"Daniel! Have you finished your homework? Why are you getting in that game pod again?"
His mother's sharp voice cut through from the living room, rising over the blare of her TV drama. It carried that familiar mix of worry and control.
In his bedroom, Daniel swiped rapidly through his last electronic workbooks, confirming submissions on the holographic screen. "Done, done! Don't worry, Mom—A+! The teacher even praised my efficiency!"
It wasn't entirely a lie. Under the highly intelligent education system of Singularity society, standardized homework really wasn't difficult. The real challenge? Resisting the virtual world's endless temptations.
Lately, one temptation consumed him: the legendary game everyone called "hardcore enough to make you cry, realistic enough to make you sick, yet completely addictive"—Battlefield: Warhammer 40K.
Daniel had watched countless matches in Scorchwind's streams and other streamers' channels. He'd devoured the highlight reels. But it was that sanity-draining short film, "The Divine," that hooked him completely. That dark, cruel, strangely captivating universe wouldn't let him go.
The competitive beta started with only a thousand trial slots during the preliminary rounds. He didn't stand a chance. But as the tournament advanced toward the finals, officials finally loosened restrictions and released ten thousand more slots.
Daniel had watched the clock obsessively, used some minor networking tricks, and snatched his ticket from thousands of competitors.
Now, homework was forgotten. His mother's nagging faded away. Like an eel, he slipped into the mid-tier game pod—six months of saved allowance. The door sealed. The familiar startup hum sounded like a horn calling him to another world.
Darkness. Then light.
No tedious newbie tutorial. No long-winded story introduction. What appeared before him was that classic cinematic he'd watched online countless times, yet it still made his heart race:
Burning earth. Lasers flying everywhere. Artillery roaring like collapsing mountains. Soldiers charging desperately, falling in the mud. Commissars waving power swords with desperate battle cries. Leman Russ tank treads crushing ruins.
Finally, that declaration, low as distant thunder:
"Now, in eternal strife, a mighty Imperium rises across the universe. It is the legacy of a departed deity, forged in blood and battle, seeking hope in darkness. This is a cruel and dark era, an era where only war is eternal..."
"Here it comes! Here it comes!" Daniel muttered excitedly in the pod, his body tensing involuntarily. Even having seen it countless times, standing before the atmosphere this cinematic created—that overwhelming sense of oppression and tragic grandeur—still sent his adrenaline soaring.
This was what he'd anticipated. Different from any gentle "entertainment product." The breath of real war.
The cinematic ended, transitioning to a simple character creation interface. The background showed the slowly rotating, battle-scarred Imperial Aquila emblem.
[Please enter your character name]
Daniel rubbed his hands together excitedly. A name! A resounding ID to represent his ambitions! Countless cool names from novels and anime flashed through his mind. Finally, a simple, direct name with a touch of teenage boldness surfaced:
"I Am God!"
He chuckled. This title felt both dominating and subtly fitting for this war-torn world where mortals struggled to survive—that hidden desire to transcend, to control destiny. He typed quickly on the virtual keyboard: [I Am God].
Click confirm.
The instant he clicked, the screen seemed to flicker briefly. A faint golden shimmer, almost like an illusion, flashed across the ID input box. Too fast. Daniel didn't even see it clearly. He thought it was a game effect or his eyes playing tricks.
Creation successful. Loading into main lobby.
Daniel couldn't wait to see himself appearing in-game with the ID "I Am God." He switched to third-person view and looked above his character's head:
[I Am Not God]
Daniel: "...?"
He froze. Rubbed his eyes. Looked closer at the screen. No mistake. Four characters, clear as day: I Am Not God.
"Huh?" He made a confused sound. "Did I type it wrong? Added an extra 'Not'?"
He recalled clearly—he'd entered "I Am God." Was he too excited and his hand slipped? Or did the game have profanity filters that didn't allow such arrogant names and automatically added a "Not"?
He opened the personal information panel, trying to modify it. The nickname modification function was grayed out, with a prompt: "After character creation, names are permanently bound and cannot be changed."
"Damn... must be a bug."
Daniel felt somewhat deflated. He'd finally thought of a cool name, only for it to turn out like this. "I Am Not God" sounded wimpy, even a bit comical—completely opposite his expectations.
But this minor disappointment was quickly drowned by a stronger impulse: get into the battlefield immediately. It was just a name. What did it matter what he was called? He wasn't livestreaming anyway. Nobody knew him. He consoled himself.
"Whatever. 'I Am Not God' it is. Playing the game is what matters!" He muttered, quickly clicking quick match.
A few seconds later: Match found.
[Map: Tival (Classic Campaign)]
[Faction: Imperial Guard (Attackers)]
[Mode: Standard Siege (Infantry)]
[Loading...]
"Imperial attackers! Good! No camping!"
Daniel's spirits lifted. He temporarily threw the name issue to the back of his mind, rubbing his hands together, ready to show his skills on this battlefield he'd watched countless times.
What he didn't know was this: in the character data stream beyond his sight, beside that modified ID, an extremely tiny data marker—like golden dust—flashed briefly before disappearing into the vast ocean of game code.
As if it had never existed.