The Glitch

The end of the world didn't sound like a bang. It sounded like a crunch.

It was the sound of the magical wards surrounding the capital city shattering like cheap glass.

Valian woke up not to sunlight, but to a shadow. The sky above Aethelgard had turned the color of a bruised plum. Ash fell like snow, coating the velvet of his chaise lounge in grey filth.

He sat up, blinking groggily. "Elara?"

**[SYSTEM ALERT: MAIN QUEST STARTED.]**

**[Objective: Survive.]**

**[Current Level: 5]**

**[Enemy Level: 65+]**

The numbers didn't make sense. Level 65? That was end-game content. That was impossible for a starter zone.

A scream tore through the air—a raw, wet sound that ended abruptly.

Valian scrambled to his feet, tripping over his own robes. He ran to the balcony edge. The manicured gardens were gone. In their place was a churning sea of fire and bodies. And walking through the flames were the Northern Hordes.

They weren't men. They were giants of iron and sewn flesh, wielding weapons that looked like structural beams torn from buildings. One of them smashed a marble statue of Valian’s grandfather into dust with a casual backhand.

"No," Valian whispered. "This is wrong. The scaling is off."

He frantically waved his hand in the air, summoning his menu.

* Inventory.* Empty.
* Skills.* Locked. Locked. Locked.
* Magic.* Insufficient Mana.

"Status!" he shrieked. "Where is my plot armor? Where is the emergency power-up?"

The door to the terrace burst open. Splinters flew everywhere.

Elara stumbled in. She was missing her helmet. Her left pauldron was sheared off, revealing a deep, bleeding gash on her shoulder. Her sword was notched and dripping with black blood.

"Valian!" she gasped, grabbing his arm. Her grip was bruising. "We have to move. The Keep is breached. They’re in the hallways."

"Elara, I can't—" Valian stammered, staring at the blood on her arm. It was too red. It looked too real. In games, damage was just a red bar decreasing. This... this was meat and bone. "My System isn't working. I don't have any XP!"

"Forget your delusions!" Elara shouted, shaking him. It was the first time she had ever raised her voice at him. "Pick up a sword! Run! Do *something*!"

She dragged him toward the service corridor. Valian stumbled after her, his legs feeling like jelly. He was Prince Valian, the Chosen One. He was supposed to cast a spell and wipe the board.

But as they ran through the burning hallways, stepping over the bodies of maids and guards he had known since birth, Valian realized the terrifying truth.

He wasn't the player. He was just a Level 5 mob in a Level 65 dungeon.