Saintess of the Beastkin

At eight o'clock sharp on the morning of August 1st, Mike settled into his gaming pod. Today, he wasn't playing alone. Behind him, in the digital ether, were over a thousand members of his community.

He'd spent the better part of yesterday flexing his beta key, promising them all a launch-day stream.

A soft chime echoed in the pod. "Broadcast enabled."

"Biometric scan complete. Initializing connection to the Continent of Destiny. May your journey be a fortunate one."

There were no user agreements, no intrusive pop-ups. The game simply…began. The first screen was a familiar shore in the sea of gaming: character creation.

Only one race was available: the Awakened.

They appeared human, save for a single, brilliant blue rhombus of a crystal embedded in the space between their brows. The creation suite itself was spartan. He could only use his own scanned face as a base, with sliders for minor enhancements or distortions—a glorified beauty filter, really. At least there was a wealth of hairstyles and colors.

"Can't even change my gender…" Mike muttered with a sigh of genuine disappointment. If he was to be an Awakened, a being of implied power, the least they could do was let him make himself more handsome. But it was not to be. He cranked all the detail sliders to their maximum.

His stream chat was already scrolling.

That creation suite is lazy AF… but damn, the model detail is insane. That's literally Mike's face, like looking in a mirror!

How do you know what Mike looks like?? You seen him IRL?

High school classmate.

I'm heading to the forums to riot. I don't want to play a male character! I want to play as a woman!

Count me in! Isn't this game supposed to be 100% realistic? I want to experience what it's like to be a woman!

Maybe that's the 'absolute realism' they were talking about. You are who you are… so you can only play as the gender you already are.

Splitting his attention between the chat and the screen, Mike settled on a version of himself with slightly tousled, shoulder-grazing hair dyed a brilliant gold. He tweaked his height, adding a few precious inches.

"You know, that hairstyle doesn't look half bad. Might have to show this to my barber."

He stared at the final field at the bottom of the screen: Name. A spark of inspiration, a perfect homage, flashed in his mind.

Geralt.

He keyed it in. Perfect.

Enter Game.

WHOOM.

His consciousness plummeted. The world dissolved into a black, vertiginous freefall. When his senses returned, he was no longer falling but floating, suspended in the cosmic void above a breathtaking landmass: the Continent of Destiny.

He hung in the stellar sea, gazing down at the world below—a masterpiece of sublime mountains and winding rivers, all of it dwarfed by the silent, magnificent cosmos. Not just Mike, but every soul watching his stream was struck dumb by the spectacle.

Four colossal, sublime figures flanked the continent. Their forms were so immense they dwarfed the mountains, their faces shrouded in a blinding divine light. Before them, the Continent of Destiny looked like a mere tabletop map. It was the scene from the game's promotional art, brought to life.

A gasp caught in Mike's throat. Before he could process the sheer scale of it all, a violent wave of weightlessness seized him. He was a meteor of consciousness, streaking down from the heavens, pulled into the world's embrace.

Darkness again, but this time it was a canvas. A montage of vivid, tragic scenes painted itself across his vision, underscored by a rising, heroic score.

A blood-soaked, brutal battlefield littered with the fallen. Wandering clans of beastkin, their fur matted with the dust of exile. The beastkin saintess, her face a mask of grief, tears carving clean paths through grime. A human lord on a destrier, laughing as his mount trampled a peasant's meager wheat field into the mud…

It was a cutscene.

The chat was utterly still. Not a single message scrolled by. Everyone was transfixed, held captive by the sheer artistry on display. Though there was no narration or dialogue, the story's purpose was seared into the minds of Mike and his viewers with absolute clarity: to aid the beastkin, help them rebuild their lost kingdom, shatter the chains of the tyrannical human empire, and reclaim their former glory.

A profound sense of purpose ignited within him.

Five minutes later, the cinematic faded, leaving an echo of yearning. The silence was gradually replaced by the ambient sounds of the world. The scent of fresh grass and damp earth filled his nostrils.

He dared to open his eyes.

He saw his hands first, holding them up, turning them over. Then, on instinct, he slapped himself across the face. Smack.

"Holy shit! The haptics!" he gasped, his voice a hoarse whisper. "The feel of it, the visuals, the sound… If I didn't know this was a game, I'd swear I just transmigrated."

A thrill, pure and potent, shot through him. One hundred percent sensory immersion. It was real. Some company had actually pulled it off.

He wondered why it hadn't hurt. A small notification shimmering into existence in his peripheral vision provided the answer. Pain sensitivity was adjustable, its default set to 0%.

He noticed an icon in the lower-left of his vision, a stylized silhouette. He focused his will on it, and a panel materialized in the air before him.

[Name] Geralt

[Identity] Commoner (Awakened)

[Power] Novice (Level 0)

[Skills] None

[Equipment] None

[Reputation: Pyrian Empire] 0 (Unknown)

[Reputation: Beastkin] 2 (Barely Known)

As Mike curiously explored the interface, a voice like crushed velvet and honey stole his attention.

"Welcome, Awakened from a world beyond the veil."

Mike looked up, his heart giving a violent lurch.

Standing before him was a young woman. A pair of delicate, pink-furred fox ears twitched atop her head, and behind her swayed a magnificent tail, as large and soft as a plume of spun cloud. Her snow-white hair cascaded to her waist, framing a face of impossible beauty. Her eyes, the color of pale gold, were serene and noble, calm as a forest pool.

Mike had never seen anyone so beautiful. She was a perfect fusion of nobility, innocence, charm, and allure, a combination so potent he couldn't find the words to describe her. He just stared, his mouth slightly agape, and swallowed hard. For a moment, he forgot where he was, what he was supposed to be doing.

That character model… the texture detail… are they sure that isn't a real person?

The noon sun caught in her hair, casting a saintly halo around her. She offered a small, gentle smile, and it was a warmth that outshone the sun itself.

"Greetings, Awakened. I am Lena, Saintess of the beastkin. Welcome to the Continent of Destiny."

The dam in Mike's stream chat broke.

HOLY SHIT!!

I WOULD DIE FOR HER. I'M NOT KIDDING.

WOOF WOOF WOOF! BARK BARK!

My queen, I am your sworn shield! My life for Lena!

I love her so much.

+1

...

THE WHITE THIGH-HIGHS! LORD HAVE MERCY, I'M GOING FERAL!

That's it. My old waifu is dead to me. All my figurines are going in the trash. Lena is the new Best Girl.

Bro, one man's trash is another man's treasure. DM me, I'll take 'em.

OMG, her robes have patches on them... she's so poor... I WOULD TRADE MY BRAND NEW JORDANS FOR HER TO GET A NEW OUTFIT! PROTECT THE SAINTESS!

...

Just as his audience was enjoying their virtual worship of Saintess Lena through the stream, a young man in resplendent armor stepped directly in front of her, blocking the view.

Yo, who the hell is blocking my view of the goddess!

I want to see the Saintess, not some dude!

Uhh, is it just me or is that guy… kinda hot in an arrogant way?

Mike snapped back to reality, his attention now fixed on the newcomer. One of his viewers had nailed it. The man wasn't just handsome; he radiated an aura of supreme, unshakeable self-confidence—the kind of effortless swagger that screamed 'protagonist' before he'd even said a word.

His features were sharp and noble, his eyes holding the glitter of a star-strewn sky. A single blade of grass was perched lazily between his lips, a gesture that should have been rustic but instead projected an air of untamable spirit and absolute certainty.

Mike guessed this had to be the game's core hero: Riven, the Chosen One touched by the gods.

The chat immediately concurred.

No doubt. Just look at that posture. He might as well have 'I'M THE MAIN CHARACTER' tattooed on his forehead.

Why do I feel like he's posing even when he's just standing still? Is there something wrong with me…

The man radiating an aura of heroic might finally spoke, his voice calm and clear.

"Welcome, Awakened. I am Riven, your summoner. The time has come to choose your path. Currently, two are open to you: Warrior or Mage."

As Riven spoke, a translucent window materialized in Mike's vision, presenting the two choices. He pondered for a moment, recalling the lore he'd skimmed before the launch.

There were four foundational archetypes in the world of this continent: Knight, Mage, Priest, and Warrior, with countless specializations branching from them, like Assassin or Brawler from the Warrior path. Knight and Priest, however, were not paths one could simply choose. The former required innate talent and rigorous training at a dedicated academy, while the latter demanded unwavering faith in a patron deity.

That left the Mage, a class with a notoriously high barrier to entry—a barrier that was effectively non-existent for players like him—and the versatile, ever-reliable Warrior.

Which to choose? Mike glanced at his stream chat, which had already erupted into a fierce debate.

You HAVE to pick Mage! Mages are a rare breed in this world!

What's the point of being a Mage? Real men swing greatswords! Only sissies use staves!

A late-game Mage can nuke an entire squad of Warriors with a single spell.

LMAO, good luck finishing your cast, pal. You really think a Warrior is just gonna stand there and let you wind up?

The bickering gave Mike a slight headache. Personally, he had little taste for the brutal, bloody business of melee. The image of an elegant mage, weaving intricate spells to annihilate foes from a hundred yards away, appealed far more to his sense of style.

He made his choice. Mage.

A surge of white light enveloped him. When it faded, his simple linen tunic had been replaced by a proper, if plain, mage's robe, and a simple wooden staff now rested in his hand. He called up his character panel again, noting the changes.

[Name: Geralt]

[Status: Civilian (Awakened)]

[Power Level: Mage Apprentice Lv. 1 (1-10)]

[Skill: Basic Elemental Weaving]

[Equipment: Common Mage Robe, Simple Wooden Staff]

…

He was standing in a town square. Around him, golden phantoms flickered into existence, shimmering before coalescing into the solid forms of other newly arrived players. The plaza quickly filled with a cacophony of excited shouts and awed laughter as people milled about, testing their limbs and gaping at the scenery. A massive crowd had already formed a tight, impenetrable sea of bodies around Riven and Saintess Lena.

Mike took a deep breath, tuning out the noise. He focused on the world itself. The charming, otherworldly architecture of the town. The crispness of the air. A gentle breeze that cooled his skin. The dappled tree shadows dancing in the sunlight, and the rich, clean scent of damp earth.

Every single detail screamed that this was not a game. It was a real, tangible world.

A wave of pure, unadulterated excitement washed over him, and a massive grin spread across his face.

"Okay, I'm calling it," he declared to his audience, his voice ringing with joy. "This game? This game is everything!"