Chapter 1: A Prince's Rude Awakening
The persistent throbbing in his head was the first thing that registered, a dull, rhythmic pain that resonated with the stale taste of unidentifiable booze coating his tongue. Kael, or at least the person he'd been moments ago, groaned, burrowing deeper into what felt like a lumpy, moth-eaten mattress. Just another Sunday morning after a Friday night raid in World of Warcraft, he thought hazily. But even through the haze of a digital hangover, something felt off. The air wasn't circulating; it was thick, heavy, and smelled faintly of mildew and neglect.
He blinked his eyes open, and the world refused to focus. A blurred ceiling of cracked, flaking plaster swam above him. This definitely wasn't his apartment. His bed wasn't a collection of suspicious lumps, and his ceiling certainly didn't look like it was about to give way.
A jolt of panic, cold and sharp, cut through the residual fuzziness.
He sat bolt upright, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of nausea through him. His stomach churned. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall how he'd ended up here. One minute he was hunched over his PC, deep into a late-night session of "Age of Empires III," strategizing a particularly brutal counter-attack against a Mongol invasion. The next, this. Nothing. Just a blank.
When he opened his eyes again, the room was still a stranger.
It was large, but barely furnished, choked with dust motes dancing in slivers of sunlight piercing through grime-caked windows. Heavy, faded tapestries depicting scenes of what looked like ancient battles hung unevenly on the walls, their once vibrant colors muted to drab greens and browns. The air was cool, almost chilly, even with the sun struggling to break through.
He pushed himself off the bed, his legs feeling strangely weak and wobbly.
As he stood, he noticed his attire: a loose, white tunic made of rough linen and simple leather sandals. No jeans, no t-shirt, no familiar worn sneakers. He ran a hand over his face, his fingers brushing against stubble that was definitely not his usual five o'clock shadow. His hair felt longer, thicker, falling past his ears.
He stumbled towards a tarnished, bronze mirror leaning against a wall, half-obscured by a cobweb-draped curtain. What stared back was… not him.
The face was pale, almost sickly, framed by dark, unkempt hair. The eyes, though, were unsettlingly familiar in their wide, disoriented stare. This person was younger, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, with a soft jawline and a noticeable lack of muscle definition. This was not the moderately fit, perpetually-tired Kael he knew. This was… someone else.
A name, unbidden, whispered itself in his mind. Lykos.
Prince Lykos.
The memories that flooded in were disjointed, like static-filled channels on an old television. Flashes of lavish banquets, sycophantic servants, endless days of idleness, and a pervasive sense of apathy.
This Lykos had been a creature of comfort, a prince in name only, content to let his city rot around him while he indulged in wine and trivial pursuits. He felt the phantom pangs of a thousand headaches from too much cheap drink, the lingering sluggishness of a life utterly devoid of purpose.
And the city… what a state it was in. He knew, instinctively, that this was the last Greek city-state, a forgotten relic in a world that had moved on. It was a place teetering on the brink, its walls crumbling, its people starving, its small army more akin to a ragged militia. No wonder no one had bothered to conquer it; it wasn't worth the effort.
A sharp, metallic tang filled his mouth, and he instinctively retched, dry-heaving over a rusty bucket in the corner. When he straightened, wiping his mouth, a strange, ethereal hum vibrated at the back of his mind. It wasn't a sound, but a feeling, a presence.
"What the...?" he muttered, his voice sounding thin and unfamiliar.
Then, a voice, clear and resonant, echoed not in the room, but directly within his consciousness.
Welcome, Host.
Kael – no, Lykos now, he corrected himself with a jolt – stumbled back, hitting the wall. "Who's there?" he demanded, looking around the empty room.
Do not be alarmed, Host. You have been chosen. You are now connected to the Olympian Summoning System.
Lykos stared blankly. "The what now? Is this some kind of dream? A coma?" He pinched himself hard. It hurt. Definitely not a dream.
Negative, Host. You have been summoned. The realm of Ancient Greece requires a leader. The Forgotten Flame has deemed you worthy.
"The Forgotten Flame?" Lykos mumbled, the name feeling both ancient and strangely significant. His mind, still processing the shock, instinctively reached for something familiar. "Wait, is this like… a game? A system interface?"
A translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before his eyes, visible only to him. It was minimalist, clean, with crisp white text.
[OLYMPIAN SUMMONING SYSTEM
ACTIVATED]
Host: Prince Lykos
Status: Critical (City morale: D-, Resources: F, Military: F)
System Points: 0
First Mission: Restore Basic City Functionality.
Objective 1: Secure a Stable Food Source.
Objective 2: Recruit 10 Basic Citizens/Laborers.
Reward: 100 System Points,
Unlocked: Basic Summoning Pool
Below the mission brief, a smaller notification flashed.
[Welcome Gift Available!]
Lykos blinked at the screen, then back at his pathetic surroundings. His gamer brain, for all its initial shock, was already beginning to click. Okay, so it's an Isekai. With a system. And I'm a pathetic noble in a dying city-state. Great. The thought was laced with a bitter irony. He was a master of grand strategy games, conquering digital empires from the comfort of his chair. Now, he had to apply those skills to a real, tangible, incredibly messy world.
The dire status reports were glaring. Morale D-, Resources F, Military F. This wasn't just a challenge; it was a dumpster fire. A real-life, historical dumpster fire.
"Alright, System," Lykos said, his voice gaining a touch more resolve, "show me this 'Welcome Gift.'"
As if on cue, a soft golden glow emanated from a dusty corner of the room. A shimmering outline began to materialize, slowly coalescing into a human form. It wasn't instant, but a gradual, awe-inspiring process. First, a faint luminescence, then a silhouette, and finally, a figure stood before him.
He was an old man, with a long, flowing white beard and kind, ancient eyes. He wore simple robes, and in his hands, he cradled a beautiful, golden lyre that seemed to hum with a faint, magical energy. The man smiled, a gentle, knowing expression.
"Greetings, Prince Lykos," the old man's voice was melodious, like a ancient song. "I am Homerus. And this," he gestured to the lyre, "is the Whispering Lyre. It seems our paths are destined to intertwine."
Lykos stared, his mind racing. Homerus? The legendary bard? And a magical lyre? This was more than just a welcome gift; it was a declaration. This wasn't going to be easy, but it certainly wasn't going to be boring. His city was a ruin, his body was weak, and his enemies were mythical empires. But for the first time since he woke up, Lykos felt a flicker of something new, something that wasn't panic or despair.
A challenge. And for a gamer, that was a language he understood perfectly. The game was on.
I rewrite this chapter ....