“  1/15

  Dear Diary,

  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,

  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.

  All of this is, this life I still can’t fathom,

  Was just a setup for this miniscule reflection.

  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? Either way, it was always good to vent, or so I’d been told. I didn’t particularly enjoy writing all of that down…I didn’t feel better either.

  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, but regretfully have to, in an attempt to chronicle this all.

  [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.

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  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-”

  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.””

  “We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.”

  -Bryan White

  This, I disagree with. I find the latter optional.

  “I kneeled on those bland, worn-out cushions, the perfect place to take out my frustrations. Slamming my unprotected fists into the soft, spongy surface couldn’t hurt, surely. So, I did just that, driving my fists into the cushion’s forgiving material, as I mentioned just a second ago. Assuming you’re paying attention.

  “Do you hate me, system dude? Or…system chick? You clearly had some reason to put me with them in the same forest by the same teleportation point. Or…I guess it was all my fault. My shitty mental state. But to let me go through another day like that…”

  [I can hardly be described as a being close to some concept of a gender. You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson about formality but I will kindly not press the point further. I do not hate you as I do not hate anyone. Everything is simply a probability and a statistic and you appear to be unlucky. The chance of you ending up at the same relative location was just as lucky as you encountering your dead relatives there. With the advent of your integration, anything is theoretically possible with the correct power, application, and technique. Now then, if I am correct, which I always am, you were in the middle of assaulting the ground?]

  “Sure, sure. I think I need a break. Today has been just…too much.”

  [Feel free to take it then, waste this time away. In that case you simply forfeit the right to the path search and any rewards that may come along with it. Assuming you fail to fulfill the requirements. This is not a difficult stage.]

  My hand slid to a requested pen sitting by my side.

  No, I wasn’t enthralled by rewards—

  Did I want them?

  Who wouldn’t crave that fleeting, instant payoff

  for their efforts?

  But now, with the weight of it all pressing in,

  I feel like a hollowed-out shell.

  The ideas I’d absorbed, the beliefs I’d clung to,

  still linger, clawing at the edges of my mind,

  restless, unyielding, refusing to release.

  I drown it out,

  I smash my fists against the ground.

  My knuckles scream with every impact,

  skin split and raw,

  the jarring force meeting

  that strange, slimy—not quite solid—surface,

  sending painful jolts through my arms.

  As a fast paced and blaring tune playing in my ears,

  it softened beneath me, just as I’d remembered.

  Not that it mattered.

  Not worth dissecting.

  I tossed the crumpled page over my head in frustration. Numerous sheets of its kind were collecting, refusing to disappear like I may have hoped.

  I’d been running on fumes just to get this far,

  Numbing myself with empty notions,

  Trying to become a “blank slate,”

  Desperately blurring reality’s jagged edge,

  Just as I’d distanced myself

  From my parents’ deaths,

  Whittled down to cold, detached facts of life.

  Eventually.

  Revenge would come soon enough.

  The justice system—flawed as it is—

  Why does it even operate like this?

  The world isn’t fair…but it ought to be.

  Wasn’t I supposed to have

  some kind of advantage here?

  Why didn’t I?

  Just as goddamn bad. I tore the page to shreds, running each piece through my fingers before separating the letters from their comrades in arms.

  How did he erase every trace of his scheme,

  Walk away untouched, as I stood there,

  Trying to tell the truth,

  Trying to fit in,

  Trying not to drown in despair,

  Struggling to connect, to thrive—

  Always floundering, always out of sync,

  Conversations now feeling like echoes

  Borrowed from screens instead of life.

  Utterly alien.

  Is this who I’ve become?

  Have I really fallen this far?

  Maybe it’s the toll of that “gifted kid” title,

  The honor-student curse,

  Assuming life would be kinder,

  And yet I’m haunted by perfectionism,

  By endless delay,

  By that consuming fear of failing,

  Etched into my family’s history,

  Passed down like some twisted legacy.

  And here I stand, on the brink of something real—

  A sliver of success, maybe even power.

  If I could just grasp it,

  Maybe I’d be something more, someone worthy.

  But first, I had to confront

  That nothing here would come without a price,

  No matter how well I knew it,

  That whisper in my subconscious

  I always wanted to believe otherwise.

  And if I can’t accept that,

  What does it mean for me?

  Am I even likable?

  Or maybe it was inevitable—

  The torment that followed me, grade after grade.

  Was this fate? Is it just who I am?

  “Is it possible to like me? Am I all alone? Is this fucking real? Answer that, once and for all! Tell me the truth!” My questioning started as a whisper but soon rose to a wail.

  [You lack conventional reading skills, so that subtracts from it. But if you were able to actually read and saw my previous message to you, then you would know that everything is possible now. Everything. Even liking you…and this being real. Maybe it’s fake, maybe it really just is all an acid trip. Maybe you just have to figure that out yourself, or perhaps I could give you some assistance. Was your life on Earth even real? If this feels and seems the same as reality, why treat it as something different?]

  Maybe, if I just surrender to sleep,

  I’ll process this mess in my dreams,

  sweep out that lurking dread,

  let my body find peace,

  let my weary head recover

  whatever shreds of sanity remain.

  Shouldn’t I feel grateful, even privileged,

  to sleep without the grind of work, school,

  and all that nonsense?

  Here I am, arguing with some phantom,

  some figment of my own invention.

  Hours later, I blink awake,

  still heavy-lidded, and just as tired.

  The thoughts, they pick up where I left them,

  spinning in circles, relentless.

  Why do I feel like I need to mend the world’s wounds?

  What makes me, a privileged guy,

  untouched by systematic oppression,

  believe I’m the one to change it?

  Everything feels so…melancholic,

  this weight settling in

  like it comes from unlocking memories

  I’d rather bury deep, forever.

  That felt a bit better; actually finding some success in writing out how I felt…if only I could write a good conclusion to it…

  Maybe it’s that slow realization—

  existence as a species feels so pointless,

  like I’ve barely changed since I was fourteen,

  aside from growing taller.

  Shouldn’t I be training right now, doing something?

  But I just… don’t feel like it.

  SHIT! Another one ruined, another page in the pile, more time wasted, more reason for doubt of myself. A pillow of pages, a blanket of papers, a lullaby of letters, a tidal wave enveloping me in words.

  “Tell me again, straight answer this time, is this real right now? And if it is, is Greg getting stronger by the minute?”

  [Of course it’s real. Right?]

  “Come on, just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ already!” I said breathily, quite exasperated. “You know everything about me, don’t you, you intrusive bastard? You know how I feel. Revenge is good, this is all a game, yeah? I can get some ‘xp’ from it, huh? Fucking tell me already!”

  The notification disappeared to be replaced with another.

  [Information on other living organisms does not come free, and I explicitly stated it previously that if it looks real and feels real then you should treat it as such.]

  Fine. Be like that. Maybe I should treat it like that, though, you know? It’s worth a try. As I sat here, a thought took its time sinking in, a faint ember sparking within the depths of my mind, then slowly catching fire, growing brighter and hotter with each passing second. That, if I’m going to save everyone from a miserable existence, a real existence or just one made up in my mind, I’d better get strong enough to actually change something. It wasn’t a sudden bolt of inspiration, more like a slow, creeping certainty winding its way around all my doubts and contradictions. A rather simple conclusion overall, but a much needed one.

  I’d always flirted with the idea of heroism, of being some kind of savior figure, but was that what I really wanted? Or was this just another way to feed my own need for validation—an ego trip disguised as nobility? A way to create some grand persona, to build a version of myself that was worth admiring? I wasn’t a hero. I didn’t act outside of my own self interests, I wasn’t courageous, I had nothing going for me in that department.

  A flicker of doubt tugged at me, forcing me to look inward. Maybe it didn’t matter, I reasoned, brushing the thoughts aside. Maybe you just have to start somewhere, even if you don’t fully know why. Maybe I use the word maybe too much in my thought processes. It was like those times I’d get a burst of motivation and drop to the floor to crank out 20 push-ups right before bed, imagining I’d wake up somehow transformed, stronger, something I did quite often with little exercise elsewhere. Sure, it was ridiculous, but at least it was a start. And a start was something. Something leading to nothing.

  The truth was, I’d let myself grow soft. Since leaving high school, and my previous line of work, I hadn’t exactly thrown myself into anything. College barely got my attention before I’d checked out, and dropped out of that too, like some half-hearted attempt to care about a world that kept slipping away. I’d spent so much time doing nothing, convincing myself that there was time to figure things out. But here, I was realizing, time was a luxury I no longer had.

  So, could I actually do something? The question echoed in my head, louder than I expected. I’d made it this far, reached the circle, survived until now against whatever odds were stacked against me. Maybe that meant I could push a bit further, maybe even train. Yeah… training. I could start here. Build myself up from whatever shreds were left.

  I clenched my fists, feeling a surge of energy pulse through my veins. Yeah, I thought, letting the determination settle in. Fuck it. Let’s do this.

  “Can you get me…a punching bag…a random weapon…a pair of 30 pound weights…and uh, maybe a training dummy? Do you think that’s enough? Do other people ask for more?”

  [Please limit how many questions you ask at once, it could be considered rude. Is that all you need, that you personally thought up yourself? Feel free to ask for more at any time.]

  “Sure, I…I guess.”

  And so, what I asked for materialized directly in front of me, slowly phasing into existence. At first, they appeared as faint, translucent shapes, barely visible, but within moments, the details sharpened, and the objects became solid, their edges crisp and surfaces gleaming with a lifelike sheen. It was as if reality itself was adjusting to their sudden presence. I watched the transformation with a mix of curiosity and hesitation, absently scratching the right side of my neck, my fingers grazing over the familiar, raised texture of a bumpy birthmark. It always stood out, like a small imperfection I’d never quite gotten used to. My mind raced with indecision—should I dive in right away, or wait? Something in me urged caution, but impatience tugged at the edge of my thoughts. My breath quickened.

  [Stage 2: Find Your Path - Time remaining: 63:27:40]

  [The point of this to figure out who you were was before this. I do recommend that you move on. If you wish to think further, wait until later. The next stage may allow for that.]

  A tattered black punching bag hung limply in the air, suspended by a steel thread that connected it to a sleek, dark metal plate, which seemed to float ominously in the space above. Its surface, rough and cracked, bore the scars of years of relentless blows. But what really caught my attention was the dilapidated training dummy beside it.

  The dummy stood on a circular wooden base, though the wood was so decayed it barely held together, darkened and rotted with age, looking like it could collapse at any moment. Deep, jagged slashes marred its frame, as if it had been hacked at with countless blades, leaving it looking weak and ready to give in to the slightest force. Despite its fragile appearance, it remained upright, an odd feat for something so worn down. Two splintered wooden arms jutted out at awkward angles, sharp and pointed, like they were waiting to impale anyone foolish enough to attack it head-on.

  Atop the dummy hung a sagging sack with sketched on, childlike features drawn on it, a face that resembled a dotted stick figure sketched by yours truly in my sixth-grade art class. The eyes were uneven, the mouth was a lazy scribble—it was almost absurdly out of place. Yet, there was something unnerving about it, especially with the thick, glowing aquamarine umbra-like mist that surrounded the dummy, giving it an eerie presence that defied its flimsy structure.

  Next to the dummy lay two blocky, black cubes that were probably supposed to be weights, though they looked more like dense, unwieldy chunks of metal than anything practical. Wrapped haphazardly around them was the weapon I had requested, though I hadn’t expected… this. A chain. Just a simple, heavy chain. No sword, no bow, no shield—just a cold, metal length of links. How was I supposed to fight with a chain? Whip it around? Strangle someone? I wasn’t strong enough for that.

  I keep delaying. It was better to just train, and at that rate to probably also get more specific at what I ask for when I have the ability to, you know, ask for anything and all.”