Chapter 19: The Prerequisites for Playing the Game

Several hours later, Marlon’s eyelids fluttered, and he slowly—very slowly—opened his eyes.

He turned his head slightly, scanning the surroundings. The thunder of artillery and the choking smoke of the battlefield were gone. No longer was he trapped in that world of fire and steel. Instead, he now found himself once again inside Musa Mein’s cramped and shabby hut, deep in the slums. The sight of the broken rafters and the smell of damp timber were strangely reassuring. For the first time in what felt like ages, Marlon let out a long, shaky sigh, relief washing over him—yet his expression twisted, clouded by memories too painful to revisit.

“Cousin Marlon! You’re finally awake!”

A boyish voice rang out, filled with excitement and genuine delight. It was Anvi, the little rascal. But almost immediately, the boy’s tone shifted into a comical grumble:

“Cousin Marlon, you’ve been standing there with your eyes closed, sleeping forever and ever! The whole sky’s already dark, and now I’m so, so hungry…”

Before Marlon could respond, another voice reached his ears—a deep, steady one, resonant like the growl of a bear.

“Marlon, my friend… your soul has returned at last? Hah. If I’m not mistaken, this little one must have dragged your wandering spirit straight into the crystal sphere, letting you relive the Battle of Coriasa with your own eyes?”

It was Master Claw, the druid, speaking with that knowing rumble of his.

At that moment, Marlon felt a gentle tug at the edge of his sleeve. Turning his head, he found himself staring into a pair of gem-like sapphire eyes. They were Musa Mein’s eyes, wide and luminous, brimming with concern so sincere it almost stung. Those eyes alone seemed capable of speaking, conveying a thousand unspoken worries.

“Huuhhh…” Marlon exhaled a long breath, his chest loosening as if a great burden had been lifted. Then, without context, without explanation, he murmured words that seemed utterly out of place:

“To live… to live truly, to feel it as real as this—it’s… gods above, it’s wonderful.”

And perhaps anyone—truly anyone—who had been trapped in a hell of artillery fire, forced to die and die again every four or five minutes, enduring over sixty agonizing deaths in succession, only to be suddenly freed back into peace and quiet… would have uttered such a sentiment.

At least, Marlon firmly believed so.

With careful movements, he slipped his right hand off the cheap, cloudy crystal orb that Musa Mein had been cradling.

“Musa Mein,” Marlon said at last, his voice steady, his eyes firm, “avenging your family is your own path to walk. I won’t interfere, but neither will I dishonor myself by betraying you. Yet… your invention has astonished me. And so I’ll say this—if you’re willing, we could sign a Yolanah contract of partnership. You’ll provide the genius, the technology, the ongoing research, and I… I’ll provide the funds, the backing, and the golden ideas to turn stones into riches.”

Marlon drew in another deep breath and let a smile curve across his lips—the kind of smile that spoke not of pity but of opportunity, of alliance.

During those hours of torment inside the projection of the Valkyrie’s fall—those hours that had felt like lifetimes—Marlon had spoken at length with Musa Mein. They had talked about the shards of planar projection, and from those talks, Marlon had come to understand clearly just how vast the commercial value of Musa Mein’s invention truly was.

At the very least, the shards could be used to craft fully simulated single-player games—or even full simulations that allowed up to four people to connect and battle together. A revolutionary concept, with no limits but imagination.

But for all its potential, there was a catch. To fully unleash the value of these planar shards would require an enormous investment.

Why? Because before a true, flawless simulation game could be made, something else had to be created first—real three-dimensional holographic films.

Yes. Movies. Actual films. Whether he liked it or not, Marlon would have to produce them.

It was simple: just as Musa Mein had used reconnaissance footage of the Battle of Coriasa to produce his projection shard, so too would a game need to be crafted from a one-hundred-percent lifelike film. Without such a foundation, any game made with the shards would be nothing but a bug-riddled disaster, destined for mockery.

If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing well. And if not—then what? To release garbage to the world, invite curses upon one’s name? No. That was not Marlon’s way.

Especially because, when the game was finally complete, Marlon himself intended to dive in and play. He owed it to himself to claw back the frustration he had endured inside that endless cycle of death.

“I’m more than willing!” Musa Mein’s face brightened with sudden relief, a weight lifted from his soul. “If not for this chance, why else would I have risked my life to stop you in the street?”

But even as he spoke, his expression darkened into something harsher, almost feral. His lips curled, his eyes hardened.

“As long as I have the money… as long as I have enough…”

Marlon could see it—no, he could feel it. With the funds, Musa Mein would pursue vengeance without restraint, unleashing a fury as cruel as it was inevitable upon the deputy dean of the Arcane Research Institute, the man responsible for destroying his family.

And who could blame him?

Revenge for one’s parents—for one’s own blood—that was no shameful act, but a duty.

Once, Musa Mein had been gentle, almost timid—a soft-hearted scholar. But now, persecuted into ruin, driven into despair, how could his path be anything but one of no return? Between him and his tormentor, only death awaited.

Even Master Claw, the druid who so revered the harmony of nature, sighed deeply and spoke:

“Poor child. I know a priest of the Forest Goddess. His healing is powerful—he could restore your damaged body, make you whole again.”

But Musa Mein only shook his head, his eyes steeling with grim resolve. “Master Bowden, I thank you for your kindness. Truly, I do. But until the day I take vengeance for my parents and my sister… I will keep this body as it is. Let this scarred form remind me always.”

“As you wish,” the druid rumbled, lifting his shoulders in a bear-like shrug.

“Now then,” Marlon said, nodding, “is there anything else here that you need to take with you?”

His tone was practical, but his heart was already set. He rolled up his sleeves, ready to help Musa Mein move house with his own two hands. If they were to work together, Musa Mein could not remain here, exposed and vulnerable.

If Musa Mein—or worse, his priceless research—were lost, to whom could Marlon cry? No, better to carry off both man and work in one sweep. Only then could he rest easy.

But then—

“Mister Marlon,” a voice spoke, cool and precise.

It was Adela, Marlon’s personal maid, who so often doubled as his shadow and confidante. She looked at him with calm certainty.

“You seem to have forgotten something. Something important.”

“Important? What could possibly be more important right now than helping our great scientist move?”

Marlon frowned. Truly, after enduring countless deaths inside the projection of the Coriasa battle, his mind was dulled, his sense of time frayed. What had he forgotten?

Adela, wordless, slipped a hand into her bosom and drew out a glimmering, gold-embossed envelope.

And with that sight, the memory hit Marlon like a hammer.

Yes. He remembered now.

“Master Marlon Lister,” the envoy had said with stiff courtesy, “by command of Augustin von Newvently, Minister of Culture of the Loring Republic and Senior Member of the Postwar Reconstruction Council, I present this invitation. Tonight, at seven o’clock, upon the shores of White Sand Lake, there will be a grand masquerade ball beneath the open sky. We humbly request your presence.”

Marlon recalled it perfectly—the way that old fellow Delft had spoken when he handed over the gilded card.

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