My old life doesn’t really matter, but I’ll give you the book-notes version.

  My name is Grayson Locke. I was a 68 years old retired cybersecurity consultant, widower, and the kind of guy who filled in as Dungeon Master at the local board game shop when someone canceled last minute. In other words, your average Millennial nerd quietly drifting toward the end of his story. Not suicidal, mind you. Just sort of done. The world was a mess for a thousand reasons, most of which were well outside my control, and I’d long since run out of personal quests worth waking up for.

  When the international lottery for New Genesis opened, I applied on a whim, because why not? It was billed as humanity’s great digital escape for sexagenarians; a full consciousness transfer into the most advanced virtual world ever created, designed as both an experiment and a final refuge for those entering retirement age. I didn’t really expect anything to come of it. There was a three-month vetting process up front with psychological evaluations, medical screenings, and incredibly invasive background checks, but I had the time and no one left to protest after Laurie died.

  I passed everything, and somehow, out of nearly a million applicants, I was one of the ten thousand selected for the Beta Group. I remember rereading the confirmation email five times in completely stunned silence, but from there, the process got real. Six months of pre-transfer counseling followed, all designed to make sure I understood what I was agreeing to: a full neural upload, complete loss of physical form, and irreversible entry into the New Genesis. In medical terms, I would be legally classified as deceased, and I had to sign an egregious amount of paperwork to make sure everyone understood I was doing this willingly.

  The final day arrived quietly and without any sort of fanfare, since I didn’t have anyone to see me off. There were no tearful goodbyes or dramatic last-minute second thoughts. Just me and a final appointment at a nondescript digi-neural migration center tucked between a pair of medical research buildings.

  I walked into the sterile white facility, checked in with the receptionist, and was guided down a series of softly lit hallways that smelled like disinfectant and into a small room with a sealed glass case in the center. Inside was a roughly six-inch, mostly transparent blue cube. The technician, a young man who seemed far too chipper for someone about to help euthanize a stranger, explained that this was the transfer vessel. My consciousness—memories, identity, neural architecture, everything that made me... me—would be copied into this cube before being physically transported to the secure server compound in Antarctica. Once there, I’d be uploaded into New Genesis and activated.

  He went over the process in excruciating detail, even though I’d already read the documents, watched the orientation videos, and sat through the six months of counseling that went over all of it in even further detail. I could’ve recited the procedure myself by then, but protocol was protocol.

  Eventually came the important reminder that this wasn’t immortality. My neural patterns would, eventually, begin to degrade. Based on current estimates, I had maybe a century of functional runtime, assuming no major server corruption, energy failure, or catastrophic anomaly. More than enough time to live a second life, but still not infinite. They also mentioned the possibility of cognitive instability if certain thresholds were crossed, though the language around that was vague. Something about “personality fragmentation” and “non-recoverable identity drift.” It didn’t sound great, but it was buried deep in the legal fine print. I figured if anything serious came up, they’d probably let me know.

  I nodded through all of it, and I was asked, again and again, if I was absolutely certain I wanted to go through with it.

  I said yes, again and again.

  Then came more documents, more signatures, more affirmations that I knew exactly what I was getting into and that I accepted the risks and understood I would no longer legally exist in the physical world and that I would never come back.

  I signed them all.

  Then they handed me a gown and asked me to change.

  The room had a curtained-off corner with a bench and a small locker. I folded my clothes neatly, even though no one would ever be coming back for them, and slipped into the thin, papery garment that marked the beginning of the final stage of the process. It felt ceremonial in a way, like a death shroud you put on yourself. Pretty cool.

  When I stepped out, the medical team was already waiting. Three of them stood by the bed, all dressed head-to-toe in surgical gear. Their faces were half-concealed behind sterile blue masks and transparent face shields, making them look more like technicians prepping a spacecraft launch than doctors attending to a patient. Which, in a way, I guess they were.

  They launched into a final round of briefings, with one reading off the sedation timeline while another double-checked vitals and neural sync protocols. The third once again walked me through the transfer sequence of how my consciousness would be scanned, downloaded to the cube, and couriered under armed guard to the Antarctic facility.

  It was all information I’d heard before, but repetition was part of the process so there would be no illusions or surprises. Everything clear.

  Then, just before they moved to begin, the third person, a woman in her late twenties by the sound of her voice, stepped closer.

  “Mr. Locke,” she said, “thank you. Not just for showing up today, but for being part of something bigger and helping us build what comes next. A better world starts with people willing to plant the first seeds, even if they’ll never see the tree.”

  She gave a small, respectful bow of her head.

  I didn’t really have anything profound to say in return, so, because I’m possibly the most awkward person on the planet, I instead gave her a small salute. And then, just to really solidify things, I winked.

  So let it be known that my last official act as a living, breathing human being was a salute-wink combo.

  She blinked, and then there was a pause as I can only assume she was trying to process what I just did. I, on the other hand, was just profoundly grateful that I was literally minutes away from dying and wouldn’t have to live with the embarrassment for very long. What can I say? I’m just lucky like that.

  “Right,” she said in an incredibly professional manner, as if she hadn’t just witnessed the most awkward farewell in history. Then she guided me to the bed in the center of the room with sterile white sheets and adjustable frame. I lay down, and one of the technicians placed a mask gently over my face.

  “Just breathe normally,” he said. “When I tell you, start counting backward from ten.”

  The anesthetic had a strange, sweet smell, like artificial cherries soaked in rubbing alcohol. I could feel the edges of my vision beginning to blur before he even finished speaking.

  “Okay, Mr. Locke. Start counting.”

  “Ten… nine… eight…”

  By the time I said seven, the world had already fallen away.

  In an instant, I was back, but it wasn’t like waking up from sleep. There was no grogginess, no blurred edges of thought or lazy drift from unconsciousness to awareness. I didn’t stir or stretch or blink myself into being. One moment, I was drifting off to sleep and the next, I was fully there. Consciousness returned to me not like a sunrise, but like a lightbulb turning on in a dark room. Every part of me, or whatever was left of me, was alert, present, and aware.

  And something was… off.

  For the first time in at least twenty years, I didn’t feel the dull ache in my knees or the grinding stiffness in my fingers that had come to define my mornings. The arthritic pain that had been a constant, miserable companion was simply gone. And in fact, I couldn’t feel anything at all. I wasn’t hot. I wasn’t cold. There was no pressure on my back, air against my skin, or even a heartbeat thudding quietly in my chest. It’s hard to describe it if you’ve never gone through the process, but I just experienced a strange, disembodied sensation of being present, not in a body, but as a point of awareness suspended in space.

  Weightless? That’s probably the best word I have for it. Weightless, and still.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  It was oddly serene, until the panic set in anyway.

  This is also going to be difficult to describe, because it wasn’t a kind of panic that I had ever had before. I didn’t experience a pounding heart, shortness of breath, or an adrenaline surge screaming move, move, move. Just a cold, cerebral realization that something fundamental was wrong and that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t feeling what my brain expected me to feel.

  But the fear and anxiety had nowhere to go. There was no body to react to how I was feeling, and without the usual feedback loop, the panic just kind of… fizzled. It rose like a ripple in a pond, then faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow sort of calm.

  I just felt detached, like a passenger in my own mind.

  I tried to look around, but the concept of “looking” also didn’t work the way it used to. I didn’t have eyes or even a head to turn. There was no up or down, no left or right. Yet somehow, I knew what was around me through some kind of intuitive awareness—like my consciousness had been stretched across the interior of the cube itself, and I could feel its boundaries as easily as I might once have felt the walls of a room.

  And, okay, I’ll admit it: for a second, I wondered if this is what it felt like to be a Jedi using the Force. I mean, I didn’t have a lightsaber, but I did have arthritis-free joints and a godlike spatial sense. Close enough.

  As I marveled at the new sense, I then did begin to see something. Not with my eyes, but within the space of my mind where thought and perception blurred together. Clean, white, luminous words appeared and scrolled gently through my awareness.

  > SYSTEM BOOTING…

  > NEURAL LOAD: COMPLETE

  > CORE CONSCIOUSNESS: STABLE

  > PERSONALITY MATRIX ONLINE

  > WELCOME TO NEW GENESIS, GRAYSON LOCKE

  > COMMENCING LIFE-BASED CLASSIFICATION ANALYSIS…

  The cube around me pulsed with a low hum that wasn’t quite a sound, but more of a presence pressing gently against my awareness. I could feel something moving through me, or maybe into me, like something was probing the threads of my mind and gently unraveling and examining the strands that made up who I was.

  It didn’t hurt and didn’t seem violently invasive. If anything, it felt... curious. Respectful, even. Like it was listening, not just to what I thought or said, but to everything I was. I could sense it sifting through the memories of my life without judgement, just quiet observation, cataloging the essence of a man who’d lived a very normal and generic life.

  The memories didn’t rise up in cinematic clarity like flashbacks in movies but instead came in impressions with feelings attached. I remembered cold mornings, sitting in cramped server rooms with fluorescent lights flickering overhead, sipping bitter, burnt coffee from a chipped mug because I’d been too stubborn to buy a new one. I remembered the way the whir of machines became a white noise that comforted me probably more than it really should have. I’d been good at what I did. Quietly essential, even if no one ever said so.

  I remembered nights that bled into mornings, eyes blurry as I rewrote firewall logic for a client who could barely turn on a computer. And still, I cared, not because they paid me well, because God knows they didn’t, but because it mattered that someone held the line.

  And then there was her.

  I remembered her laugh first; the kind that could peel the weight off a bad day and make it bearable again. It always caught me off guard how effortlessly she carried joy. I used to think the universe must have made a mistake, pairing someone like her with someone like me, but she never treated it that way.

  Then came the hospital visits. They started small, with routine checkups and bloodwork. Then longer appointments, whispered conversations with doctors, and terms that became familiar too quickly. It wasn’t dramatic, not the way people often imagine it. It was quiet and slow. It was a fading that you don’t see until one day you realize the light is already gone.

  After that came the silence.

  Grief didn’t hit all at once. It wasn’t some big, cinematic wave that knocked me over; it was a creeping stillness that settled into the corners of my life. It showed up in mundane places: an empty chair at breakfast, a coat still hanging on the hook by the door for months, her purple shampoo bottle still sitting in the shower. Even the toothpaste became a reminder. It was strange, noticing how long it lasted when there was only one person left brushing their teeth.

  The world didn’t fall apart without her. It just got smaller. Quieter. Duller.

  And so did I.

  I remembered the board game shop that smelled like old cardboard and new dice. I remembered the way kids would show up with no clue how to play and leave with character sheets scribbled full of dreams. I didn’t think it meant anything at the time, just a way to pass the hours. But now… it felt different. Important. Like those weekends spent building dungeons and rolling dice had left a real mark on them, and maybe even on me.

  The system was watching it all, quietly assembling the puzzle of me from the inside out. It wasn’t just skimming the surface or pulling data from a file; it was learning me, piece by piece. It moved through all my memories, even the ones that I had written off as trivial, as if they were integral parts of the larger design.

  And then, the words returned.

  > ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

  > MATCHING NEURAL PROFILE TO OPTIMAL CLASS…

  Character Sheet: Grayson Locke

  Class: Soulwarden

  Level: 1

  Status: Stable

  Location: Tutorial Instance [Isolation Start]

  Core Attributes

  Mind: 12

  Body: 11

  Spirit: 13

  Vital Stats

  Health (HP): 28

  Mana (MP): 30

  Stamina (SP): 35

  Regeneration Rates

  Health Regen: +1 HP/min

  Mana Regen: +1 MP/min

  Stamina Regen: +1 SP/min

  Abilities

  Truth Sense (Passive Toggle) - Chance to detect lies or concealed truths within a limited radius.

  Telekinesis (Active) - Exert force on objects or enemies within range; can lift, push, pull, or suspend targets.

  Aura Control (Utility – Passive/Active) - Manipulate and project emotional states; affects NPC behavior and can weaken resolve.

  Meditate (Channel) - Rapidly restores mana and stamina while stationary.

  Equipment

  Traveler’s Tunic (Common)

  Warden’s Field Trousers (Uncommon)

  Traveler’s Belt (Common)

  Dustwalker Boots (Uncommon)

  Inventory

  1x Field Manual: New Genesis Protocols (Unread)

  1x Datachip: Personal Identity Record

  2x Starter Loot Box

  Credits: 50

  I read over my character sheet at least five times, taking in every number, item, and ability. At first glance, it all seemed deceptively simple with just three core attributes and a clean layout. But after a bit of tinkering, I discovered that if I mentally focused on one of the core attributes—Mind, Body, or Spirit—it expanded into a sub-window with additional stats tucked underneath.

  When I opened Body, for instance, it revealed things like movement speed, damage resistance, carry weight, and something called impact threshold, which sounded like a polite way of saying “how hard you can get punched before you fall down.” Spirit had entries like aura radius and focus integrity, which I didn’t fully understand but sounded important or at least very dramatic.

  I also found a skill list tucked away in the system menu, and by "skill list," I mean an absurdly massive database that felt less like a menu and more like a never-ending library of “everything you’ve ever done, seen, or even vaguely thought about trying.” Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of entries scrolled alphabetically in neat little lines, everything from Advanced Cryptography to Cooking: Soup, Halo 3 Multiplayer Proficiency, and Coloring Inside the Lines with Crayons. Each one had a proficiency rating next to it, though I noticed some were greyed out or tagged with icons I didn’t recognize.

  There was a filter system too, but after accidentally sorting the entire list by “Most Embarrassing,” I decided I’d come back to it later.

  What really caught my attention, though, were the starter abilities. Truth detection? Telekinesis? Meditation?

  My digital neurons connected the dots.

  Oh my God, I thought. I’m a Jedi.

  Okay, a Soulwarden, sure. But spiritually? Mechanically? Functionally?

  I was a lightsaber away from getting sued by Disney.