Cold wind howled through the iron bars of the prison window.
Roland stirred, his vision still hazy as he slowly opened his eyes.
What greeted him was a pale, unfamiliar face reflected in a patch of ice on the wall.
The face was youthful delicate features with a hint of childish roundness, no older than a teenager. Crimson eyes flickered with confusion. His pale skin, drawn tight over sharp cheekbones, was evidence of malnutrition. He wore rough clothing stitched from coarse beast-hide, and his long white hair, frozen stiff, trailed to the icy floor, wrapped around his bare, frostbitten feet.
It was his face yet not entirely.
If the hair were trimmed short, the frail body filled out, and the height increased by a dozen or so centimeters, it would resemble how he looked back in middle school.
"Hiss..."
A stabbing pain tore through Roland's skull. A flood of memories vivid and overwhelming crashed into his mind like a tidal wave.
He remembered who he was.
Once hailed as the "World's Number One Mage," Roland had been a renowned professional gamer. He had competed in the official tournament of a virtual reality game known as Millennial War.
He and his team had fought their way through solo duels, team battles, and the prestigious Grand Strategy War. They had been on the verge of lifting the championship trophy.
Then, without warning, darkness swallowed him and the world changed.
He had been reincarnated into the world of Millennial War.
As his memories gradually aligned, Roland's expression darkened.
This was a rough start.
Not only had he been dropped into the desolate far north, he was also born into an obscure tribal village. Worse still, his birth had been kept secret, rendering him a complete "ghost" in this society no legal identity, no citizenship, no rights.
And as if that weren't enough, just two days ago, his village had been razed by cultists. He was now an orphan.
According to his memories of the game, this was still the opening cinematic of Millennial War.
In the original game sequence, the prison contained two sacrificial captives. But with his arrival, the number had become three.
Aside from Roland, there were two others.
One was Hela destined to become the legendary necromancer who would return from the Shadow Realm at the head of a ten-million-strong undead legion, feared across multiple expansions as a top-tier villain.
The other was Freyana, heiress to one of the Seven Silver Clans and fated to ascend as the second legendary Empress of the Silver Empire.
Hela had been captured for her unusually high affinity with dark elements. Freyana, on the other hand, possessed a similarly high affinity with light.
The Shadow Realm didn't discriminate in its sacrifices. As long as your elemental affinity was strong enough, you qualified.
Roland looked down at himself.
Classic player stats moderate affinity with all elements. Not as gifted as the two girls, but still considered rare.
Everyone knew the prologue of a game was meant to set the stage for the protagonist. In the original cinematic, both Hela and Freyana were strikingly beautiful NPCs. But Hela, lacking any known background, had been the one sacrificed, triggering Freyana's awakening. Her inherited power flared to life, and with the aid of her elite equipment, she slaughtered the cultists and escaped.
So long as Roland wasn't chosen as the first to be sacrificed, he could wait for Freyana to awaken and reverse the situation. Better yet, he could help her awaken earlier, using his meta-knowledge from the previous life.
He could even try to stick close to Freyana. Given her future status as the protagonist of several major game expansions, aligning with her would all but guarantee a smooth and powerful future.
But Roland shook his head.
No.
He wasn't the kneeling type.
Instead, he lowered his gaze in quiet thought. His mind was strangely calm, clearer than it had ever been. He analyzed the situation with practiced detachment.
To his left, Hela was curled into a fetal position, her expression vacant, like a lifeless corpse. Shadows of dark energy and death hung around her, thick and suffocating. Ice had crept from beneath her body, encasing her legs, while the manacles around her wrists, now frozen white, prevented any movement and isolated her from the dark elements she naturally drew upon.
To his right, Freyana sat in silence, her golden eyes dull beneath lowered lashes. Wrapped in noble garments, she hugged her knees in the far corner of the cell. A shaft of wan light from the corridor slanted across her trembling shoulders. She looked composed but the slight tremble in her body betrayed her fear.
Outside the cell, cultists in black robes and masks moved briskly, preparing the ritual and its materials atop the altar.
Roland closed his eyes.
He waited, silent and still.
Time passed slowly. Outside, the blizzard subsided.
Roland remained motionless, conserving energy and watching quietly.
At last, the preparations were complete.
Three masked cultists approached the cell. One of them, without hesitation, strode toward Roland, grabbed a handful of his hair, and dragged him out.
The pain barely registered. His body, numb from the cold, felt like it no longer belonged to him. Even as the icy stone floor tore at his skin and frozen blood mixed with shredded flesh, he remained expressionless.
Beyond the prison lay the altar.
Atop it, a high priest wearing a mask of black and gold had already painted the summoning symbols using liquid mercury and hot blood.
The surroundings were filled with twisted sacrificial materials: throbbing organs neatly arranged, a mound of pulsating flesh, and a cradle made of woven bone.
Roland recognized all of them. Organ of Death, Warped Flesh, Bone Cradle.
Each one was a forbidden relic, outlawed by every civilized nation. No legitimate channel could ever acquire such things.
No wonder the cultists had come to the remote North to massacre entire villages. The price of these materials was counted in human lives.
Roland lowered his eyes, refusing to look at the grotesque altar any longer. He swallowed his rage, pressing it deep within.
Of the three captives, he was the weakest. So the cultists had chosen him as the first offering.
They lifted him onto the center of the altar.
As he was laid down, the dense dark energy around the altar began to seep into his body. The warmth it carried slowly restored his frozen senses.
Black chains slithered out from beneath the altar, binding his limbs tightly in place.
Roland sat there, restrained, silent.
His face was emotionless as he stared at the cultists gathered around him.