The screen went black. Then a crack of cannon fire—not from his speakers, but from somewhere behind him. He turned. His bedroom wall shimmered, rippling like heat haze over a summer field. Through it, he saw snow. Horses. The roar of massed infantry.
The vision snapped shut. The monitor showed the game’s main menu, music swelling. Arjun clicked Campaign . It loaded instantly.
“No,” the man said, and finally looked at him. He had Arjun’s own face—older, scarred, exhausted. “I’m you. The version of you that stayed in 1809. The one who never stopped playing.”
He played until 3 a.m. He lost Leipzig. He retreated to Paris. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.
