It’s odd looking back and realizing you were the cause of a tragedy. I couldn’t have known what my actions would unleash—even the governments of the world barely grasped the true endgame of our existence.

Around three hundred years ago, humanity split into two groups: the surface-dwelling Earthers and the space-dwelling Lunars. At first, it was an adventure. The Lunars left Earth because of overpopulation, building a massive space station in perfect orbit between the Earth and the moon. Over the years, that station grew and eventually led to the construction of fifty more. When those became crowded, the Lunars expanded to the moon itself, creating a vast city encased in a dome pointed toward Earth.

Generations passed. By then, most Lunars had no ties to the planet they once called home. They had never felt soil beneath their feet and began to resent the Earthers, who treated them as second-class citizens—a bitter divide grew.

Then came the discovery. Nearly two centuries after the split, the Lunars uncovered a hidden facility buried beneath the moon’s surface. It had been there long before humanity existed. Inside was the Motsu Particle Reactor, a seemingly infinite energy source, and the first of many Mecha powered by it. With the facility’s superior manufacturing technology, the Lunars built an army of these machines. They sent them to Earth to assert dominance, sparking the First Lunar-Earth War.

The Earthers, outmatched and desperate, fought back valiantly but could only delay the inevitable. Their salvation came at a terrible cost: the Tragedy of the Thirteen. The united Earth government, forged in the fires of war, launched nuclear strikes that destroyed thirteen Lunar space stations. Billions of lives were lost in an instant, but the attack forced the Lunars to negotiate.

A fragile peace was brokered. The Lunars shared the reactor technology with the Earthers, and together they built a memorial space station to commemorate the tragedy. No one lived there; it served as a grim reminder of the cost of war.

Instead of open conflict, the two sides agreed to settle disputes through games. Every five years, they would create a new virtual reality game—a massive multiplayer experience using advanced Lunar technology. These "Game Wars" replaced traditional warfare, and for over a century, they maintained the uneasy peace.

My name is Evren Voss. I was born on the Lunar colony nearly a hundred years after the Game War system began. I participated in two wars for my civilization and became the driving force behind our tenth consecutive win. I should have been proud, but instead, I uncovered the terrible truth.

That memorial station built after the Tragedy of the Thirteen? It wasn’t just a symbol. It was a weapon, armed with nukes that would fire on whichever side lost ten wars in a row. The tenth Game War victory activated the system, and I watched helplessly as Earth was turned into a barren wasteland.

Through the clear dome of my pod, I saw the surface burn—billions of lives erased in moments. But my horror didn’t end there. Retaliation came in the form of missiles launched from Earth, striking the Lunar colony. The destruction was mutual, total, and final.

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I felt like I had pressed the button myself. The guilt was unbearable. But then... I woke up.

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When I woke up, everything felt wrong. My body ached as if I had been run over by a transport drone. My head swam, and a weight pressed down on me, pinning me to the bed. Gravity. Real gravity.

I struggled to lift my arm, the motion slow and unsteady, and reached out blindly for my clock. It wasn’t there. Instead, my hand brushed a rough, cold surface—nothing like the polished metal of my Lunar quarters. Blinking against the harsh light streaming in through a narrow window, I forced myself upright. Every muscle screamed in protest, but panic gave me strength.

I scanned the room, heart pounding. My old room. Lunar-standard furniture. The faint hum of the colony’s artificial systems. None of it made sense. My memories of Earth’s destruction and the retaliation missiles were so vivid, so raw. Yet here I was.

I staggered to the desk and found a tablet. Fumbling, I turned it on and pulled up the date. Five years. I was five years in the past. Before the tenth Game War. Before the nukes.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I had been sent back. Somehow, some way, I had a chance to stop it all. My breath quickened, and I had to grip the desk to steady myself. This wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. The weight of gravity on my body, the faint scent of recycled air—it was all too real.

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Leaving my family was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, but it had to be done. I didn’t tell them why. How could I? How could I explain the horrors I had seen? Instead, I slipped away in secret.

As I packed, I thought of my sister’s bright smile, my mother’s soothing words, and my father’s silent nods of approval. They believed I was just leaving for work, another posting in the colony. They didn’t know I would be going to Earth, to fight for the side we had been taught to resent. They didn’t know I carried the weight of billions of lives on my shoulders.

The journey to Earth was disorienting. The artificial gravity of the Lunar colony had nothing on the crushing pull of the planet. By the time I landed, my legs felt like jelly, and every breath seemed to weigh a ton. My first steps were clumsy, and I stumbled more than once as I adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation of true gravity. The air smelled different, richer somehow, but also overwhelming. Everything felt heavier—my body, the atmosphere, the responsibility I bore.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it. My first stop was to secure my game key. The war game this time was a mecha-based conflict, created with newly discovered data from the Alien Archives. These archives had been found decades ago in the same moon facility that housed the Motsu Reactor. The data files contained star charts and logs of alien exploration, which the game’s Alien AI used to build an expansive, universe-spanning battlefield. The developers barely understood the archives, but pumping new data into the system had consistently led to more immersive and balanced games. This war was no exception, and the secrets buried within the game were as much a mystery to its creators as to its players.

When I received my game key, it felt surreal. It was an Earther key, tying me to their side for this war. As I walked through the bustling streets of the Earth city, the sheer liveliness of it all overwhelmed me. Children played in parks, vendors shouted from street corners, and the air smelled of soil and grass—things I had only read about. It was a world worth saving.

The gravity and unfamiliar surroundings were constant obstacles, but I pushed through. I didn’t have the luxury of time. The game’s launch was imminent, and I needed to be ready. This time, I wouldn’t be the architect of destruction. I would fight for the Earthers, fight to stop the nukes, and fight to rewrite history.

I was ready to begin.