Reivan had experienced many things in his past life as a Korean gamer—endless grinding, rage-inducing gacha pulls, and PvP betrayals that still made him question his faith in humanity. But if there was one universal truth about games, it was this: random NPC dialogue was never truly random.

  So when he overheard a drunken old man at a dusty tavern muttering about an ‘ancient vault where kings lost their crowns,’ Reivan didn’t dismiss it as a senile rambling. No, his gamer instincts flared like a siren.

  In the game, this particular event had been nothing but background lore, a half-forgotten mystery that most players ignored. But Reivan? He had scoured the game forums years ago and found an obscure post where one player—only one—had discovered the truth behind it. A legendary relic, available only before the war broke out. If he didn’t get it now, it would be lost forever or worse—fall into enemy hands.

  That wasn’t happening.

  Reivan had spent years gaming for useless achievements. Now, he was going to game for survival.

  The first problem was the location.

  The Vault of Ashes was buried in the shattered ruins of an old fortress deep in the western wastelands. In-game, this had been a mid-to-endgame dungeon—players only ventured there after grinding for weeks, decked out in enchanted armor with entire party formations backing them up.

  Reivan, in contrast, had a group consisting of himself, Sylpkx, Garm, and a handful of mercenaries who were about to start questioning their career choices.

  They arrived at the ruined fortress after three days of grueling travel through cracked stone paths and desolate plains filled with eerie silence. The air here felt wrong—like the land itself had been burned in a fire so hot that it left permanent scars. Even the wind howled unnaturally, a hollow echo that seemed to whisper things that shouldn’t be understood.

  Sylpkx crouched by an old stone marker, running a claw over the surface. “Boss. These ruins? They don’t feel right.”

  “That’s because they aren’t,” Reivan muttered, scanning the broken structures ahead. “In the game, this place had a death counter of over ninety percent.”

  Garm, who had been chewing on dried meat like this was just another day, finally took interest. “Ninety percent?”

  “Ninety,” Reivan confirmed. “That means nine out of ten players who entered died within five minutes.”

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  One of the mercenaries visibly paled. “Are you serious?”

  Reivan didn’t answer. He just kept walking forward.

  The entrance to the vault was buried under centuries of rubble. It took them nearly an hour of digging, pushing aside broken slabs of stone before they uncovered a rusted metal door—engraved with symbols that had long since faded. Reivan knew better than to touch it immediately.

  “Everyone step back,” he ordered.

  Garm blinked. “Why? It’s just a—”

  Reivan threw a rock at the door.

  The moment it made contact, an explosion of blue fire erupted outward, instantly incinerating the rock into dust. The flames burned unnaturally, consuming nothing but still roaring like a forge.

  Garm whistled. “Huh. That would’ve been bad.”

  “No kidding,” Reivan muttered. He pulled a vial from his pouch—a liquid concoction made from crushed frost-lilies. He tossed it at the door, and the moment it shattered, the fire extinguished instantly.

  The mercenaries stared at him.

  Sylpkx grinned. “He does this a lot.”

  Reivan simply shrugged. “I do my research.”

  Once they got inside, the real problems started. The vault wasn’t just a storage room. It was a burial ground of old kings. And the kings did not like being disturbed.

  The first trap was a pressure-plate death corridor.

  The moment they stepped inside, the ground shuddered, and a row of spears shot from the walls, barely missing one of the mercenaries by a hair. Reivan didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the man by the back of his collar and yanked him back just as the second wave of spears lunged forward.

  “That,” Reivan said, still gripping the now hyperventilating mercenary, “is why we don’t rush in like idiots.”

  Sylpkx knelt by the floor, tracing the faint engravings between the cracks. “It’s a pattern. The triggers are old, but they’re still active.”

  Reivan nodded. “We’ll need to step exactly where I say. One mistake, and we’re all shish kebabs.”

  Garm grinned. “Sounds fun.”

  It was not fun.

  Navigating the spears took nearly twenty minutes of absolute precision. One of the mercenaries lost his nerve halfway through and nearly got impaled, but Sylpkx grabbed him at the last second, flipping him onto her back like a sack of grain before continuing on.

  When they finally reached the end of the corridor, the vault chamber awaited them.

  The relic was there.

  A small, golden pendant, resting on an altar.

  Reivan did not immediately grab it.

  He knew better.

  “Something’s wrong,” he muttered, scanning the room. He turned to the mercenaries. “Do not touch anything. Do not breathe too hard. If your nose itches, suffer through it.”

  Garm squinted. “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

  Reivan picked up a rock and lightly tossed it toward the altar.

  The moment it crossed an invisible threshold, the walls screamed.

  Not normal screaming—tormented wails. Ghostly, shrieking voices filled the chamber, and suddenly the shadows twisted, rising into the forms of long-dead warriors clad in decayed armor, their swords gleaming even in death.

  One of the mercenaries did the logical thing and immediately fainted.

  Reivan swore. “Knew it. Shadow Guardians.”

  Sylpkx, who had drawn her claws in an instant, glanced at him. “Any brilliant ideas, genius?”

  “Yeah,” Reivan muttered. “Run.”

  And they ran.