A Bricked Build
The Key.
A sprawling role-playing game where the player roamed a magic-infused nineteenth-century Europe to avert the end of the world. Celebrated for its staggering freedom and breathtaking visuals, it had earned near-universal acclaim—and it was, without question, his favorite game in existence. The intricate, subversive storyline alone made every playthrough a feast.
Just last night, he had booted up the newly unlocked maximum difficulty. But while waiting through the loading screen, bone-deep exhaustion had overtaken him, and he slumped forward into unconsciousness.
He remembered that much clearly. So where on earth was this lavish, antique bedroom...?
"Gah...!"
Arthur clawed frantically at his chest, his fingers scrabbling against fabric and skin where a fatal hole had been carved out only moments ago.
Had it been a nightmare?
His body was entirely whole. And, unfortunately, this opulent bedchamber remained just as real as before.
The name of the vessel he had possessed was Arthur Croft. By all indications, he had been thrown headfirst into the world of The Key—and on hardcore difficulty, no less.
Before his panic could fully spiral, the same white-haired maid who had delivered his lunch yesterday slipped quietly into the room. When he pointed toward the desk and told her to leave the tray there, she set it down, gave a silent nod, and shut the door behind her on the way out.
Arthur drew a slow breath, forcing his racing thoughts to cool. The exact same maid, delivering the exact same meal—a prickle of uncanny déjà vu raised the hairs on his arms. Even the timing of her entrance had matched down to the second. Crossing to the window, he looked down into the courtyard: the estate servants were moving along the identical paths they had walked yesterday.
Did I... regress?
He pushed the question aside for a moment and began shoveling the food into his mouth. Having skipped dinner yesterday while scrambling to get his bearings after waking up in this body, his stomach burned with hollow hunger.
Once the tray was clean, his mind went to work. In The Key, each difficulty setting assigned the player a completely different background and personal storyline. Yet across hundreds of hours of playtime, he had never once encountered the name Arthur Croft. Deducing from that, wasn't it likely that this body was the protagonist for the brand-new, unreleased highest difficulty? It lined up perfectly—he had lost consciousness right after finalizing the settings for that mode.
That he was trapped inside the game itself was practically beyond doubt. The historical codex and world lore he had studied in the manor's library matched the game's setting manuals to the letter, and the borders marked on the study's continental maps were carbon copies.
Assuming the foundational narrative hadn't been warped, one grim certainty remained: this world would face total annihilation in twelve years. No matter how much the protagonist's origins shifted across difficulty settings, the overarching disaster always unfolded on schedule.
If I prevent the apocalypse, can I go home?
Recalling the game's standard victory conditions, that was almost certainly the requirement.
In all his previous playthroughs, he had invariably built his character as a mage. Magic provided unrivaled utility, making progression substantially smoother than the grueling swordsman tree. The spell effects were magnificent to behold, and having the Magic Tower as an affiliation option made it the indisputable top-tier class.
One reassuring detail was his noble birth. Hard mode had thrown the player onto the soot-slicked cobbles as a destitute factory orphan; compared to that misery, starting as high nobility was a hundred times better.
Retracing the route a servant had shown him yesterday, Arthur headed back down to the library. He selected five volumes on introductory arcana and carried them to his quarters. Though he had landed squarely in a hardcore run, despair hadn't entirely claimed him. Having poured countless hours into this title, he possessed an intimate knowledge of the main scenario. While the notes he had frantically scribbled down yesterday had vanished with the time loop, his memory retained the essential beats.
If he followed his tried-and-true pyromancer build, clearing the game was entirely within reach. But to cultivate that kind of strength, he first had to survive tonight.
Fortunately, he had the advantage of foresight. As an aristocrat of this house, couldn't he simply order the guards to protect him?
"We maintain an unbroken perimeter around the manor grounds, young master. An assassin? Your delusions are getting out of hand."
The guard, clad in heavy plate armor, had practically barked at him, scowling with blatant contempt. Arthur had blinked in disbelief. Is an ordinary guard even allowed to speak to a highborn noble like that? Protocol aside, one fact was abundantly clear: the man had zero intention of standing watch by his bedside.
Could I just wait out the night somewhere outside this room?
"Young master, you are under house arrest. Please remain quietly in your quarters."
That had been the guard's flat, unyielding dismissal. Arthur had tried appealing to other servants throughout the afternoon, but every single one averted their eyes, their sneers and cold shoulders impossible to miss.
Something was deeply wrong. The hostility bordering on outright revulsion was unnatural.
In the end, evening fell without a single defensive preparation in place. Anxiety gnawed at his gut. When the dinner hour arrived, a different maid—one with mousy brown hair—brought his evening meal. Desperate for any safeguard, Arthur had blurted out the truth about the assassin, pleading for her to stay and help.
And yet...
"Ah... um... I..."
Her voice seized, dissolving into panicked stammering. Tears pooled in her wide, trembling eyes, and she bowed her head as if on the verge of bursting into sobs.
"P-Please give me some time to think...!"
With that squeaked cry, she bolted out the door and vanished down the corridor.
Knock, knock.
A crisp rapping sounded against the wood. Arthur pulled the door open to find the white-haired maid standing in the hallway—the familiar face who had brought his lunch and spent the afternoon scrubbing the carpets outside.
"What brings you here?"
"Regarding your claim that an assassin will strike tonight."
"Ah."
"I shall keep you company in her stead."
Had the brown-haired girl who fled sent her as a substitute? Whatever the reason, immense relief washed over him. He had genuinely thought he was marked for death. Arthur promptly ushered her toward the bed.
During his previous life, the assassin had shown clear hesitation the instant Arthur screamed and footfalls approached outside. With two people in the room rather than one, the intruder might postpone the hit or abandon the contract altogether. His plan was simple: let her rest comfortably on the mattress while he continued poring over his magic texts at the desk.
"Shall I undress now?"
"Just take it easy and rest right ov—wait, what?"
The maid looked at him with an entirely deadpan expression.
"Were you not merely using an assassin as an excuse to demand bedtime service?"
"No! I swear to you, an actual assassin is—"
A catastrophic misunderstanding. Yet explaining that he had already been murdered once and looped backward in time would only sound like raving lunacy. Scrambling to patch over the suspicion, he spun the most plausible lie he could muster.
"The truth is, when I went out recently, I happened to overhear talk that a blade would be sent for me tonight."
"Young master Arthur, are you not currently confined to your quarters under disciplinary house arrest?"
Right. I completely forgot about that.
Just what kind of life had this body led for everyone to regard him with bitter contempt or jump straight to predatory assumptions? Arthur winced.
"Why does everyone despise me so much? Do you... happen to recall why I was placed under house arrest in the first place?"
"If you are referring to this current confinement... my recollection is that you became thoroughly intoxicated, thrust a purse of coins into the hands of a young noblewoman, and attempted to drag her to bed."
...Well. That explains the misunderstanding.
Was the original proprietor of this flesh an irredeemable scoundrel?
"Could you... enlighten me on how I usually conduct myself?"
"Hmm."
She seemed to ponder the request for a quiet moment before recounting his daily routines and past escapades. As the list went on, Arthur's expression hardened into grim certainty.
"Total human garbage."
"You possess remarkable self-awareness."
A faint, dry smirk seemed to brush past the maid's porcelain features.
"Though I must ask, why inquire about such things now?"
"To be frank... I've suffered severe memory loss, and I can't recall a single thing. If I've ever caused you grief in the past, I'm truly sorry."
He was completely blind to the lay of the land; surviving without a single ally on his side was an impossible prospect. Unlike the other servants, this maid hadn't bolted at the sight of him. If he kept her close and had her brief him on the essentials, he might just find a way through this mess.
When he laid out his plea as earnestly as he could, the maid offered a soft, amused curve of her lips and agreed to assist him. Introducing herself as Aria, she noted that she hadn't been employed at the Croft residence for very long—which neatly explained why she bore no deep-seated resentment toward the original Arthur.
"Shall I begin by providing directions to your favored brothels?"
"I won't be visiting those anymore...!"
Behind that cool, unreadable face lay a knack for deadpan mockery that left him flustered, but as she was his sole lifeline, he was hardly in a position to complain. True to her word, Aria gave him a concise rundown of Arthur's usual speech mannerisms and the general layout of the ducal estate. Compared to yesterday, when he had been slamming his skull against a blank wall, this was monumental progress.
"Returning to the matter at hand—is this assassin business genuine?"
"It's difficult to explain, but... someone is definitely coming."
"Hmm. Very well, I shall take your word for it."
With their arrangement settled, Arthur returned to his desk. He opened the grimoire, determined to lay the groundwork for his magic build just as he had always done in the game. Familiar terminology and lore concepts leaped out from the yellowed parchment, but the underlying theory was dizzyingly dense. Still, he gritted his teeth and pressed on, until Aria's calm voice broke the quiet.
"It is quite a novelty seeing you engrossed in a book, young master. Have you developed a sudden fascination with magic?"
"Yeah. Though it's surprisingly brutal to grasp."
"You are a swordsman, young master. Forming a circle will prove rather difficult."
"...What?"
"This is House Croft, after all—renowned for its lineage of blades."
Arthur froze. A passage from the game's setting compendium struck his mind like a physical blow: physical combatants channeled mana through their Blood Channels, a flow that fundamentally disrupted the steady rotation required to stabilize mana circles. In other words, the system demanded an absolute commitment from character creation. If the blood channels in this body were already unsealed, manifesting a circle was impossible.
He recalled that an elite mid-boss swordsman in The Key hailed from the Croft family, but he had never bothered looking into the clan's deeper lore. Still, he was the second son of a prestigious martial dynasty. Could it be that beneath his vile reputation, this body harbored extraordinary dormant talent for the blade?
"Nothing of the sort," Aria remarked evenly. "Your natural aptitude is thoroughly mediocre, though thanks to the exorbitant quantity of rare elixirs forced down your throat, you perform around the Academy average."
"...I see."
A completely bricked build, paired with rock-bottom reputation. Zero latent talent, and with his social standing in utter ruin, recruiting reliable companions was an absolute fantasy. Even after sinking over a thousand hours into this game, he couldn't see a single path out of this mire.
"I'm so screwed..."