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A MAP OF DISASTER

Reivan sat in his study, a large map of the empire spread across the table. He wasn’t panicking.

Yet.

He traced a line across the parchment, frowning.

This world was supposed to follow a set timeline. Certain wars, betrayals, and power shifts happened in a specific order—one that allowed the protagonist of the game to level up, gather allies, and slowly grow into a hero.

But now? Everything was out of order.

* The Barbarian Tribes (North) → Shouldn’t have started raiding yet. Already moving.

* The Holy Kingdom of Saerun (West) → Shouldn’t have made their power plays yet. Secretly destabilizing border towns.

* The Free Cities (East) → Should still be fighting each other. But a warlord is unifying them.

* The Demon Continent (South) → The Demon King should be asleep. Demonic activity detected.

Reivan tapped his fingers against the desk.

Everything was happening too fast.

In the original timeline, the protagonist—who he hadn’t met yet—would’ve had time to deal with these threats.

Now?

Reivan let out a long sigh. If this pace continued, the empire wouldn’t last a decade.

"...You’re making that face again," Sylpkx muttered from the couch, where she was lazily sharpening her claws.

"What face?" Reivan asked, not looking up.

"The ‘I’m seeing the end of the world and it’s giving me a headache’ face."

He exhaled. "...It’s nothing."

Sylpkx gave him a long look but didn’t push. She probably just thought he was being paranoid again.

Reivan pushed away from the desk.

"I need a break. I’m going to the market."

Sylpkx yawned. "Want me to come?"

"No need."

She waved him off, and Reivan left without mentioning the world-breaking problem on his desk.

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A STROLL THROUGH CHAOS

The city market was loud, chaotic, and alive.

Merchants shouted over each other, selling spices, fabrics, and weapons. A baker and a noblewoman were in a heated argument over the price of imported honeycakes. A group of kids ran past, almost knocking over a fruit stand.

Reivan took a deep breath. This was good. Normal.

For once, he wasn’t dealing with political schemes or world-ending catastrophes.

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Then, as if the gods hated him, he overheard an argument.

A merchant was furiously waving his arms at a small-time alchemist.

"You’re a fraud!" the merchant barked. "You told me this potion would last three months!"

"It should have!" the alchemist protested. "I followed the recipe exactly!"

"Then explain why it turned into sludge after a week!"

Reivan slowed his steps.

Alchemy problem?

He glanced at the merchant’s stall. Several glass vials were displayed, all containing a strange, congealed mess.

Reivan recognized the issue immediately.

But instead of butting in, he waited.

The alchemist frowned. "It doesn’t make sense! I used the right ratio of ingredients!"

"Then why did it fail?!"

Reivan sighed internally. Alright. He couldn’t let this go unsolved.

He stepped forward. "The answer’s obvious."

Both men turned to him.

Reivan pointed at the vials. "The glass. That’s the problem."

The alchemist blinked. "What?"

Reivan picked up one of the failed potions and tilted it. "This is cheap glass. It contains trace minerals that react with the stabilizing agent in your potion. Over time, it breaks down."

The merchant and alchemist stared at him.

"Use alchemic-grade glass flasks next time," Reivan continued. "If you store a stabilizing potion in normal glass, the reaction speed increases. What should last three months rots in a week."

Silence.

Then—

The alchemist paled. "Oh gods. That makes so much sense."

The merchant narrowed his eyes. "How do you know this?"

"It’s just common knowledge," Reivan lied smoothly.

(It absolutely wasn’t. He just happened to remember an obscure game mechanic about potion degradation.)

The alchemist nodded furiously. "I—I need to redo my stock. Thank you, sir!"

Reivan just waved him off.

Crisis solved.

Peace restored.

Now, if nothing else happened, he could—

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THE WORST ENCOUNTER POSSIBLE

Someone crashed into him.

Reivan staggered slightly as a younger man bounced off his chest.

"Ah—! Sorry, mister!"

Reivan looked down.

And his heart sank.

The messy brown hair. The bright green eyes. The adventurer’s gear that looked more like scavenged hand-me-downs.

Oh no. Oh no.

It was him.

The actual protagonist of the game.

Reivan turned on his heel to leave.

"Wait!" the young man called out, grabbing his sleeve.

Reivan forced a neutral expression. "...Yes?"

"Do you know where the Mercenary Guild is?" the adventurer asked, looking sheepish. "I just got into town, and I kinda… got lost."

Reivan gave him a long stare.

This was the guy destined to lead armies, challenge kings, and slay the Demon King.

And he was struggling to find a building two streets away.

Reivan sighed. "It’s down the main road. Two lefts, then a right. You can’t miss it."

The adventurer lit up. "Oh, thanks, mister!"

Reivan nodded and turned away. He had dodged the encounter. He was free.

Then—

"You look strong! Are you an adventurer too?"

Reivan felt a migraine forming.

NO.

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TRYING (AND FAILING) TO ESCAPE THE PLOT

Somehow, some way, this idiot did not leave him alone.

"You’ve got that look," the adventurer said.

Reivan sighed. "What look?"

"The look of someone who knows things."

Sylpkx wasn’t here, but he could already hear her laughter.

"I’m just an average guy," Reivan said carefully.

The adventurer squinted. "No way. You give off hidden master vibes."

"I do not."

"You totally do!"

This was spiraling.

"I should go," Reivan muttered.

The adventurer grabbed his arm.

"Wait—at least tell me your name!"

Reivan hesitated. If he gave a fake name, there was a chance the guy would keep looking for him.

He sighed. "Reivan."

The adventurer grinned. "Nice to meet you! I’m—"

"I know who you are," Reivan almost said.

Instead, he just gave a small nod.

Arthur grinned. "Reivan, huh? That’s a cool name!"

Then, with complete sincerity, he said:

"I bet we’ll meet again!"

Reivan had never wanted to scream more in his life.

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*