Epilogue

It was on that same day that an announcement was made—an announcement that

would shake the very foundations of the world.

Parietal Association Cortex Connection Terminal.

Known colloquially as a PACC Terminal, or a neuron access terminal, it was a

revolutionary technology developed by a venture capital company in Canada, which

had already been making a name for itself with its groundbreaking technologies—and

by drawing talented engineers away from the United States. Even so, the announcement

shocked the world.

Through a simple surgery, a small PACC module could be implanted at the base of the

skull. When connected to an external device, the module would connect the user to a

virtual world, allowing images to be streamed straight to the brain.

These virtual worlds engaged all the human senses, making them indistinguishable

from the real world.

Of course, the dangers and ethical issues associated with this technology were

countless. But that did little to stop it from finding traction in various industries,

proving especially useful in astronaut training and other scenarios where avoiding

risk to life and limb was an absolute imperative.

There was no real difference between the training conducted in these virtual worlds

and real-life experience, with the important exception that no one would die in the

event of an accident, allowing for incredibly realistic training scenarios.

From firefighter to police training, or even allowing athletes to work on improving

their form, this technology gave people a chance to practice incredibly repetitive tasks

without putting undue strain on their bodies.

One issue, however, arose with the use of a program intended to minimize the risks of

soldiers suffering from PTSD. By allowing soldiers to train on a virtual battlefield

where pain was reduced, the PACC Terminal greatly minimized the stress soldiers felt

on the actual field of battle. Soldiers who hadn't undergone such training described

those who had as unnatural in their lack of concern for death, leading to accusations

that the government was brainwashing its soldiers.

The soldiers who'd undergone training through a PACC Terminal, however, praised the

system, which only lent credence to the idea that they'd been brainwashed, and

sparked more debates between those who wanted to end the program and those who

wanted to expand it.

Due to these debates, use of the PACC Terminal began waning and, for a time, it looked

as if further development might come to a complete standstill.

That was, until the International Standardization Organization (otherwise known as

the ISO) finally decided to step up and put in place some agreed-upon rules for how

the world would use PACC technology.

Around that same time, though, the VC company in Canada developed a new technology

for the PACC Terminal: the "Spirit and Time Room System."

As if ripped from the pages of a popular Japanese manga, the STR System allowed the

user to experience time passing much more slowly in the virtual world than it was in

the real world. This meant, for example, that a person could spend one hour in a

virtual world created within the STR System and feel as if three hours had passed.

This technology was the stuff dreams were made of, as it would allow people to

conduct training in a fraction of the time it would normally take.

However, there were concerns over the burden this might put on the brain, so the

compression was limited to a maximum of three times normal speed.

Eventually, the PACC Terminal began finding use outside a select few industries and

started enjoying wider adoption among the public, especially gamers.

Due to the surgery required to implant the module, the PACC Terminal was limited to

users eighteen or older, but there was still a large, untapped market of people who

were enticed by this unparalleled form of virtual reality.

One of these users was a man who became so completely entranced by the promise of

these PACC-generated virtual realities that it consumed his entire life.

In spite of their newfound popularity, the technologies needed for the PACC Terminals

were still relatively expensive, as was the equipment needed to run them. Add in the

surgery itself, and a PACC implant cost around the same amount as a modestly sized

car.

Moreover, none of this was covered by insurance, as it was seen as an elective

procedure. The man felt this was fair.

Day after day, he crammed himself onto a crowded commuter train for a meager

paycheck, only to return to a cramped apartment. His life could charitably be described

as monotonous.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, however, he knew that this wasn't the life for

him—there was a greater story waiting to be told.

When he learned that a European company needed playtesters for a VR game it was

developing for the PACC Terminal, he applied without hesitation.

The game was a fantasy RPG in which the players would become powerful magicians.

The goal was for them to expand their territories, invade and conquer those held by

other players, and build their empires.

Since it was still in the testing phase, there were only a limited number of magician

types to choose from, but players had the option to be either a human, an elf, or a

goblin.

The man chose to be an undead human magician. He took control of the human

territories and used his magic on the residents to reinforce his armies.

After playing the game repeatedly over the course of a month, he felt as if he were a

forerunner of humanity's journey into the future. And he was having a great time of it.

Some playtesters felt that the deaths in the game were just a bit too real, and suggested

that it might be better to make them less realistic. Others, however, like the man in

question, felt that since this was the first PACC-based game to be released, the

developer shouldn't spare any detail.

They'd created a whole new world, after all. The man felt it would be an absolute

shame to neuter it this early in development, no matter what the reason. This may

have been because his character primarily focused on magical attacks, and he was

largely unfazed by the deaths of his rivals.

As far as he was concerned, this was all a made-up world, no matter how real it might

seem.

However, one day, everything changed.

After taking a break for lunch, the man returned to his condo, plugged the PACC

Terminal into the base of his skull, and launched the game.

He lay down on his bed as the low hum of the system booting up whirred in his ears.

That was the last time he would ever be seen.

***

A figure stirred in the bed, looking as if the dead had just woken.

He wore elegant robes and a large headdress with the symbol of the Hilk church

emblazoned on it. His face was completely obscured by a veil.

His mind was still foggy from the deep sleep he'd just awoken from. Hazy memories

of another person in the distant past flittered about in his mind. He waved his hand

through the air in front of him, but the screen he was expecting to see failed to appear.

It'd been a long time—a hundred years or so—since he'd seen the logout screen, back

when this was all just a game.

He suspected that there was something wrong with the STR System, which had

allowed him to live here in the game for a lifetime while mere days were passing in the

real world, though how many days was still a mystery. None of this particularly

bothered him however.

Assuming that a dozen or so days had passed in the real world, he would surely be

dead by now from starvation, or more likely dehydration. But the fact that he was still

here meant that his body must be fine.

He stood up from the bed and made his way to the window, gazing out from the central

cathedral in Alsus, the capital of the Holy Hilk Kingdom.

The man's name was Thanatos Sylvius Hilk, the pontiff and ruler of the Holy Hilk

Kingdom.

A sudden realization struck him. His voice escaped through his veil as a mere whisper.

"Hmm, one of my loyal subjects has fallen. This is not entirely unexpected."

Skeleton knights, the most common and plentiful of the minions he could create, were

easily defeated by even low-level NPCs.

The loyal subjects who served directly under him, however, were more powerful than

any NPC the world had to offer. Only a player character could have been able to destroy

one of his subjects… which meant that there was another player nearby.

The pontiff couldn't help but wonder if this player had contact with the outside world,

or if they'd encountered the same bug he had.

No matter how fun the game might have been, he'd grown bored with it over the past

100 years.

In the beginning, he'd chosen to kill time by building a kingdom where the living were

protected by the undead. But after a while, the citizens all died off and joined the ranks

of his undead army, which slowly but steadily increased in size until it was a

formidable force.

He would have normally just thrown this army into the field of battle, but since he had

the time, he decided to repeat this process over and over, his days blurring into mindnumbing monotony.

A part of him was excited by the prospect of meeting another of his kind, though he

was annoyed that one of his loyal subjects had been destroyed.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to play the game a little longer.

Pontiff Thanatos looked out the window and laughed. The lands spreading to the

horizon were all his own.

A strong breeze blew down through the valley and into the window of the pontiff's

bedroom, whipping away his veil.

Underneath, the pontiff wore no expression. In fact, he didn't even have a face—just a

skull marked by two pitch-black cavities, inside which flickered a red flame.

This skeleton wore no facial appearance, but the clacking sound its jaw made as it let

out a low chuckle echoed ominously