Let Us Start the Game (1)
This story is fiction. The characters, ideologies, and events within the work have no relation to reality.
Some games require agreement to this statement before play can begin. Even games that don't strictly need it usually start with similar disclaimers to inform players of precautions.
The greatest strength of games—immersion that no other medium can match—is undermined from the outset, even though everyone knows creative works are fictional. There's no obligation to include such phrases, so why do they?
Probably to constantly reinforce a fact everyone must always remember.
[The purpose of fiction is not to judge beliefs existing in reality.]
This message is for the developers themselves.
[Nothing in fiction can replace reality.]
This message is for the players who will join the story of this creation.
Now. Do you agree?
"What the hell? I can actually kill it?"
The man, clad in rags and wielding a battered sword—his only possessions—muttered in disbelief. He didn't have any standout features. Probably not someone whose name was known.
Or maybe not.
What mattered was the man dying from that battered sword stabbed into his body.
"Urgh…."
As the man yanked the blade free from the mercenary's body, the mercenary's legs gave out, and he crumpled to his knees. The mercenary had no strength left to resist. He couldn't even lift his arm to swing his sword, nor muster the focus to grit his teeth and cast a spell.
"You… how… why?"
So the mercenary abandoned resistance and chose words instead. Why had this guy suddenly attacked without warning? He'd only found the man collapsed nearby, dragged him to this cave for safety. What kind of person would wake up and do this?
His curiosity burned so fiercely that he had to ask.
"Fascinating."
The man stroked his chin, staring down at the dying mercenary. His tattered clothes and thoughtful pose gave him an eerie, almost horrifying air.
Soon, he broke his silence, as if he'd reached a decision.
"Didn't expect attacks to work on an NPC. So that's how they made this game, huh?"
"…What?"
The mercenary couldn't make sense of it. NPC. Attacks working unexpectedly. Game. No matter how he turned the words over, they meant nothing to him—a man who'd lived his whole life under the 'setting' of a mercenary.
No. Answer properly. Properly—
But he couldn't finish the thought, couldn't even ponder the response. His consciousness faded.
A killing driven by nothing but curiosity, without reason.
That was the first death of Aiden Oliver, the NPC.
The clash of two swords echoed loudly through the vast space.
Such sounds were common in training grounds, but this was different. The two were just handling a request as usual. They'd simply teamed up after crossing paths in the same area.
"Why are you doing this?! This isn't the time!"
Yet the woman who'd been fighting alongside him until moments ago now aimed full force at Aiden's throat.
He didn't know what absurd misunderstanding had sparked it, but in an instant, all the trust they'd built crumbled, turning them into enemies.
Or maybe it wasn't a misunderstanding at all. Maybe she just wanted a fight.
Damn it.
Her movements were exactly as Aiden remembered—powerful for her unassuming build, agile relying solely on physical prowess. Everything matched.
But he'd never imagined she'd turn on him like this, striking from ambush.
"Listen to me. Please!"
Even as their blades locked, Aiden kept trying to stop her. He talked, held back on attacks more than necessary. He knew speaking in combat was pointless.
But pointless fights were even more so.
Clear up misunderstandings, meet demands within reason. He wanted it to end that way. Their bond wasn't shallow.
"…."
But it was far too late to turn back.
Blood poured from Aiden's throat. From a vital spot that shouldn't bleed.
Unthinkingly, he dropped his sword and clutched his neck with both hands. The pain was less than expected. But no matter how he pressed, the blood wouldn't stop.
"Why… what went wrong?"
Aiden asked. Speaking hurt with the wound, but he had to know the reason for this unjust death.
"Hah."
She replied—or muttered to herself.
"What kind of guide is this? Why kill the NPC? Ruining the mood."
It barely qualified as an answer. She wasn't even looking at him anymore. She just picked up his dropped weapons and hurried off, as if done with him.
Was this her plan from the start?
Even collapsing face-down in death, Aiden reached for her. But his eyes grew heavy, his raised arm slackened.
That was the end.
Such 'NPC killings' repeated, and repeated, and repeated.
Aiden Oliver, a mere side character, died over and over.
Who would sense something wrong? Who would call the killers villains?
Aiden Oliver was just data, an NPC. The others were players, free to roam the world as they pleased…
It was just a game, after all.
"This story is…."
NPC Aiden Oliver murmured the phrase he'd heard in his dream. He couldn't recall what followed.
Still, the mercenary pondered his own mutterings, wondering why that simple line evaded him when the rest was so vivid.
"…Can't remember."
Aiden gave up replaying the unpleasant memories and surveyed his surroundings.
That guy's just a simple merchant. That one's a regular mercenary at this inn. That one's the pawnshop owner.
The same routine, the same bustling cityscape.
It was definitely here.
But Aiden clutched his head, grimacing.
One of the countless places from those dubious memories where he'd met death. Not just him—passersby and guards had died too.
The most populous city nearby, Koun.
That grand place was right here.
What were those dreams?
Aiden closed his eyes, recalling the surreal experiences.
The injustice of slaughter by a ragged man. The betrayal and throat-slash by some woman. The despair of masses dying to one person, helpless to act.
All those memories flooded Aiden Oliver's mind as 'dreams'.
Dreams? No way. What dream feels this….
Even as dreams, the pains were vivid. The death counts precise. Even awake, nausea and phantom pains lingered.
Those weren't dreams. They were memories.
Memories of betrayal and death without reason.
"Aiden, why're you still out here?"
A friendly voice called to the frowning Aiden, lost in recollection.
"…Maika."
It was Maika, one of his friends—and the innkeeper. How he found time to check on a friend amid work was a mystery, but his concern was genuine.
Yet Aiden couldn't relax into the kindness. Sometimes familiar words felt alien, and now everything did.
"It's nothing. Just had a weird dream, needed some air."
"Weren't you heading out for a job today? Rest if you're off."
"Nonsense."
Aiden hid his trembling arm behind his back, feigning normalcy. Just a dream, but recalling it darkened his vision and churned his gut.
"If you're sick, talk to someone, dummy."
Unfortunately, he failed to hide it. Or maybe Maika's innkeeper experience sharpened his instincts.
"I'm fine. The guy who never believed me before—now you're worried? Creepy."
Aiden laughed it off casually. Of course he wanted to tell his friend everything, share the burden over suffering alone.
But how? It all felt so unreal.
"Fine, do what you want."
Thankfully, Maika didn't pry further. If Aiden said he was okay, that was that. What could happen overnight?
"Anyway, dude, didn't you say you gotta go now?"
"Yeah. I know, no need to rush me."
"Then hurry up. Tired of waiting."
As if on cue, Maika pointed to the second-floor room, pressuring him. Few rented rooms this early, so he'd given leeway—but not forever. After the favor, Aiden had just stood silently by the door, lost in thought.
"…Got it."
"Yeah, get out quick so I can clean up. Quick."
Finally, Aiden grabbed his bag and weapons, escaping his friend's nagging.
He had to leave now anyway to avoid delay—Maika's prodding was considerate, really.
"I'm off."
"Don't die. Won't search for you in that freezing hell."
Aiden waved to Maika, who waited for customers at a table, and left the inn. Maika's parting words—his usual send-off for friends and guests alike—struck Aiden oddly fresh.
Because of the memories?
Alone now, Aiden sighed at the familiar streets and carriages.
Nothing made sense. Aiden Oliver lived here, yet he had vivid memories of dying.
Thousands of times before the inn, thousands in places he'd never been.
Assuming all memories were real—not mere dreams—Aiden walked on, deep in thought.
How do I even process this?
In the memories, his deaths occurred in fixed spots: inn front, cave interior, wasteland ruins.
Humans could die anywhere, yet the processes repeated.
「"Didn't expect attacks to work on an NPC. Same as the last game."」
In the cave, helping a ragged stranger led to death.
「"Shit, attacking here draws the guards."」
At the inn front, stabbed from behind in ambush.
「"A bit late, but… easiest to kill here."」
In some unknown place, attacked mid-fight against enemies.
If I go to those places, will it happen?
Memories included unfamiliar spots, even using magic he couldn't now.
Putting it together, Aiden reached a conclusion.
Or… are these future events?
Some might call it over-immersion in a normal dream.
But the mental shock was too intense for that. Too many 'death memories' for a few hours' sleep, all detailed.
On slim evidence, Aiden guessed they foretold the future.
If so, what do I do?
All ended in death: frequent spots like the inn front, or the snowfield cave he headed to now for work.
He couldn't flee in fear, quit jobs, cut ties. He had to face it head-on.
I wish it was all delusion.
Aiden found his conclusion absurd. Better embarrassed later if nothing happened.
Yet somehow, he felt certain—like a whisper assuring him he was right.
"To the snowfield?"
"Yeah, if you're going, hop on now—dunno when the next one's coming."
Lost in thought, Aiden reached the carriage and confirmed his destination.
The snowy region, rife with white beasts and bandits. A job awaited there.
"Please take care."
Aiden set aside worries, paid, and bowed politely to the driver.
It was all delusion anyway. He'd check, but even that seemed excessive worry for a delusion.
"My line. Long ride ahead."
Aiden accepted the driver's greeting and boarded as always.
