Liu Xiaobo died as he lived, frustrated.

****

Emptiness. Liu Xiaobo awakes with nothing but an awareness of his own consciousness. And then he is asked a question. He does not really know how. One moment, he feels like he sees a pale blue screen in front of him, and in the next he thinks someone is whispering words straight into his mind. But it is incessant, repeating and increasing in volume somehow even when he is hallucinating it visually.

There is a weight to your soul.

Which weapon do you choose?

There is no need to elaborate. He knows the choices already. Bow, one handed sword, or halberd. There is no need to elaborate. The bow is precision. Strategy. The art of rationing ammunition, of choosing engagements. The sword is prestige and honor. And gold. It's theatre blended into warfare. Swordsmanship is the art of power. The art that the polearm represents is simple. Unbidden, scattered memories of action scenes and war films appear in his mind.

Range. That's what I have to look for, range.

The idea of it also calls to him. He was never very physical, and always did horribly during leadership tasks. The bow is careful and meticulous, perhaps even relaxed.

He didn't know how he did it, but he knew he submitted his choice. He now followed the art of the bow.

Congratulations, hero! You have achieved entrance to a path!

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Immediately, it is as if his soul is freed from a cage. The sensations of the dank, gory outside returns, starting with his body. His 42 year old body.

Fuck!

Surprising even himself, he immediately moves into action. Liu Xiaobo dashes, leaning forward dangerously, and hides behind a statue of something 3-legged. Not unlike a tripod, he recognizes distantly.

Sweat darkens the back of his light blue button up as he peeks like child at the large green and brown somethings in front of him. He doesn't notice that despite his panting and scurrying he makes no sound, and that there is a subtly glowing film around him. Regardless, he fears he might have his second stroke.

A similarly ethereal but unmistakeably different voice once again beams into his mind.

Otherworlder! The Illie archipelago is in danger, and The Luminous Ones are in dire need of your courage. You are currently in Deadalus Tower, a heretic ziggurat built by traitors to humanity. These wretches have sold their souls to the enemy, have fallen for their deception! But this is false power, hero: they will surely suffer even greater for it. Fortunately, we have taken advantage of their vile ceremony to resuscitate your soul and bring it here–

Oddly, this is where everything catches up to Liu Xiaobo. The fact that he had died. The fact that he was no longer on Earth. Or even the Solar System. That's funny. Didn't he tell his parents that one time he'd bring them to space?

Now, now he was just someone who maintained shitty government websites. Before he died. And as someone who works in web design, as someone who writes –someone who used to, he belatedly realizes –stupid mass messages on the regular, he subconsciously started criticizing this one. Because it was one; it didn't even have his name on it.

–your target. But beware of the guardian of the 8th floor, the Minotaur. It–

Otherworlder! The threat has been slain. Crisis has been averted. The Luminous Ones wish to reward you for your efforts.

Uncaring for Xiaobo's shock and frustration, the voice carried on, relaying the prize for second placer Liu Xiaobo who somehow garnered 250 points instead of the 0 on the other four names. And the 10,000 on the last one.

There is a [Secret Class].