Reivan sat in his study, staring at the artifact on his desk. The Warden’s Oath, an unassuming metal band with faded engravings, hardly looked like the legendary relic it was. If he hadn’t known better—if he hadn’t played the game obsessively enough to recognize its hidden potential—he might have tossed it aside like countless other players did in his past life.


    It was, at first glance, a disappointment. No fireballs, no stat boosts, no godlike abilities. Just a defensive relic that improved perception and resisted mental interference. Most players went for swords that could cut through mountains or gauntlets that let you punch through castle walls. Who cared about heightened awareness when you could kill your enemies before they even got close?


    But that was the thing about The Warden’s Oath. It wasn’t an immediate power boost. It was an investment.


    Reivan had risked his life retrieving it, barely surviving the Tomb of the First Sentinel—a dungeon infamous for its brutality. And unlike in the game, where death was just a respawn away, here? One mistake would have left him bleeding out on ancient stone, food for whatever horrors lurked in that forsaken place.


    He flexed his fingers, recalling the sheer number of times he’d almost died getting this thing.


    The collapsing bridge? Nearly broke his spine. The shadow wraith ambush? If Sylpkx hadn’t reacted in time, he’d have been missing a lung. The maze of shifting corridors? He was still nauseous thinking about how space itself had twisted around them.


    And, of course, the Sentinel’s Trial. A fight against an ancient, spectral warrior whose movements were beyond human reflexes. It hadn’t been about power—it had been about survival. Staying on his feet long enough for the Warden’s Oath to recognize him.


    Because that was its secret.


    The artifact wasn’t a static item. It grew with its wielder. It recorded every battle, every enemy faced, every moment of survival. And slowly, subtly, it adapted.


    The first time he’d worn it, the effect was barely noticeable—an odd tingling at the edge of his perception. But after a day, he found himself reacting faster. Not supernaturally so, but just enough to dodge a falling book before it hit his head. After three days, he caught himself sidestepping a drunk noble’s stumbling attempt to spill wine on him before the cup had even tilted.


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    And now?


    Now, he could feel things before they happened.


    It wasn’t precognition—not exactly. But the longer he wore it, the more he could sense when someone was about to move. When a hostile gaze lingered too long. When an attack was coming even before the attacker fully committed.


    And that made it one of the most broken artifacts in the game.


    In the late stages of the war, high-level players who had underestimated it regretted everything. By then, it was too late. The dungeon had collapsed, lost to time, and no one else could obtain it. Those who had it became legends.


    Reivan planned to become one of them.


    Sylpkx entered the study, her keen eyes flicking to the artifact. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. Are you expecting it to start talking?”


    He smirked. “No. Just contemplating how absurdly overpowered this is.”


    She raised an eyebrow. “All I see is a glorified anxiety detector.”


    Reivan chuckled. “That’s exactly what everyone else thought.” He picked up the band and slipped it onto his wrist. “The longer I wear it, the better it gets. It doesn’t just improve reflexes—it learns. It remembers every fight, every ambush, and helps me react faster next time.”


    Sylpkx’s expression shifted. “So, what you’re saying is... it’s making you paranoid?”


    “Exactly! But in a useful way!”


    She groaned. “Fantastic. Because you weren’t already paranoid enough.”


    Reivan ignored her, already thinking of how to use this. He had been playing the empire’s economic game, securing trade and finance. But war was coming. That was inevitable. And when it did, raw wealth wouldn’t be enough.


    The Warden’s Oath meant he wouldn’t be blind going into it.


    It meant assassins would have a much harder time sneaking up on him.


    It meant political backstabbings would be slightly less successful.


    And most importantly—it meant that by the time the war reached its peak, he would already be ahead of everyone else.


    But there was one problem.


    He wasn’t the only one after it.


    The game lore had mentioned something—that certain factions would eventually come looking for the relic. And if he had it now, that meant those factions would soon start moving.


    Sylpkx must have caught onto his expression. “You look like someone just handed you a live bomb.”


    He exhaled. “Because I might have just painted a target on my back.”


    Her grin widened. “Oh, good. I was starting to get bored.”


    Reivan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He had expected to control the economy, play politics, manipulate trade.


    Now, he was accidentally stepping into a battlefield that had been hidden in the game’s code.


    And worst of all?


    He couldn’t even sell this thing.


    The Warden’s Oath had already bound itself to him. It wasn’t going anywhere.


    He sighed deeply. “Well, I suppose it’s time to start preparing for people to try and kill me. Again.”


    Sylpkx patted his shoulder. “Look at the bright side. At least this time, you’ll see them coming.”


    Reivan groaned. He had so many regrets.