“My mind is an unrelenting torrent, swirling and storming, growing and corrupting. Now, more than ever, I feel like it is deteriorating. Now, more than ever, I feel backed into a corner, that the only way to escape is death or an impossible repair of myself. Now, more than ever, I doubt everything, I doubt if I’m actually here. Now, more than ever…Now, more than ever, that I am theoretically back in contact with other people, I fear them figuring out who I truly am. I fear that this all really is just another drug based hallucination, that my pizza bites were laced with something. I hope that even with how odd everything that has been happening is, that it is real; don’t I?


    Let me drift deep into the refuge of thought,


    a sanctuary where, for a flickering instant, I hold the reins,


    where I am the cunning architect of my own design,


    a businessman cloaked in luck and gilded fate,


    the world bending toward me like light in a prism,


    where fortune feels just within my grasp,


    a promise too soft to keep but sweet enough to chase.


    It is almost heaven here, suspended in a place


    untouched by the weary weight of turning twenty-two,


    where my scars feel softened, and loss a distant ghost,


    where heartbreak dulls to gentle hues of gray.


    Though gladness isn’t constant, its glimmer sometimes shows,


    a fleeting joy in an echoing world.


    And always, beside me, my companion remains,


    a soft, white creature with fur light as snowflakes—


    He''s as gentle as a whisper, as silent as shadow.


    He follows where I go, a partner in play beneath the sun


    and silent witness under moonlit frost.


    I call him by names no one else understands:


    Sorrow, dejection, the keeper of my quiet depths.


    He’s the friend who will be there tomorrow,


    The one I cherish when all else fades,


    And in his eyes, my soul lays bare,


    the last bond to hold, the only heart to share.


    What was my life?


    A glitch, a stumble masked,


    hidden beneath shields of


    self-deprecation,


    where the sharp jaws of the world


    could not bite.


    In my youth, life was almost good.


    I didn''t know the darkness—


    not yet.


    Childhood lay, stretched out,


    through empty, echoing halls,


    with days that dragged,


    time a heavy grip on


    solitude’s tight grasp.


    Alone, somehow,


    I felt above them all,


    my good grades a brittle bridge


    to parental praise.


    Yet it was banishment and ostracization,


    to every other soul


    who walked those vast halls.


    So I learned to live alone.


    Each move, each town—


    another hollow attempt


    to reach connection,


    but always, always the odd one,


    staring from the outside in.


    Exhaustion became my only comfort,


    sinking me deep into couches,


    where thoughts grew heavy, numb.


    Too worn to think, too drained to feel.


    If I had a home,


    it was a barely-warm bed,


    a cold rented floor.


    There was never enough,


    not enough work, money, peace.


    Parents who knew scorn better than love,


    and spoke words that lashed,


    “There are starving kids in Africa,”


    as if everything I had was perfect,


    as if my hurt held no worth,


    as if my grief was a self-indulgent sin.


    My selfishness knows no bounds,


    A limitless expanse,


    My greed for life that is perfect,


    I only wish to grasp it in my clawing hands.


    I dull out all that is not it,


    And complain when it is not,


    I live when I really shouldn’t,


    My burden lingering as an afterthought.


    I burden all who help me,


    My pain, they said, was tiny,


    So why complain?


    But to me, it bore weight enough,


    heavier than I could shoulder.


    I had privilege, sure,


    the invisible guard of birth,


    yet it never softened the edge,


    never took the cold away.


    The world crumbled around me,


    and I fell with it,


    let everything slip and fade:


    grades, parents, ambition withered


    like old, forgotten fruit.


    An emo kid, grown old,


    still aching for purpose.


    Purpose—what could I claim?


    The question haunted,


    a shadow across youth’s darkest woods,


    its outline stretched long.


    Once, I dreamed of leaving,


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.of shedding this hollow cycle—


    even that courage failed.


    I was a writer, or so I thought,


    craving voice, yet loathing crowds,


    longing for ears that would never turn.


    What am I, then?


    A scribbler of middling worth?


    A quiet life, a silent death—


    like a punchline with no laughter.


    And then, it struck me:


    to be something,


    the one who brought pain to those


    who dealt it freely.


    Or maybe, just like every night, these thoughts will fade into nothing like all my other late-night plans for a better life.


    I crumpled up the page I’d been writing that on and tossed it to the side, pulling out another paper from the stack…that last one was good, but…not good enough. I could do better. Yeah. I could do better.


    For why does all this matter?


    Truly, it does not,


    Even now, I only wish to gain,


    For that is human nature.


    It is my nature.


    Avarice is inherent.


    I restarted.


    I ponder for much time,


    Lost in the coils of endless thoughts,


    Strange words, yet they echo, restless.


    I battle with God,


    I act as a blasphemer.


    I curse my creator out,


    While I remain a schemer.


    And restarted some more…And kept restarting until another notification clouded my vision.


    [Error: Lack of non-misguided beliefs and memories to create a concrete self. Objective ended early - 18:36:17 remaining. You have been frozen for the remainder of stage 1. Stage 2 initializing…]


    [Stage 2: Find Your Path - Time remaining: 71:59:51]


    I said nothing, acting as uncaring as I possibly could. Being…frozen, or whatever was intriguing, but I hadn’t felt anything which I was glad for. I glanced back at the notification for my “Character Sheet,” looking for any clue that might hint at what this “path” could be. I was left wondering how exactly a ‘class’ would work, and what these stats would actually do for me. Could a point in strength make me able to lift 10 more pounds, or something?


    I anxiously raked my grimy fingers through my hair, the sensation of the dirt under my nails oddly grounding, while my right foot tapped furiously against the floor, betraying the chaos inside my mind. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Would there be another notification, some kind of prompt to guide me? Or would it be as cryptic and unhelpful as the last one, leaving me stranded in my own uncertainty?


    I couldn’t trust myself, not with important decisions. Nor could I reasonably trust others. I’d been left to my own devices before, and that never ended well. That always led me down a familiar, unproductive path, a dead end. I let out a long yawn, my body protesting the stress I’d been under, and glanced down at myself, half-expecting to see blood. But there wasn’t any. Surprising, but I wasn’t about to question it. Not right now.


    A surge of realization crackled through me like an electric current, snapping me into acute awareness as the fog surrounding my mind began to dissipate. Wait... that''s it! An idea flickered to life, blossoming like a small flame catching on kindling, and with each passing second, it grew, strengthening my resolve. If this “system,” this God, could track every word I uttered, gauge every inflection in my voice, and even punish me for attempting to downplay my circumstances, then it must have the capacity to do more than just observe. Surely, if it wielded such control, it could also answer questions—or perhaps even provide me with assistance, if I could only find the right way to ask.


    I took a shaky breath, steadying myself, feeling both emboldened and uncertain. “Oh, great system, may I ask thee a few simple fonder-I mean ponderings of mine?” I spoke with a tone I imagined might belong to a gentleman from some forgotten century, laying on an exaggerated layer of politeness. My voice quivered with an unsteady formality, the words unfamiliar and stiff, as if I were awkwardly trying to fit into clothes a few sizes too big. The system, however, seemed utterly indifferent to my fumbling attempt at eloquence.


    [You already have. And that is the general point of this effective tutorial. To learn.]


    “Thank you for your generosity...What to ask, what to ask…Uh…W-What is this path that I am supposed to find?” My voice cracked multiple times as I queried this, a fact I would prefer to not reminisce about.


    [It is your path to survival, to power, to growth. This will manifest itself as your Class or Profession. To have this manifestation occur, you must first create Echoes from self-learned skills.]


    “What’s a class? A profession? What are Echoes? Oh, sorry…should I ask slower? And how do I actually learn skills?”


    [Know your place, young one. You, who sees life through such a straightforward and myopic lens, attempting to justify every action falsely. Trying to vilify another of your species who is clearly mentally disabled, unwell and unstable. I must assume you can see how his intelligence is highly subpar your species’ average based on the quality of his speech. Holding incorrect information that you turned into your entire worldview. You needn’t know everything and you will learn nothing if you speak to your betters in such a casual manner.]


    Wow…that was a fuck ton of criticism in one notification, too much to take in at once. Best to act remorseful, then?


    “I’m deeply sorry, please forgive this meager servant!” I whimpered, dropping to my knees without hesitation, groveling aimlessly since I had no idea where the system actually resided. My voice wavered with desperation as I pressed my palms into the cushion, my forehead nearly touching the same spot. I’d already experienced the agony for a much smaller offense, and I wasn’t eager to find out what worse would feel like. Death wasn’t exactly on my to-do list. Still, despite my fear, I often found myself selectively ignoring what the system told me—when it suited me, anyway.


    “Am I to attempt to learn skills within this space? However that may be?”


    [Only the bare necessities. You have until the completion of stage 2.]


    I then wanted to ask, ‘What’s stage 3 then?’ but restrained myself in order to not annoy the same system that could kill me easily at any second and probably was having a similar conversation with billions of others on Earth; and who knows how many others with the revelation of other life in our universe and even our galaxy existing. I shivered, finally noticing just how cold it was in this foggy space. So cold, frigid, smoke enveloping me in chills, and…I’m not okay. Shit, man. Why does life have to fucking be like this? Right now, I noticed the funny little wisp of melancholy wandering around my mind and infiltrating every thought.


    I massaged my forehead gently, trying to fend off a headache that I could already see creeping in from miles away, the pressure building behind my eyes. Then, with a quick flick of my middle finger against the center of my forehead, I bounced it off in a playful motion, expanding my hand outward like a tiny explosion. It was a gesture I used to do when I was younger, something I’d fallen into when I felt down, lying on my bed at home, staring up at the ceiling. A brief chuckle escaped me, but it quickly morphed into something louder, harsher—half-sarcastic, half-sadistic. My laughter echoed in the cold, foggy air, growing louder with every breath, the strain in my vocal cords making it feel like they were going to snap under the pressure. I breathed in the cool, crisp air heartily, eyes bulging out of their sockets.


    “Can I please just go back to my apartment?!” I whisper shouted, biting my lip until just the same as almost every other part of my body in the past little while, it bled too.


    [Not the original, though I can replicate it if you wish to be there rather than here for this stage. I do believe that you were shown a description of what this path-search would entail?]


    “Wha-”


    <hr>


    With a rush of air, there I was…back in bed. Swaddled in covers, the blue, poorly plastered ceiling taking up my entire field of view. The notifications were gone…the mental guilt was gone–It all had just been a dream. I would consider it as something like a nightmare, strange as it was, and I was glad to be out of it. Glad to be back here…in this eternal cycle. Back here, unclean, unshaven, trapped, unable to escape. Back here, where I throw off the covers, hallucinate, wish for the death of my enemies, wish for my loved ones to come back, accomplish nothing, procrastinate, engage in bad habits, reminisce, repress, project, vilify, hate. Back here, where…nothing exciting happens, nothing ever changes, and the past is the present, a nonexistent future.


    I think that…maybe I did like everything that was happening, deep down. But even deeper, I did want to be here. Change was frightening. A standard routine wasn’t. No matter how miserable an existence that routine created. Even if that change was only temporary or I hadn’t seen the worst of what that change could have brought to me. But, if it were a real situation of mine, what would I have done? Could I have actually fulfilled those hopes for vengeance? I certainly wanted to think I would have, that I would become unbelievably strong and kill them, but I was no overpowered protagonist; just a weird side character or mentally ill antagonist on a good day. All those hopes and wishes were so unbelievably brutal, I still struggled believing that I had come up with them originally. Even in that dream I’d just had, I’d shied away from danger, shied away from strengthening myself, wasted time, wasted my chance, like I wasted everything good I’ve ever gotten, just willing for success to happen.


    Or was this just a source of motivation, a sign to get my life to a better place? I swiped off the covers and stood up, whipping my hair up along with me, and slamming my head on a wooden beam making up the ceiling. Not taking it to heart, I dropped and did 20 pushups, and despite being tired, I felt more motivation than I had in a while. I could just…make a new routine, and adhere to it with this same fervor, every single day, whether down in the dumps or over the moon.


    Running down the stairs, I hunted through an old backpack for an even older laptop computer and booted it up, rapidly sifting through a collection of thousands of missed emails and then just as swiftly sent responses with apologies for the great delay and a request to meet with them soon.


    Leaping up, I threw open the fridge and grabbed that package of greens, ready to eat it, then remembered it was expired, and threw it out. I ran to the door, put my hand on the handle, prepared myself…and then the motivation died. I slumped. My face fell.


    [Your Willpower stat has fallen by 1.]


    “That’s enough. Bring me back to the void.””