The last thing I remembered was falling asleep at my desk—headphones on, screen dimmed, the final moments of a Warhammer 40K lore deep-dive podcast echoing in my ears. Something about the Inquisition purging a planet for harboring psykers or some other typical grimdark madness.
Then… nothing.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my cluttered apartment. No flickering monitor, no half-eaten ramen bowl beside me. Just cold metal, the stench of oil, and distant screaming.
And a headache that felt like someone had driven a servo-skull through my temples.
Life Simulation System Initializing…
Host: Unknown Soul Detected — Dimensional Drift Identified
Beginning Synchronization… Done.
Welcome, User. You may now simulate your life trajectory from this point forward.
Simulation Limit: Until Point of Death.
I blinked at the glowing blue screen floating before my eyes. Holographic? A HUD? I couldn't tell. But it was unmistakable—this was some kind of system. Like those cheat-like golden finger things you read about in isekai novels.
Except this one had one terrifying caveat: the simulation would only go until I died.
No multiple routes, no "happily ever afters." Just a morbid countdown timer every time I chose to look ahead.
And I was in Warhammer 40K.
That realization came slowly, through the pounding echoes of heavy boots and the mechanical whirr of servo-arms overhead. The place I'd awoken in was a manufactorum—half-factory, half-prison, and fully nightmarish.
Men and women around me wore ragged uniforms, their bodies covered in grime and cybernetic scars. Overseers barked orders, and those who didn't move fast enough were whipped or worse. Every few seconds, a skull-shaped drone flew overhead, trailing incense smoke and mechanical hymns.
I was in the Imperium of Man. Probably one of its countless hive worlds. No date, no star chart. Just pain and oppression.
So, what now?
Die a slow, meaningless death in a manufactorum? Or take a gamble on this Life Simulation System?
I sat up, ignoring the wrenching pain in my back, and focused on the translucent panel that had stayed with me.
Would you like to simulate from your current point in life?
Y/N
I hesitated, then selected Yes.
Life Simulation: Initializing…
Day 0: You attempt to blend in. You copy the motions of the worker beside you, keeping your head low. It works. No one pays attention.
Day 3: Your body is sore. You have no augmentics. You collapse at your station. A servo-skull notices.
Day 5: You are thrown into the "Reprocessing Units." There is no food. No water.
Day 7: Someone tries to eat you.
Day 9: You are stabbed in the neck by a scavenger fighting over a rusted cogitator core.
Simulation Terminated — Cause of Death: Jugular Severed
Total Lifespan: 9 Days
I gasped.
It wasn't just text—I felt it. Every moment. The hunger. The pain. The final panic as blood sprayed from my neck.
My hands were shaking when I came out of the simulation. My heart was racing.
I was going to die in nine days. Horribly. Unless I changed something.
I had a chance.
That was more than most people in this universe ever got.
I wasn't a Guardsman yet. Not a Space Marine. Not a psyker. I was just some hive scum. But I had something no one else did—a system that let me peek into the future. Even if only up until I died, that was still a tactical advantage.
I could fail forward.
If I learned from each simulation, changed my actions, altered the trajectory of my choices, I could extend my life a little each time. And maybe—just maybe—find a way to survive in this nightmare.
So I tried again.
Life Simulation: Begin
Day 0: You mimic the work again. This time, you make a mental note of the overseers' shifts. You fake a limp to get reassigned to maintenance.
Day 3: You meet a man named Harlan. He gives you a tip—there's a hidden waste shaft in the underbelly. People vanish there.
Day 5: You escape the main floor and crawl through vents. It's disgusting but breathable. You find old cogitator terminals.
Day 6: A maintenance servitor attacks you. You manage to disable it using a broken wrench.
Day 8: A minor tech-cult catches you snooping. They inject you with microserfs and drag you into a ritual.
Day 10: Your body mutates due to exposure to scrapcode-tainted datastreams. You are labeled as a heretek.
Day 12: The Inquisition arrives. You are purged.
Simulation Terminated — Cause of Death: Bolter round to the chest
Total Lifespan: 12 Days
"Okay…" I breathed heavily. "That's three more days."
I took notes. Names. Paths. Danger zones. Opportunities.
This wasn't just about surviving anymore. If I could gather enough knowledge from each run, I could navigate my way out of the slums. Maybe get off-world. Join the Guard, even the Inquisition—hell, if I played my cards right, maybe even fake my way into the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Every life I lived in simulation gave me information. Weaknesses in routines. Hidden caches. The location of secret elevators, discarded weapons, unreliable people.
And pain. Always pain.
I was learning something else, too. Every time I simulated and died, I felt it linger in my real body. Phantom wounds. Nightmares. Fatigue. Like the simulations were merging with my mind.
Warning: Extended use of Life Simulation System may affect host psychology.
Proceed with caution.
"Too late," I muttered.
Over the next week in real time, I ran thirteen simulations. I died in dozens of horrifying ways: impaled by a rogue servitor, executed by enforcers, eaten by mutant rats, irradiated in a coolant leak, and once even torn apart by a Warp apparition I accidentally summoned while exploring an abandoned chapel.
Each death brought insight.
Each new life lived gave me the tools to inch forward, to survive longer.
By the end of the week, I had mapped most of the manufactorum's layout in my mind. I knew the patrol patterns of the overseers. I discovered a black market that sold ration packs and shivs. I learned the slang of the underhive. I even managed to locate a derelict astropath's chamber—long forgotten, but still filled with arcane relics.
And then, in Simulation #14, something happened that changed everything.
Life Simulation: Begin
Day 0 to Day 18: You escape the manufactorum entirely using a forgotten lift shaft that connects to an old transit tunnel.
Day 21: You join a group of scavvers. They speak of opportunity—an Imperial Guard recruitment drive in the upper hive.
Day 27: You enlist, using a forged ID found in a corpse.
Day 45: You are deployed to a fringe world infested with orks.
Day 50: First combat. You kill your first enemy. Adrenaline floods you.
Day 57: You are promoted to squad leader.
Day 59: Your position is overrun. You detonate a frag grenade to prevent capture.
Simulation Terminated — Cause of Death: Self-detonation.
Total Lifespan: 59 Days
I collapsed to my knees.
Fifty-nine days.
I had gone from dying in nine to surviving nearly two months in this cursed galaxy.
More importantly—I had made it into the Imperial Guard.
That was my next goal.
As I wiped sweat from my brow and stood in the flickering light of the manufactorum's upper levels, I knew one thing:
I might not be a Primarch. Not a psyker. Not a chosen of the Emperor.
But I had something better.
A system that let me die a thousand times, so I could live one perfect life.
And in a universe where death was certain and survival was a myth?
That made me a goddamn miracle.