In the year 2195, technology has reached unimaginable heights. Virtual reality is no longer a novelty—it's the backbone of entertainment, education, and even governance. Neural interfaces, full sensory immersion, and hyper-intelligent AI form the core of daily life.
As society automated to perfection, humanity slowly slid into a strange form of existential boredom. With most jobs taken over by robots and synthetic intelligence, purpose and passion began to fade. People turned to two things for meaning: the ancient discipline of martial arts—and virtual gaming.
It was during this cultural shift that a mysterious game appeared out of nowhere.
Reality of Heavens.
Fifteen years have passed since its sudden, unexplained launch. No developer ever claimed responsibility. No traceable code, no digital signature, not even a server origin. The most elite hackers, powerful multinational corporations, top-tier governments, and even the most dangerous underworld syndicates—all tried to break into its architecture. All failed. Every probe led to firewalls of logic-defying complexity or simply vanished in digital space.
Despite—or perhaps because of—its enigmatic nature, Reality of Heavens drew in billions of players almost overnight. Its world was so immersive, so lifelike, that many found it more meaningful than reality itself. What truly defied explanation was that the game seemed to evolve on its own. Every choice, every war, every alliance shifted the world forever, as if the game was truly alive.
Rumors continue to swirl. Was it created by a rogue AI? An alien intelligence? A secret faction of post-humans? Or is it a digital construct of some forgotten civilization? None can say. But in a time where technology can answer almost every question, Reality of Heavens remains the one enigma that resists all logic.
When the game launched, every government and underground network attempted to hack it, infiltrate it, control it—but all attempts were met with total failure. This only heightened public interest. Within just one month of its release, it had over a billion active users. In the years that followed, investments from supercorporations, defense agencies, criminal organizations, and global councils poured in, hoping to either exploit or understand it.
Now, fifteen years later, the mystery remains as impenetrable as ever.
Inside the game: Kingdom of Miril – Dark Knight Guild Headquarters
In the grand meeting hall of the Dark Knight guild, tension crackled in the air like static before a storm. Despite their recent triumph—seizing control of the mineral-rich kingdom of Miril, a territory valued at over a billion credits—the mood was far from celebratory.
At the head of the obsidian table sat Ravindra, the enigmatic leader of the Dark Knight guild. Once dismissed as a mere mid-tier player, Ravindra had risen through the ranks with ruthless precision, building the guild from obscurity into a powerhouse capable of challenging even the most dominant first-rate guilds. At his side stood Maya, his partner in both strategy and life—a tactician whose name was feared across the virtual world.
But victory brought division.
"You're being reckless, Ravindra!" shouted one of the elder council members, slamming his fist on the table. "We could sell Miril now and make enough credits to retire in real life!"
Others nodded in agreement, murmuring their frustrations. The temptation was strong: the mineral exports from Miril could fund real-world luxuries, investments, even political influence. But Ravindra remained silent, his expression unreadable.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but unwavering.
"Selling Miril would buy us comfort," he said, "but holding it will buy us power. If we ever want to stand against the top guilds, this kingdom is our foundation. It's not just about wealth—it's about legacy."
The guild meeting room of the Dark Knight guild was in chaos. Heated arguments echoed off the stone walls as the elders shouted over one another like wild beasts tearing at scraps.
"You're blinded by pride, Ravindra!" Elder Korm roared, slamming his fist on the polished obsidian table. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and you're too sentimental to take it!"
"We built this guild to gain power, not play king in some digital sandcastle!" another bellowed. "Sell Miril and move on!"
Ravindra sat still, calm in the storm, his cold eyes scanning the room. Beside him, Maya, silent as ever, leaned against a pillar—arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Finally, Elder Varn rose, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "We've had enough of this. As the elder council, we hold 60% of the guild shares. That gives us final authority. The vote passes—we sell Miril."
Dead silence followed. Then, Ravindra chuckled.
A slow, dangerous sound.
"You're bluffing," he said. "You five hold 20% combined. The other 40%? That's with me and Maya."
He turned to her, the ghost of a smile forming. "Isn't that right?"
Maya didn't move.
She didn't even look at him.
Instead, she stepped forward—into the center of the room—and spoke in a calm, razor-sharp voice:
"No, Ravindra. I hold the other 40%."
He blinked. "What?"
"You transferred your shares to me five years ago, remember? For 'security reasons,' in case of infiltration. I was the only one you trusted."
His world stopped spinning.
"Maya… what are you doing?"
She finally looked at him—but her eyes were cold. Empty.
"I'm correcting your mistake," she said. "You built this guild into an empire, Ravindra. But somewhere along the way, you forgot what empires are for."
She turned to the elders.
"As majority shareholder, I hereby approve the sale of the kingdom of Miril. Effective immediately."
The elders watched with wide eyes—part shocked, part smug.
Ravindra slowly stood. "You used me."
"No," she said softly, almost sadly. "I believed in you. I loved you. But love doesn't build legacies. Power does."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "So this is it?"
"No," she said, stepping closer. "This is only the beginning."
And then, just before walking out, she leaned close and whispered into his ear:
"Next time… don't hand your crown to the queen and expect her not to wear it."
The doors slammed behind her. Fifteen years of loyalty, trust, and war—all shattered in a single move.
Ravindra didn't flinch.
But in that moment, the fire in his eyes reignited.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
As the heavy doors of the Dark Knight guild meeting hall slammed shut behind Maya, Ravindra remained still—stone-faced, silent, his mind racing beneath the calm.
Moments later, his vision flickered.
[LOGGING OUT…]
The glowing landscapes of Reality of Heavens dissolved into digital dust as the neural connection severed.
He opened his eyes in the real world—back in his apartment, the cityscape of Zing City blinking through the window behind him, bathed in cold neon.
Then came the sound.
Ding.
A message.
He glanced at his holo-phone. One notification hovered on the translucent screen, pulsing softly.
Transaction Confirmed: +1,000,000,000 Credits added to your account.
Transfer reason: "Asset liquidation – Guild Leadership Contract Clause 4.7(b)"
His heart sank.
Before he could even process it, a second message appeared.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
You have been removed from the Dark Knight guild.
Leadership rights transferred.
And then—
[CHARACTER DELETION IN PROCESS...]
Your character 'Ravindra_The_ArcMage' – Level 250 Magician – has been permanently deleted as per Guild Charter Sub-Clause 9.2.
He stared, frozen.
Fifteen years. All the sleepless nights. The war campaigns. The territory conquers. The endless grinding. Gone in seconds—erased by one corporate-legal clause buried in a thousand-page guild charter that he had helped write.
He whispered to himself, stunned: "They cashed me out like I was just… a number."
The final message appeared, sharp and cold:
"Thank you for your service, Ravindra. The throne always changes hands." —Maya.
And just like that, the screen faded.
His avatar—his identity—his legacy—deleted.
But Ravindra didn't scream. He didn't cry.
He turned away from the window and walked to the small bar in the corner of his apartment. The shelves were lined with vintage bottles—real alcohol, not synth-drinks. He grabbed a dusty bottle of crimson wine, one he'd been saving for a celebration that would now never come.
He uncorked it with shaking hands and poured the glass full.
Then another.
And another.
Hours blurred into shadows. The skyline outside faded into night. Notifications continued to buzz on his holo-screen—news of the guild's sale, public reactions, corporate praise for Maya's "strategic leadership."
Ravindra ignored it all.
He drank until the sharp burn dulled into numbness. Until the pain blurred into silence. Until Maya's face stopped flashing in his mind like a blade.
Eventually, he collapsed onto his bed, still fully clothed, the half-empty bottle dangling from his hand.
He stared at the ceiling, unfocused.
In his mind, fragments played on repeat—the laughter in the guild's early days… Maya smiling at him during the siege of Cynder, the dungeon of the novice village … the first time they swore to take over the game together.
Now, it was all ash.
His hand loosened, the bottle slipping and rolling across the floor.
And finally, in the silence of his high-rise apartment, Ravindra closed his eyes—not for sleep, but to escape the world, if only for a while.
When Ravindra finally opened his eyes, the world was... wrong.
Gone were the sleek chrome walls of his apartment, the hum of smart surfaces, the soft glow of holo-displays. Instead, he was staring at a cracked ceiling fan, its slow, wheezing rotation casting shadows across peeling paint.
The air smelled of rust and rain.
His body ached—heavily. He pushed himself up with effort, the stiff mattress beneath him groaning like it hadn't been used in years. He looked around, heart pounding.
The room was unmistakable.
His old apartment. Zing City. Sector 17.
The place he lived fifteen years ago—before he joined Reality of Heavens, before he became a legend, before Maya.
Everything was the same: the second-hand desk, the broken monitor, the dusty shelves lined with old comics and ramen packets. Even the window still had that crack running down the middle of the glass.
"No way…" he whispered.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. A dull yellow bulb flickered overhead. And there, in the stained mirror—
He saw his reflection.
Younger.
Fifteen years younger.
Slimmer, paler, no beard. Eyes wide. Hands unscarred by combat gauntlets or VR burns.
It wasn't just the apartment.
He checked his laptop and mobile phone as somebody was playing a prank on him but all showed 15 years back details and of the virtual Reality of Heavens launch date in 8 days .
He was fifteen years in the past.
A cold sweat ran down his back. This wasn't a dream. His senses were too sharp. Too real. And the old dial-bed—the kind that linked to obsolete VR servers—sat in the corner like a relic from a different era.