Real.

The last line of text glowed faintly on the black screen before the capacitors drained:

He was enormous. A matted blond beard, frost-crusted furs, eyes that glowed like dying embers. He carried an axe that hummed with a low, wrong frequency.

The seventh death was different. As Sven’s axe split your pixelated skull, the screen didn’t go black. Instead, you saw your own reflection in the monitor—but older. Gaunt. Dark circles under your eyes. Behind you, in the reflection, your bedroom door was open. It wasn’t open a second ago.

“You seek the axe. The axe seeks blood. Type your name, drengr.”