After several failed attempts to log off, I slowly came to terms with an unsettling realization—I was trapped in the game. No matter how many times I swiped at the air, trying to summon the menu or find an exit, there was nothing. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist. At first, I felt the familiar rush of panic, my heart pounding as I tried again and again, my fingers moving through the air in the vain hope of finding an escape. But eventually, the truth settled in like a heavyweight: I wasn’t getting out.

Surprisingly, though, I didn’t feel regret. I wasn’t consumed with fear or anger. If anything, there was a strange calm washing over me. The truth was, I had no attachments in the real world. No one would worry if I disappeared, and no one waiting for me on the other side of the screen. My parents, my little brother—they were all gone. The friends I once had had drifted away, and in recent years, I had become more of a ghost than a person. I wasn’t living; I was existing. So being trapped in this game didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like a new start.

Whatever had brought me here, I accepted it. I didn’t know why I’d been chosen or how this had even happened, but I decided I wouldn't dwell on the mystery of it. There was something else that mattered now: survival. The game world had its own rules, and if I was going to make it here, I needed to play by them.

The first step was assessing what I had. I took stock of my belongings—meagre as they were. I had a couple of loaves of bread, still fresh enough to eat, and a small waterskin. There was also a sword at my hip, sheathed in a scabbard that looked worn but reliable. A quick check of my pouch revealed around 1,000 denars. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get by for now. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any sort of magical inventory system like you’d expect in most VR games. There was no convenient way to store my items. I had to carry them physically, in my hands or on my person. It was a small but harsh reminder that this world operated differently from what I was used to.

I tried opening various menus—character stats, inventory, encyclopedia, anything that might give me more control over my situation. But there was nothing. No pop-up windows, no floating icons. It seemed like all the tools I’d expect a protagonist in one of these “trapped-in-a-game” stories to have were unavailable to me. It was just me, my sword, some bread, and the world ahead.

Feeling the gnawing hunger in my stomach, I tore off a chunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully, washing it down with a few gulps of water. I needed to figure out where I was and what my next move should be. The good news was that the world of Bannerlord was something I already knew—at least to some extent. The layout of the land, the factions, the cities, and the history were all embedded in my memory from the countless hours I’d spent playing the original game. If this world matched what I remembered, I could navigate it.

I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. Over the next few hours, I mingled with the traders, listening to their conversations. They spoke about the political state of Calradia, the factions vying for power, and the dangers that lay in every corner of the land. Piece by piece, the information came together, and to my surprise, it matched what I remembered from my time playing the game.

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To the south, across the vast desert, lay the Aserai. They were traders, masters of commerce and negotiation. Though their lands were harsh, their caravans controlled the flow of goods in and out of the southern reaches of Calradia.

To the west were the Vlandians, a faction that had once been a band of pirates before they gained dominance over the fertile lands. Their strength lay in their knights and crossbowmen, formidable in both melee and ranged combat.

Further east, in the grassy steppes, lived the Khuzaits. A coalition of nomadic tribes, they were unparalleled horse archers, capable of raining arrows down upon their enemies while moving at breakneck speed.

North of them were the Sturgians, people who resembled the ancient Nords. They lived in the frozen northern mountains, where winter ruled year-round, and they were as tough and brutal as the lands they inhabited. Their warriors were renowned for their resilience and ferocity in battle.

To the East of Valandia there was Battania, a faction deeply connected to the forests and nature, consisting of barbarian tribes that revered the old ways and the sacred trees of their land.

In the heart of Calradia lay the fractured remnants of the once-mighty Empire. It had been the dominant force in the world, ruling over the other factions with an iron fist. But after the death of the last emperor, Arenicos, the empire had splintered into three warring factions.

The Southern Empire was led by Rhagaea, the widow of Arenicos, who claimed to carry on her late husband’s legacy. The Western Empire was ruled by Garios, Arenicos’s former army chief, who saw himself as the true successor. And finally, the Northern Empire was a loose coalition of powerful nobles who had broken away from the central authority, rejecting both Rhagaea and Garios. Each faction was vying for control, and the once-great empire now stood on the brink of collapse.

I was currently in the Western Empire, near a village just outside Zeonica, one of the key cities in the region. From what I overheard in the village, there was a tournament scheduled to be held in Zeonica soon—a perfect opportunity for me to gather more information, and maybe even some resources, if I could make it there safely.

But the road to Zeonica was dangerous. Bandits and raiders roamed the countryside, preying on travellers and caravans. I knew I couldn’t make the journey alone. Fortunately, there was a small group of villagers preparing to travel to the city to sell surplus grain. They were looking for a few extra hands to help escort the goods, and I quickly volunteered. For my services, they offered me five denars—not much, but the safety in numbers was what I was after.

That night, as I lay on the hard floor of the village barn where we’d gathered to rest before our journey, I found my thoughts drifting. The sounds of the village around me were familiar, yet alien at the same time. It was one thing to play Bannerlord from behind a screen, but being here, surrounded by the very world I’d spent years exploring, was something else entirely. I felt both out of place and strangely at home.

Morning came quickly, and I woke to the sound of the village stirring to life. The other members of the escort group—a ragtag collection of farmers and traders—were already preparing for the journey. I gathered my belongings and joined them. There were twelve of us in total, moving as a small caravan toward Zeonica. I took my place at the rear, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, ready for anything.

The sun had barely risen when we set out, the cool morning air clinging to the remnants of the night’s chill. The path ahead was long and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of purpose. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was part of something—however small—and as we marched toward Zeonica, I realized that I was no longer the player. I was the one living this story now.