Crossworld Swordplay

[Simulation Menu Unlocked]

Simulation Anchor Point: Detected

Anchor Point: Day 449, Year 304 – Sword Academy Library

Access Level: Level 1 – Single-Thread Jump

Simulate alternate outcomes from this moment forward.

▸ Simulate World

Primary Divergence Options:

You arrived late to the academy.

A lingering illness kept you bedridden during orientation.

By the time you stepped off the airship, houses had already formed, alliances already hardened.

(Chance of successful DNA sync: 26%)

You entered through a Stablehand Scholarship.

One of only 24–55 awarded each year to common-born youth.

Your duties include tending warhorses, cleaning armor, and obeying noble heirs.

(Chance of successful DNA sync: 18%)

You joined last year—and failed.

You were proud. Arrogant.

In your first duel, your arm was shattered, and your reputation bled out with your dignity.

No one remembers your name anymore.

(Chance of successful DNA sync: 4%)

[DNA Sync Option: Available]

An unregistered strand of DNA has been detected in recent physical contact.

This genetic fragment may be tempered through Simulation Threads.

"Sync?" Damon muttered, gripping the shattered Sigil Stone. His palm bled into the shards—jagged edges cutting deep, his blood mixing with the strange liquid inside.

A prompt shimmered again:

Do you wish to analyze and simulate its origin?

▸ [Yes – Sync DNA Profile]

▸ [No – Continue without Sync]

He stared at the simulation menu. His palm twitched.

Black veins writhed along the cuts, spreading across his fingers, wrist, and forearm.

The sensation was wrong—like worms crawling just beneath the skin—

and yet, he felt stronger.

He paused. Then looked at the panel again.

Yes, he thought, without doubt.

Mentally, he clicked the first divergence option—the one with the highest sync chance.

"It seems I haven't failed just yet," he whispered.

[Simulation Thread Initiated]

Loading…

!!!

Thud!

Damon's eyes snapped open.

The sun glared into his retinas as his back slammed into the grass, arching with pain.

His chest rose sharply, lungs seizing as if they'd been crushed.

Agony bloomed behind his ribs.

"Is that all?" a snobby voice called out.

"What a disgrace," sneered a brown-haired boy, cracking his knuckles and bouncing on his feet.

One... Two...

Another voice filtered into Damon's buzzing head.

"Where… am I?" he muttered, turning over.

His vision blurred. His heart pounded as he tried to rise—

That, it turned out, was a bad idea.

A powerful left hook smashed into his jaw.

Then a right.

Then an uppercut.

Damon's head snapped back, teeth rattling.

Swine! he cursed inwardly, snapping his head forward as muscle memory took over.

He jabbed—his fist hit the opponent's guard—but was immediately punished.

A crushing punch cracked his nose.

He stumbled back, seeing nothing but black and white specks.

The ropes were behind him now.

The crowd screamed—some cheering, some jeering.

His opponent advanced.

Just in time for Damon to see the jab coming—

He ducked.

His hand flew to his waist—reaching for a sword that wasn't there.

Too late.

The next blow caught him across the temple.

Crack!

Stars exploded across his vision.

Damon staggered, mouth open, breath torn from his lungs.

His body reeled. The crowd howled.

"Pathetic," the boy jeered, stepping forward with a boxer's grace, already winding up another strike.

Damon couldn't block it.

Another punch—this one to the ribs.

He doubled over.

Then a knee crashed into his face.

Blood sprayed.

He hit the ground again.

Cheek to the grass.

Iron filled his mouth.

His limbs twitched.

No strength left to rise.

And yet—something inside him refused.

His vision pulsed red.

The world slowed.

The crowd dulled.

Each heartbeat echoed louder than the last—like pounding war drums.

Then—his veins darkened.

It started at the wrists, creeping like ink beneath the skin.

The vessels around his eyes turned blackish, webbing outward.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

Muscles coiled like steel.

The pain vanished.

His eyes locked onto his opponent's next step.

Then—

Everything went black.

"Neighhhhhh!"

A titanic equine scream bellowed before him.

▸ Return to Anchor Point?

A familiar golden light illuminated the space around him—

and the floating black Sigil Stone, hovering ahead.

DING!

[Due to your death, this simulation has ended.

Anchor Point: Day 449, Year 304 – Sword Academy Library, has been terminated.]

[Returning to primary Anchor Point, set in the Archives.]