June 9th, 2019 — Brooklyn, NY
The glow of a cheap computer screen cast flickering shadows across the face of a young man in a dim, rundown apartment. His black hair clung to his face with sweat, eyes bloodshot from hours of obsessive searching.
> "Metallica... no results found."
"Nirvana... nothing."
"Ozzy Osbourne... Who's that?"
Rex Kade leaned back in his creaky chair, hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. This can't be real. He blinked hard, then typed again—faster, more frantically. Black Sabbath. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Slipknot. All searches returned the same dead-end.
No Results Found.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. His mouth went dry as the horrifying realization struck him again. This wasn't his world. Not exactly. Sure, it looked the same—streets named the same, cities lined up where they should be. But something was... off.
He opened a music platform and scrolled through the top charts. There it was—rock music. But none of the names were familiar. No Metallica. No Nirvana. No Iron Maiden. Instead, he found unfamiliar bands with different sounds, different histories. Their music was good, even great in some cases. But it wasn't the raw, legendary fire he remembered.
The rock history he knew simply never happened.
> "The Beatles? Never formed."
"Guns N' Roses? Doesn't exist."
"Grunge? A niche underground genre at best."
Rex slammed his fist on the desk. "This is insane."
And yet… as the silence settled in, something inside him clicked.
From the ashes of confusion, a grin started crawling across his face. A crooked, wild grin.
> "They don't exist here…"
"They. Don't. Exist. Here."
He stood slowly, then suddenly roared, "I'M GONNA BE RICH!"
---
Flashback – Just One Week Ago
Rex Kade was nothing but a drifting ember in a cold, indifferent world.
Eighteen. Homeless. Hungry. Broke.
Born to a mother addicted to pills and a father he never met, Rex had grown up bouncing between foster homes and the streets. His mother died when he was ten—overdose. There was no funeral. No letters. Just a worn photograph and an aching void.
No one came for him.
He survived, working odd jobs, scraping together meals from convenience stores and cafes, sleeping wherever he could. But he had one thing—music.
Even when the world spat on him, Rex clung to his beat-up acoustic guitar like a lifeline. He played on subway platforms, in alleyways, outside bar doors—anywhere someone might toss a coin or listen for even a second. His dream was to make music that meant something.
But dreams don't feed empty stomachs.
He dropped out of school. Lost his last job washing dishes. And when he finally returned to the slum apartment he once shared with an old roommate, hoping to retrieve his only notebook of lyrics, fate gave him one final push.
Or rather… a truck did.
He remembered crossing the street, the rain soaking his hoodie, his fingers numb from carrying a trash bag full of clothes. Then—headlights. A metallic roar. A scream. And nothing.
---
Now
When he'd awoken, it was in this version of New York—eerily similar but... twisted.
He still looked the same: tall, lean, sharp-eyed, and angry. But the world had shifted. Slightly, but significantly. This Earth had rock music, yes—but not his rock music.
The icons, the titans—the sounds that raised revolutions and shattered conformity—they had never been born here.
At first, he thought he'd gone crazy. But every test confirmed it: this Earth had a different musical evolution.
Here, rock and metal existed, but they branched off in strange directions. Bands like Rust Cathedral and Solar Howl dominated the charts. The tones were unfamiliar. The lyrics hollow. No anthems of rage and rebellion. No dark poetry of pain and survival. Just polished noise.
And that meant one thing.
A goldmine.
He could recreate every song. Every anthem. Every riff and scream that had once changed lives. He had the history of rock in his head—and here, it had never happened.
Rex Kade was standing at the edge of destiny.
> "If they don't know Nirvana… I'll become Nirvana."
"If they never heard Metallica… I'll forge Metallica."
He could feel it already: stadium lights, fans screaming, flames bursting behind him as he shredded the solo to "Master of Puppets." Their jaws dropping when he screamed "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The rise of a legend not yet born.
All he needed… was a band.
"Okay," he muttered, grabbing a pen. "I need a lead guitarist. Bassist. Drummer. Stage name… no, band name. I'll call us... Obsidian Saints."
The name rolled off his tongue like thunder.
As he scribbled on the notebook, a sudden chime echoed in the air—a sound that didn't come from the computer.
Rex froze.
A soft blue light bloomed in front of him. Floating. Flickering.
> [System Initialization Complete]
Welcome, Host. You have been selected for the Legendary Rockstar System.
Objective: Become the greatest musical legend this world has ever seen.
His eyes widened. "What the hell…"
The screen pulsed again.
> Starter Pack Received: Skill – Perfect Memory (All musical knowledge retained).
New Quest: Recruit band members. Fame Level: 0. Wealth Level: Broke. Fanbase: 0.
> Would you like to begin?
Rex opened his mouth to speak—
Then promptly fainted.