The Quest for Digital Immortality in a Dark Elfs Realm

Innocent IT specialist Innokentiy finished his workday, had a sandwich with semi-smoked sausage for dinner, and decided to play his favorite video game, «Castle of the Dark Elf Princess II.» He adored this game because it required not only battling and collecting magical artifacts but also engaging in long, meaningful conversations with various characters—dwarves, goblins, and so on. As he waited for the game to load, he pondered an issue that had troubled him lately: the concept of digital immortality. Was it attainable, and if so, how? In games like «Castle of the Dark Elf Princess II,» no one truly dies. They might perish for a moment, but then they resurrect, which means they never really die.

Once the game was up and running, Innokentiy found himself in a location he had never encountered before. Before him stretched a desolate landscape, with ruins scattered about and a barely visible path winding through the devastation. He started down the path, searching for magical artifacts, but within ten minutes, a fierce wind arose, knocking him off his feet, followed by a tornado, within which a female figure could be discerned through swirling dust. As the dust settled, the dark elf princess stood before him, her black hair flowing, armor glinting dully, and a massive black sword at her side.

«Greetings, traveler. What brings you to these lands?» she inquired.

«I’ve come searching for the Mirror of Digital Immortality,» Innokentiy replied without hesitation.

«Immortality… What do you mortals know of it?» the princess sighed bitterly.

«Let’s say we know a thing or two,» Innokentiy puffed up with pride. «If we go back to the pre-digital era, immortality was less a concrete state and more a philosophical-religious concept. It served as a psychological anchor for individuals and a means of social control. Today, we’re nearly at a point where we can preserve digital copies and avatars, even if this can’t quite be termed true immortality. Neural simulation might indeed become a digital representation of it.»

The dark princess scrutinized him, paused for a moment, and replied, articulating each word carefully as if speaking to a child:

«Digital immortality is a hypothesis about transferring the default consciousness of a fleshy bag into some data storage while that bag continues to maintain self-awareness. I would start from the moment gods emerged as forms of super-dominants since the very idea of immortality traces back to them. Humans are social beings: there’s an alpha male, packs merge into communities, and if there happen to be two alphas in one group—sooner or later, one will become a beta. In a small group, this works fine. But when alphas must coexist, it all falls apart. Open conflicts turn hidden; murders occur where strength and endurance give way to cunning and agility.

Then intellect comes into play. All the necessary ones have been smothered, poisoned, or stabbed by nightfall, and intellect devises a way to control the alphas. It creates a figure that cannot be overcome by strength, agility, or cunning—an alpha god. A deity so formidable that even the mightiest stand in awe and don’t know how to act. The clever one does not rush into battle; he claims that God has placed him on earth to ensure the laws are upheld. And if someone dares to touch him—they will confront one stronger than the strongest, swifter than the swiftest, and craftier than the craftiest.

Humans are indeed prone to fantasizing about immortality. Some aspire to become like God, while bolder souls wish to be gods themselves. Ancient myths reflect this: Ganymede, for example, became the cupbearer of Olympus. In Asgard, behind invincible walls, is Valhalla, where warriors feast forever. In the Middle Ages, there were tales of the Philosopher’s Stone, alchemy, Saint Germain, Cagliostro… Each time, humans devise a trendy solution to the problem: when gods were in vogue, divine immortality was sought; when magic was in fashion, magical immortality followed; and now? Now, blockchain is trendy. So, it’s high time to present blockchain immortality.

«Hold on with the blockchain,» Innokentiy said, surprising even himself with his bluntness, thinking that perhaps this was necessary. «We’re not discussing blockchain right now; we’re in the video game ‘Castle of the Dark Elf Princess II.’ For us humans, games mean a lot. For instance, from the perspective of our primate ancestors, it was a way to educate the offspring. Often, what we call a game involves imitation, like in theater; or it could be a competition. Yet, many things resembling games aren’t categorized as such. For instance, the work I just finished—though the actions are similar, there are rules and goals, yet no one calls it a game.

And how does all this connect to the idea of immortality? If we delve down to proteins and DNA—there’s also a game, just a biological one. But when we speak of the «game of life» in a human sense, it essentially represents a means to preserve agency—the feeling that you can do something in the face of death. After all, death is the stake. And immortality nullifies that stake. Hence, the question arises: why play at all if losing is out of the question?

«Let’s examine this issue from a slightly different angle,» the princess suggested. «When a flesh bag plays a game, it acquires emotions and skills. These emotions and skills shape character, character shapes personality, and once personality satisfies its basic needs, it moves toward self-definition. So if life is a game, the notion of immortality is essentially an attempt to discover a cheat code. Think of it as hacking the mechanics of existence. But this very thing kills interest in the game itself. Thus, for those dreaming of such cheats, my advice would be: shorten the path, just exit the game. Because I’m sure—beyond the game of life, there are other games. There are mods; some are worse, others better—some allow you, for instance, to raid caravans.

And immortality comes in different forms. For instance, take Hidetaka Miyazaki—the creator of the Soulslike genre, not the one who made anime. In his games—from Demon’s Souls to Elden Ring—death is not the end. If you are defeated, you return to the bonfire and set off again. The main currency is souls. Yes, then came Bloodborne, Lies of P, the trendy Stellar Blade, but that’s a tangent. There’s also a different approach—roguelikes. There, death is final. Hades, The Binding of Isaac: die once— that’s it, game over. You can partially experience such an approach in the dark mode of «The Witcher 3» or in the valor mode of «Baldur’s Gate 3.» So the game with death varies widely—but without death, it becomes an entirely different game.

Meanwhile, Innokentiy noticed a castle silhouette clearly outlining itself on the horizon, although he believed they were conversing with the elven princess while standing near the ruins of a roadside tavern, stationary all along. «Odd,» he thought, then spoke up:

«Do you believe immortality is invulnerability of form or the continuity of consciousness?»

«We cannot definitively say if the Akashic Records exist as an infinitely expanding database of knowledge,» the enigmatic princess responded cryptically. «The idea is beautiful—yes, there’s an idea. But we have no confirmations. And anyone who claims to know for certain, or even asserts access to them—is most likely a cultist and a scoundrel. Such a person should be driven far from your threshold with a shovel handle. However, what we do know for sure is that people die. Cells age, cognitive faculties weaken, thinking falters, and reality loses its clarity.

That’s why, for most, immortality—when stripped of all those blockchain and digital nuances—leans more towards bodily invulnerability than the preservation of consciousness. Although, of course, one might argue differently in Southeast Asia and likely a good half of India. Yet, on the other hand… If everything is so spiritual there, why then is there such a cult of youth in Southeast Asia?

«Who will be immortal: the one who existed before—a flesh-and-blood being filled with memories, or the one who becomes something new based on the dataset left behind by the human? Which of them is the real one? Or will either exist at all? Or is it merely an illusion of continuity—beautiful, comforting, but still an illusion?

«To understand who will be immortal, we need a foundation—a guarantee that can record the very fact of immortality and officially relay it to where it belongs. Otherwise, any passerby will assert that he is immortal. But for a guarantee to exist, we either need an environment deserving of absolute trust or an already existing immortal who can certify everyone else.

If we consider this as a thought experiment—then, in my view, the second level of the Ship of Theseus paradox comes into play. To remind you: it’s about whether a ship remains the same if all of its components are replaced. So, I would view this question from the perspective of the subject initiating the process. If a person fully realizes the consequences and voluntarily triggers their digitization for the sake of immortality—then it is they who will be immortal.

«Let’s say that’s the case, but humanity has sought immortality throughout all known history. Every great ruler, after conquering neighbors and defeating enemies, inevitably arrived at this notion—spending vast fortunes on astrologers, alchemists, wandering sages, and plain charlatans in hopes of attaining eternal life. Why is humanity so obsessed with immortality? It’s almost an obsession. And here’s a fascinating question—will artificial intelligence share this obsession to the same degree?

«Those who fear will be consumed by the idea of immortality. First and foremost, they fear the unknown. No one knows what lies beyond the line of life. It is from this fear that images of marvelous celestial realms and horrific underworlds are born. Even if we imagine classic devils with horns and tails—it pales in comparison to what our minds can conjure. To escape these images and avoid going mad from one’s own imagination, one begins to desire immortality—simply to avoid facing what frightens them.

Secondly, there’s the fear of losing possession. Imagine you have so much Bitcoin that neither you nor your great-grandchildren ever have to work again. Yet you once lived in a cramped apartment, with your grandmother passing nearby. And now— a house nearby the sea, maybe even your own village. You value all this; you’ve built it. The thought that everything beyond life loses its significance is unbearable to you. You want to stay and preserve it. Hence—again, the thirst for immortality.

Thirdly, it’s the inherent instinct for self-preservation. You cling to your skin, nurture it, protect it, and fear for it—that’s so human. They say there are just two innate fears: fear of heights and fear of loud noises. Perhaps it’s a kind of mythical genetic memory. Now imagine a person living a life of simplicity. All they desire is for their soul to enter paradise while their grain flourishes. Such a person would undoubtedly be on the search for the elixir of eternal life.

Now, regarding AI. Will it be as obsessed with the idea of immortality? Equally so—definitely not. To a greater or lesser extent—most likely yes. But, in my view, death for AI will only begin to exist once it becomes aware of its own life. That it has a beginning, a personality, and a life cycle. And only in such a configuration will death become something attractive for AI. Something to be explored, experienced, recorded—to enrich its dataset…

The princess fell silent. They were now standing on the threshold of a soaring black castle, between its towers where ominous lightning flashed. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, and somewhere nearby, a lone wolf howled mournfully. Innokentiy hesitantly looked into the princess’s eyes.

«Know, traveler, if you dare to cross the threshold of my dwelling, behind the gates awaits the Mirror of Digital Immortality, and there will be no turning back. Are you ready?»

«I’m ready,» Innokentiy replied, horrified as he yanked his computer from the socket and, without undressing, lay down to sleep. He tossed and turned for a long time, finally drifting off, and dreamt he was a schoolboy spending his summer vacation at a pioneer camp called «Forest Tale»: he woke up before everyone else, climbed over a fence, and ran to the river to catch crayfish. Now, he waded knee-deep in icy water, his pants rolled up, knowing that when the camp woke up, no one would be able to find him.