The monotonous tapping of a keyboard filled the small office, accompanied by the distant hum of a copier. Mike sighed quietly as he reviewed the numbers on his screen. The work was nothing special—spreadsheets, reports, endless emails. Routine. Just another piece of the day he had to get through before he could return to what actually mattered.

  He glanced at the time in the corner of his monitor. 5:42 PM. Almost there. While his coworker Thomas was already packing up, Mike leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

  “Hey, Mike. Up for a beer after work?” Thomas asked, pulling on his jacket.

  Mike shook his head with an apologetic smile. “Nah, I’ve got plans tonight.”

  Thomas grinned. “Gaming again, huh? Figures.”

  Mike shrugged. He knew Thomas meant no harm, but he didn’t feel the need to explain himself. Why should he? Conan Exiles was his world—his empire, his creation. While others hit the gym or went bar-hopping, he built monuments, led wars, forged realms from dust. It was his outlet, his passion.

  “Well then, enjoy your fantasy world, Emperor Mike,” Thomas joked, waving goodbye. Mike returned the gesture and waited until the office door clicked shut behind him.

  Just ten more minutes. Then he could finally go home.

  The walk home was uneventful. The sky had turned a deep blue by the time he stepped into his apartment—a functional yet cozy retreat, its shelves stacked with history books, anime box sets, and gaming merchandise.

  He dropped his groceries, shoved a frozen pizza into the oven, and collapsed onto the couch. The remote was within reach, and one button-press later, a documentary on feudal Japan began to play. Samurai, daimyo, ancient myths—it had fascinated him for years. He was especially drawn to the legends of Amaterasu and the old Shinto rituals.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  But that was just the prelude. The real fun waited elsewhere.

  As the scent of pizza filled the room, he booted up his PC. The screen flickered to life, and the iconic Conan Exiles logo glowed with primal energy. Its harsh, epic theme echoed through the apartment. With practiced ease, Mike clicked through the menus, accessed his private server, and loaded his character: Tessa Sturm, Empress of Kerberus.

  The screen shifted. A digital sun bathed the wasteland in crimson light as the massive city walls of his empire emerged. Black towers pierced the sky, and at the highest point, seated on a monumental throne, she waited—his creation. His avatar.

  Tessa Sturm.Two meters tall, flowing black hair, piercing green eyes glowing like poison. Her armor—jet black plate, heavy and cruel—seemed to devour light. The Death Armor, they called it, erased any trace of humanity and declared her untouchable. At her side: Frostmore, the blade of winter. Every weapon in the game was deadly—but this one was a curse. When drawn, it froze the very air.

  Mike leaned back, a content smile on his lips.This was his world.Here, he wasn’t the quiet office worker. Here, he was a god.

  He made Tessa rise. The NPC guards bowed low as she strode through her palace halls. As Game Master, Mike could create, alter, command at will. Tonight, he planned to test a new area—a canyon in the far south, where he’d recently placed a custom boss. Activating flight mode, he let Tessa soar through the skies, surveying the brutal landscape below.

  Then—the screen flickered.

  Mike frowned. A bug? Or was it his PC?A brief glitch, then blackness. A low hum buzzed from the speakers.Seconds passed.The game returned—but something was off. The colors were sharper, the shadows longer. A strange tingle crawled down Mike’s neck.

  His imagination? Maybe.

  He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. Time for a break.

  The pizza had long gone cold by the time Mike slumped onto the couch. The documentary still played, but he barely registered it. Images of samurai and shrines blurred into visions of Tessa, her empire, the dark, relentless world he had crafted with his own hands.

  He should go to bed. But something held him in place.

  One glance at the clock. 1:37 AM.

  He yawned, rubbed his temples. Tomorrow was just another day—another routine.

  He didn’t know it would be his last in this world.