicles hummed along invisible tracks, leaving faint trails of condensed mana in their wake. Down on the ground level, the streets were a chaotic symphony of motion. Pedestrians hurried along the wide plascrete sidewalks, a mix of unawakened civilians in drab, utilitarian clothing, and some Arcanists adorned in various states of tactical gear, their presence easily identifiable by the subtle, atmospheric distortions of arcane energy around their body as they breathe.
The city and this new reality was breathtaking. It was terrifying. It wasn't a rendering engine pushing polygons and textures. It was a living, breathing metropolis built on the edge of the apocalypse.
Aamon took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that tasted faintly of ozone and sterilized metal—the byproduct of the city's ambient arcane filters.
"The graphics are ridiculous," he muttered to himself, a dry, incredulous laugh escaping his lips as he remembered arguing for three weeks with the creatives team regarding with the designs and graphics of the game.
He pulled the collar of his faded, slightly too-large jacket up against the chill of the morning breeze. The hospital had returned his original clothes, magically cleaned and mended by a low-level utility Arcanist on staff, but they still felt cheap. He began the long walk back to District 4.
The transition from the opulent, heavily fortified center of Solmire City to the outer rings of District 4 was a masterclass in environmental storytelling—something Aamon had once praised in a design meeting. As he walked, the gleaming arcane-stone gave way to stained concrete and rusted steel. The neon runes were replaced by flickering, outdated holographic billboards advertising cheap nutrient paste and low-grade health potions. The pristine streets morphed into cramped, shadowed alleys smelling of damp earth, cheap alcohol, and despair.
It took him nearly an hour to reach the address burned into his predecessor's memories. It was a towering, brutalist apartment complex that looked like a stack of concrete shipping containers.
Aamon climbed six flights of stairs, his newly awakened but still physically frail F-Rank body burning with exertion by the time he reached the top. He fished a chipped physical key out of his pocket, slotted it into the rusted lock of Room 614, and pushed the door open.
The apartment was tiny. A single room containing a cot, a battered desk, a microscopic kitchenette, and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. The air was stale, smelling faintly of mildew and the artificial chicken flavoring of cheap instant ramen.
Aamon closed the door behind him and locked it. He stood in the center of the cramped space, letting the silence wash over him. He walked over to the small, cracked mirror hanging above the sink and stared at his reflection.
The face looking back at him was young, sharp, and pale. Dark circles framed his blue eyes, a testament to the chronic exhaustion of an orphaned teenager working a night shift and balancing school. His hair was a messy mop of light blonde hair. He looked frail, but beneath the malnourished exterior, Aamon could feel the faint, thrumming warmth of his arcane core.
"I'm sorry, kid," Aamon whispered into the empty room, the words feeling terribly inadequate but necessary. "You drew a terrible fate. But I promise you, I'm not going to die in the gutters like they expected you to. We're going to the top."
He shook his head, physically dispelling the lingering melancholy. He couldn't afford to drown in the past. He needed to secure the future.
He turned away from the mirror and collapsed onto the stiff mattress of the cot. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the sleek, silver smartphone Agent Elswright had given him.
The Bureau-issued device was a piece of high-end arcane-tech, leagues above the shattered civilian brick the original Aamon had owned. He tapped the screen, and it flared to life instantly, scanning his biometrics through the glass.
The home screen displayed the time and, more importantly, the date.
March 12, 2204 AC.
Aamon leaned back against the wall, his mind immediately cross-referencing the date with the game's internal timeline.
AC stood for Arcane Calendar. Year Zero marked the day the First Rift opened over the Pacific Ocean, disgorging the first wave of extra-dimensional horrors and introducing ambient mana to Earth, mutating the planet and its inhabitants forever. Two thousand, two hundred and four years of constant, unyielding war for survival.
March 12, huh.
"I still have three months," he calculated aloud. "The main storyline of Arcane Frontier officially kicks off with the Polaris Academy Entrance Exam on June 15th, 2204. That's when the Warrior arrives on campus, and the first major plot incident, the Training Dungeon Incident Arc, occurs."
He had exactly three months to prepare. Three months to transform a malnourished, F-Rank civilian body into something capable of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the elite scions of the world.
But first, he had to tie up the loose ends of a dead boy's life.
Aamon opened the phone's cloud-sync feature, retrieving the contacts backed up from his old, fried device. He found the number for his homeroom teacher at District 4 Public High and hit dial.
The line rang twice before a sharp, slightly exhausted voice answered. "Aamon? Are you alright? The police called the school saying you were involved in a spatial anomaly incident in District 4 the other day!"
"I'm okay, Mrs. Gable," Aamon said, effortlessly adopting the slightly meek, respectful tone of the original boy. "I'm... I'm really lucky. I just got discharged from the hospital. But I won't be able to come to class."
"Oh, heavens, child, of course not!" Mrs. Gable sighed, a genuine note of relief in her voice. "Take the rest of the week. Take two weeks. The administration will excuse your absences under the Natural Disaster clause. Just rest. Did the paramedics check for arcane radiation poisoning?"
"They did. I'm completely clear," Aamon lied smoothly. "Actually, Mrs. Gable... I'm calling to tell you that I won't be coming back to District 4 Public High."
There was a long pause on the line. "Aamon, I know an incident like this is traumatizing, but dropping out—"
"I awakened, Mrs. Gable."
The silence that followed was profound. In the outer rings, a student awakening was equivalent to winning the lottery and being struck by lightning simultaneously. It was a one-way ticket out of the slums.
"You... you awakened?" she whispered, the sharp edges of her voice melting into stunned awe. "Oh, Aamon. Goodness. What rank? Have you registered?"
"F-Rank, currently. The ARIES Bureau picked me up," Aamon explained, keeping the details sparse. "They're transferring my files. I'm being moved to a preparatory program. I just... I wanted to call and thank you. For letting me sleep in the back of your class when I had double shifts, and for the extra ration tickets you slipped into my desk."
The memories weren't his, but the gratitude he injected into his voice was genuine. Mrs. Gable had been one of the few kind souls in the original Aamon's life.
He could hear a soft sniffle on the other end. "You're a good boy, Aamon. You always worked so hard. Be careful out there, do you hear me? The Arcanist world... it's not like the movies. It's dangerous. Keep your head down."
"I will, Mrs. Gable. Thank you. Goodbye."
He ended the call, feeling a strange sense of closure.
After a while, Aamon found the contact for 'Mr. Henderson - Angry Boss'. The original Aamon worked the 7 PM to Midnight shift at a local convenience store to make ends meet.
He dialed the number, mentally preparing his apology.
"Maverick! Where the hell were you last night?" a gruff, angry voice barked the moment the call connected. "I had to cover the register myself, kid!"
"Boss, I was swallowed by an unstable spatial rift on my way to the shift."
The aggressive silence that followed was comical. "A... a rift? You're messing with me."
"I was admitted to Solmire Central Hospital under ARIES Bureau jurisdiction," Aamon said smoothly. "I'm calling to formally apologize for missing my shift and to tender my resignation. I awakened last night, sir. The Bureau is transferring my registry."
A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker. The anger vanished, replaced by the weary respect the unawakened masses held for Arcanists. "Awakened, huh? Damn. Well... I'm glad you're not dead in a ditch, kid. Seriously. Don't worry about the shift. I'll have your final paycheck wired to your account by tomorrow morning. Don't forget us little guys when you're shooting lasers out of your eyes, alright?"
"I won't. Thank you, Mr. Henderson."
Aamon tossed the phone onto the blanket, running a hand through his hair. The mundane ties to his past were severed. He was officially a free agent.
He picked the phone back up and began to scroll. He bypassed the messaging apps and opened the global Arcane-Net browser. He needed to verify the state of the world.
He typed in a few names. Within seconds, his screen was flooded with high-definition news articles, holographic interview clips, and paparazzi photos.
He saw a headline reading.
[Guildmaster Kaelen Vance of 'Onyx Vanguard' Clears A-Rank Fixed Rift in Record Time!]
Below the headline was a moving image of a towering man in gleaming, silver-white arcane armor, resting a massive broadsword on his shoulder as he walked out of a swirling spatial gate. The man's eyes were sharp, glowing with residual mana.
In the game, Kaelen was one of the undisputed strongest Tank in the Aurelion Republic, a late-game mentor figure. Seeing him as a real, breathing human on a news feed, looking utterly indomitable, solidified the sheer scale of the reality Aamon was now playing in.
He scrolled further. He saw politicians debating the allocation of arcana fragments. He saw advertisements for unique-grade equipments that cost more than small cities. He saw warnings about rising monster activity in the borderlands.
It was all real. Every piece of lore he had tested, every background detail he had criticized in the Nexus Interactive boardrooms, was now the geopolitical reality of his life.
Aamon locked the phone and closed his eyes, focusing inward. It was time to look at his own code.
He willed the System Panel to appear. The familiar blue interface materialized in the air above his bed.
[ Name: Aamon Maverick (Awakened)
Talent: Hidden Player (Epic Grade)
Class: ◽◽◽◽◽◽◽◽
Level: F-Rank ]
He needed to understand his arsenal. He had survived the forest purely on the instinctive help of his traits. Now, sitting in the safety of his apartment, he needed to analyze his active skills with the meticulous scrutiny of a developer reading raw code.
He tapped his skill list, expanding the descriptions of the abilities he had unlocked so far, ignoring the impressive utility of Spectator Mode and Exlcusive Avatar for a moment. He needed to formulate a combat strategy. As a "Hidden Player", his starting kit was entirely meta-manipulation. He had no fireballs, no sword-auras, no strength buffs. If a monster got close and his Spectator Mode was on cooldown or he was out of mana, he was dead. As for Exclusive Avatar, it's most strategic use is to take the damage for him. So the combat style should be formulated first around his other skills.
The first was Frame Lag.
[ Skill: Frame Lag
Description: By manipulating the local spacetime continuum relative to the user's perception, the user can forcibly induce a localized "lag" in reality. For the duration of the skill, the user's perception of time is accelerated by 300%, while their physical momentum and the momentum of objects immediately interacting with them are preserved but stuttered. Highly effective for micro-dodging attacks or extending the window of opportunity for counter-strikes. ]
Aamon's eyes narrowed as he read the description. It's essentially a bullet-time mechanic, he deduced. But the wording is crucial. It stutters momentum. If a sword is swinging at my neck, I don't just see it moving slowly; the sword's actual physical progression through space glitches. It gives me physical frames of invincibility to slip past an attack that should biologically hit me.
It was an incredible defensive and dueling tool, but the mana cost was steep for an F-Rank. Ten mana per second was a massive drain. Given his newly formed core, he guessed he probably only had around a hundred mana total. Ten seconds of Frame Lag, and he would be running on empty, risking core exhaustion.
He moved to the next.
[ Skill: Technical Glitch
Description: The user emits a concentrated burst of anomalous code-disruption energy. Upon contact with an enemy's arcane construct (spells, shields, summoned weapons, buffs), the glitch destabilizes the mana structure, causing it to fail, short-circuit, or backfire unpredictably. Effectiveness scales with the user's rank compared to the target's rank. ]
"A universal counterspell," Aamon breathed, a wide grin spreading across his face.
In Arcane Frontier, countering a spell usually required a specific elemental opposition—water to douse fire, light to pierce shadow. But Technical Glitch didn't care about elements. It treated magic as what Aamon knew it to be: a programmed sequence. The glitch simply introduced an error into the enemy's code, causing the spell to crash. If a Magician fired a fireball at him, he wouldn't need to block it; he could just delete it from the air.
At last, his eyes locked onto the linchpin of his future offensive capabilities.
[ Skill: Replay Value
Description: Allows the user to permanently record and replicate one active skill that the user has visually witnessed. The efficacy, power, and mana cost of the copied skill depend heavily on the user's fundamental understanding of the skill's arcane structure, casting sequence, and elemental nature.
Limitation 1: The user is granted exactly ONE skill slot per Rank. Currently F-Rank (1/1 slots available).
Limitation 2: To overwrite a recorded skill, the user must permanently erase the current skill, suffering a temporary 24-hour penalty to maximum arcane energy. ]
"One slot per rank," Aamon muttered, tapping his chin. "At F-Rank, I can only copy one skill. E-Rank gives me a second, D-Rank a third, and so on."
It was an incredible skill, essentially turning him into the ultimate Blue Mage. But the limitations were brutal. He couldn't just spam it to collect an arsenal. He had to be surgical with his choices.
Furthermore, the description held a massive hidden mechanic that only a beta-tester would fully appreciate. The efficacy depends on the user's fundamental understanding of the skill's arcane structure. In Arcane Frontier, magic wasn't just "point and shoot." It was a complex science of manipulating arcane particles. Most people who copied skills, through rare items or artifacts, could only mimic the outward appearance, resulting in a watered-down, weaker version of the original spell.
But Aamon? Aamon possessed the Gaming Sense trait, and more importantly, he was the lead tester. He didn't just know what a skill looked like. He knew its frame data, its cooldown timers, its hitboxes, and the exact lore-based arcane theory behind how it was formed. He understood the code of the magic. If he witnessed a skill, he wouldn't just copy it. He could likely use it with 100% perfection, maybe even optimize it.
"I need an offensive skill. Something versatile. Fast casting, low mana cost, high lethality."
And to get that, he needed to go where Arcanists trained.
"I need to hit the public training grounds," Aamon decided. "I can sit in the observation decks, use Gaming Sense to analyze the low-rank Arcanists practicing, and pick the best skill to fill my single slot."
But there was a catch. In this heavily regulated society, you couldn't just walk into an arcane facility. You needed an Arcanist License.
Aamon picked up his phone and opened the contacts. He tapped the pre-programmed number for Agent Myra Elswright. It rang twice before connecting.
"Maverick," Myra's crisp, professional voice came through the speaker. "I did not expect to hear from you so soon. Are you experiencing complications from the discharge?"
"No, Agent Elswright. I'm feeling perfectly fine," Aamon replied, keeping his tone respectful and polite. "I'm calling because I want to start training. My body feels... different. I can feel the energy, and I want to learn how to control it before I accidentally hurt myself or someone else. I need an Arcanist License to access the public training grounds, right?"
He heard the faint sound of a keyboard clacking on the other end. Myra was likely at her desk at the Bureau.
"Your diligence is commendable, Aamon. Most newly awakened teenagers spend their first week reveling in their new status, not asking for immediate training," Myra noted, a hint of approval in her tone. "Regarding your license, you do not need to apply for one through the standard civilian channels. Because you were processed by ARIES during a rift event, your biometric and arcane data has already been fast-tracked to the registry."
"It has?"
"Yes. You simply need to present yourself at the local branch of SCALE—the Supreme Council of Arcane Laws and Enforcement. They are the governing body responsible for all Arcanist regulation. Go to the Solmire District 3 branch, present your civilian ID, and tell them the Bureau authorized your registry. They will print your license on the spot."
"Understood. Thank you."
"Do not overexert yourself, Aamon," Myra warned, her voice tightening slightly. "You are an F-Rank with an Epic-grade talent and core. Your body is akin to a high-performance engine running on a rusted chassis. If you push your mana capacity too hard before your physical body adapts, you will suffer severe arcane backlash. Stick to basic physical conditioning and rudimentary mana-cycling for now."
"I will. I'm just going to observe mostly."
"Good. Rest well this weekend. Once your documents are finalized by SCALE, I will contact you to begin your special preparatory training with the Bureau. We have roughly three months to bring you up to the baseline standards of Polaris Academy before your early enrollment on June 15th. Do not waste this time."
"I won't let you down, Agent Elswright."
The call clicked off. Aamon smiled. The pieces were falling into place perfectly. He had official backing, a clear timeline, and a legal way to farm for his first skill.
He spent the rest of the afternoon pacing his tiny apartment, doing light calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, squats—testing the limits of his new body. It was pathetic compared to the digital avatars he was used to, but the Clutch trait remained dormant, proving he wasn't in any real physical danger. He needed to build baseline stamina.
As evening fell, painting the smoggy sky outside his window in shades of bruised purple and toxic orange, Aamon heated up a packet of instant nutrient paste. He sat cross-legged on his bed, eating the tasteless sludge, his mind working a mile a minute.
He was plotting his optimal build route, thinking about which dungeons to farm once he hit E-Rank, when a sudden, chilling thought derailed his entire train of logic.
He stopped eating, his spoon hovering midway to his mouth.
"Wait..." he wondered into the quiet room.
Agent Elswright had mentioned another "special recruit" admitted last week under unusual circumstances. Aamon was almost completely certain that this recruit was the Warrior. The main protagonist of the game's flagship storyline.
In Arcane Frontier, the player can choose one of nine starting characters at the beginning of the game: Warrior, Magician, Assassin, Guardian, Marksman, Beastmaster, Summoner, Healer, or Artificer.
Each character had a distinct, massive, sweeping narrative. The Warrior dealt with political corruption and a demonic invasion from the Abyss Rifts. The Beastmaster's storyline revolved around uncovering a conspiracy within the arcane academies and fighting rogue cosmic entities. The Assassin was embroiled in a shadow war against a continent-spanning crime syndicate.
Aamon had played the Warrior's route to the end. He knew every beat, every boss, every tragedy.
But here was the question that suddenly gripped his heart. In the game, choosing a character locked you into their worldline and particular story. If you played the Warrior, the Magician didn't exist in your story as an NPC. The Assassin didn't exist. Their world-ending threats didn't occur because their storylines didn't trigger. The game engine couldn't handle nine overlapping apocalyptic narratives.
But this isn't a game engine anymore. This is reality.
Aamon set his bowl down on the desk, his hands suddenly feeling very cold.
If the Warrior is here... does that mean the Magician is not here? Or are all nine 'Protagonists' currently out there in their own worldline?
But… what if all nine protagonists exist in this singular reality... does that mean all nine of their apocalyptic, world-ending final bosses exist too? He couldn't be sure and he couldn't exclude the possibility that all those playable characters being ine the same story. After all, even he, lead the beta-tester of the game has transmigrated and now existing into this reality no matter how far-fetched it is.
Aamon's breath hitched. In the game, the Warrior had to stop the Chaos Zergs. It was barely doable, requiring the player to min-max every stat.
If this world was a composite reality, humanity wasn't just facing the Chaos Race. They were simultaneously facing a Demon King, beings of disasters, a syndicate with a magical evil intentions, a series of beasts tides and other catastrophic extinction events, all ticking down like synchronized time bombs.
"Oh my god," Aamon groaned, burying his face in his hands. "If the storylines overlap... the difficulty level of this world isn't 'Hard Mode'. It's a complete, unmitigated Nightmare run."
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. His earlier confidence—the smug satisfaction of knowing the Warrior's walkthrough—evaporated. Knowing one storyline was useless if a cosmic horror from another storyline decided to glass the city while he was busy fighting demons.
He couldn't just sit back and let the warrior do the heavy lifting. If the worldlines were merging, the warrior wouldn't be strong enough to save the world alone. None of them would be. He still remembered the final text he encountered when he was about to proceed the final level.
"I have to get stronger," Aamon said, his voice no longer that of a boy acting a part, but the iron-clad resolve of a man staring down the barrel of armageddon. "F-Rank, E-Rank, D-Rank... it doesn't matter. I have to break the ceiling faster than any of them."
He lay back on his bed, staring up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling. The sheer magnitude of what he was facing was paralyzing, yet, beneath the fear, his Gaming Sense pulsed with a cold, thrilling logic.
It was the ultimate challenge. The final, un-patched, glitchy release of the game he had dedicated his life to perfecting.
As exhaustion finally began to drag him under, Aamon Maverick closed his eyes, his mind already formulating a master plan to exploit every single mechanic this brutal world had to offer. Tomorrow, he would go to SCALE. Tomorrow, he would get his license. Tomorrow, the Hidden Player would begin his speedrun.
Sleep claimed him, plunging him into dreams of cascading green code and the deafening roars of monsters yet to wake.