Transmigrated into a "God-Tier" Game

There was a game called Lord of Empire.

Developed with obsessive care by Vesta—a titan of a studio whose mere name commanded nods of reverence from any seasoned gamer—it was heralded as the definitive AAA fantasy RPG. True to its title, the ultimate objective was to reign supreme over a vast realm, offering players an staggering breadth of choices to realize their ambition.

You could play as the legitimate heir to the crown, waging cutthroat political warfare against your siblings to seize the throne.

You could start from the squalor of the gutter and claw your way up to become a merchant oligarch, pulling the empire's strings from the shadows.

Of course, fantasy was nothing without magic. One could tread the path of an archmage, communing with the arcane mysteries to bend reality to their whim.

And if none of that appealed to you, there was always the option to trample everything beneath your heel through sheer, overwhelming brute force.

From the moment its initial reveal trailer dropped, Lord of Empire was crowned the single most anticipated title in the industry. Unfortunately, the developers then proceeded to go completely dark for nearly three years without releasing a single scrap of new information, reducing gaming forums across the globe to an absolute wasteland of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠collective madness.

Just when the official release date had deteriorated into a bitter, hollow meme, an official teaser barely five seconds long was uploaded out of nowhere.

It was more than enough spark to set the parched, dying player base ablaze.

Countless gamers cleared their schedules a whole week in advance, and I was no exception.

"No way in hell am I missing this."

Attending a midnight launch was a matter of utmost gravity. Any card-carrying member of the world's four-billion-plus gaming population would have readily agreed.

The instant the game booted up, I skipped past the magnificent opening cinematic and jumped straight into the character creation screen. Choosing a class didn't require even a second of deliberation; after giving the roster a cursory glance, I immediately locked in the Barbarian Warrior.

Deep down, every man harbored a primal barbarian waiting to be unleashed. After all, the pure, unadulterated joy of gaming lay in cleaving your enemies in twain and tearing them to pieces, didn't it? While the absence of a detailed appearance customizer was slightly disappointing, the character's default build was rugged and satisfying enough to make up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for it.

Right as my finger hovered over the start button, my phone chimed with a crystal-clear alert.

"……"

A bead of cold sweat traced a slow path down my forehead. In my excitement, I had forgotten the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠final, most insurmountable hurdle of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my day.

My personal trainer's suffocating attentiveness tightened around my throat like a garrote wire. After agonizing over my options, I crafted a desperate reply.

Under normal circumstances, even a suspicious trainer would relent when confronted with a medical excuse. It wasn't as though he was going to march over to my house or anything, so what could he do?

The horrifying snag was that the man somehow knew my home address, despite the fact that I had never once disclosed it to him.

What the hell do you mean 'between the two of us,' you psychotic bastard? I wanted to scream, but prudence held my tongue. It definitely wasn't because I was terrified of him. Absolutely not.

...Come to think of it, I had already endured three agonizing years of waiting. Did logging in on the exact minute of release truly matter all that much? Postponing a playthrough by a couple of hours wouldn't lock me out of some limited-time event. At best, being there for the opening minute was cheap vanity—an empty illusion.

A sound mind resided within a sound body. Going to the gym to sweat out the tension would only make my eventual gaming session all the sweeter. Trembling, I typed out a surrender.

Terrifying psycho.

Hurl every curse imaginable in my head though I did, I bolted out the door and sprinted toward the gym. Had I known an eight-ton dump truck was barreling down the road to meet me, I would have deliberated a little longer.

"...Ivan."

Havel, a towering barbarian warrior, looked down at the man dying upon the straw cot with an expression steeped in mourning. Watching the final moments of his sworn brother—now reduced to little more than a living corpse—tore viciously at his heart.

The warriors of the frozen North did not fear death. They believed with every fiber of their beings that the War God, Baldor, would personally shepherd the souls of those who perished honorably in battle. But succumbing to an illness in bed was a far different fate. The hand of the god did not extend to cowards who lacked the valor of blood and iron; those who died in comfort were denied salvation, cursed to drift through the spirit realm for all eternity.

To these men, such an end was the ultimate horror.

"...Is there truly no other way?" Havel asked, his voice thick with unshed tears, desperate for any shred of salvation for his brother.

The High Priest pressed a withered, hesitant hand against Ivan's chest, then shook his head. The flesh beneath his fingers was already chilling over, devoid of even the faintest flutter of a heartbeat. With a quiet sigh, the shaman drew his palm downward, closing the dead youth's unseeing eyes.

"Lord Baldor, God of War. Look with pity upon your humble servant."

Havel's face contorted in sheer agony. His massive frame shuddered violently as he seized Ivan's limp hand, breaking down into silent, convulsive sobs. It was a spectacle so raw that even a total stranger would have been moved to tears.

Beneath the stifling, frigid sorrow blanketing the room, the High Priest grew privately irritated. He was a keeper of sacred rites and funeral curses, not a physician. Having to be dragged out to showcase his medical ineptitude in front of the clansmen every time someone fell ill felt profoundly unfair. Just as he was mentally calculating the quickest way to conclude this unpleasant affair and slip away, Havel gasped, his breathing turning ragged.

"Huh?"

The barbarian snapped upright and slammed his broad hand back onto Ivan's chest, his eyes widening in shock. "It's beating!! His heart is beating!!"

"……?"

The High Priest tilted his head in mild bewilderment and let out an impatient sigh. "Did I not just tell you? It is impossible for the dead to return. Such a thing defies the sacred order of—"

"I'm telling you it's beating! Come look for yourself!!"

Before the priest could object, a hand like an iron vise seized his collar and yanked him forward. Miserable savage, he cursed internally. Suppressing his urge to spit, he forced his tone to remain as gentle as possible so as not to provoke the deranged warrior.

"I understand your grief runs deep, but acting like this will not bring him back to—wait, what?"

The High Priest froze, unable to believe his senses. Color was rushing back into the cold, pallid skin, and beneath the ribs, the heart was thumping with violent, furious strength, as if it had never ceased at all.

Could it really be...?

Before the old shaman could process his shock, a second miracle tore through the chamber.

"GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!"

Ivan bolted upright, screaming at the top of his lungs as if escaping the deepest pit of a nightmare. To be precise, it was the exact kind of bloodcurdling shriek a man would produce right before being pulverized by an eight-ton truck driven by a dozing trucker.

Gasping for breath like a stranded fish, Ivan whipped his head in every direction, his disoriented eyes taking in the furs, the timber beams, and the hulking figures surrounding him. Slowly, weakly, he parted his dry lips.

"Where... where the hell am—oof!!"

"Waaaahhh!! BROTHERRRRRR!!!!!!"

Before he could finish his sentence, an enormous, weeping barbarian tackled him into a bone-crushing bear hug that drove the remaining oxygen from his lungs.

"Wait—I don't know who you are, but let go—ack, cough!"

Though Ivan was on the verge of asphyxiation, the surrounding warriors wiped quiet tears from their eyes, watching the scene unfold with warm, radiant smiles. What a magnificent display of brotherhood. What a glorious bond.

Not everyone in the room shared their unreserved joy, however.

The High Priest found himself catching the sharp, skeptical gazes of several warriors lurking near the doorway. Their eyes practically screamed, Didn't you just proclaim him dead? In that fleeting instant, the old man felt the icy premonition that his political standing within the tribe was dangling over a precipice.

He had to resolve this disaster immediately. But how?

His mind worked in frantic, desperate overdrive, and within seconds, he arrived at the singular narrative that could salvage his authority.

"BALDOR HAS BESTOWED A MIRACLE UPON US!!!"

The High Priest bellowed with every ounce of air in his lungs, dropping to his knees and prostrating himself before the cot as if witnessing the divine visage of godhood itself.

"O Great War God, look down upon us with favor!!!"

Snapping out of their daze, the battle-hardened warriors stared at the priest for a bewildered second before eagerly tumbling to the ground, slamming their foreheads against the frozen dirt in frantic competition.

""O WAR GOD, LOOK DOWN UPON US WITH FAVOR!!!!!""

In the blink of an eye, the somber sickroom transformed into a fervent temple of worship, echoing with the rapturous chants of zealots who had witnessed a holy resurrection with their own eyes.

Meanwhile, the central figure of this sacred miracle clawed desperately at the mountain of muscle crushing his ribs, fighting for a single breath as his internal monologue screamed in pure bewilderment:

No, but seriously—where the fuck am I?!