His mind felt like sludge, his head swaying as he was forced into and out of consciousness.

College math classes did that to him.

He was actually pretty good with numbers. Sadly, Professor Timmons's voice was so obnoxiously nasal and monotoned, he felt like he was being instructed 'not to resist' in a camp for prisoners of war.

Maybe that’s exaggerating.

Let’s start over.

The young man was Max Donovan, twenty-three years old, and a freshman college student in Texas.

Yes, he knew twenty-three was too old to be a college freshman, and he knew it was too old to still be living with his parents. He’d heard it all from his relatives before, and his professors, and girls.

And his parents.

He made some mistakes in his first few semesters, didn’t take it seriously, failed a lot. Thank whoever above for federal financial aid because he sure didn’t have the money to keep studying, let alone his parents. So here he was, in statistics, still hating being here, and still doing poorly because of it.

“Mr. Donovan.”

He shook himself out of his stupor at the mention of his name, finding Professor Timmons attention squarely on him.

He swallowed.

“Uh, yes sir?”

“Would be lovely if you could join us.”

Max nodded in awkward reply.

“Sorry. Uh, sir.”

Timmon turned back to the board, droning on about sample sizes and cluster predictions, while the rest of the class followed suit with a few rolled eyes.

Most of them were probably actual freshmen, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. Of course, they’d never know he wasn’t. For whatever reason, the baby face gene had hit him hard, so hard he would probably look seventeen until he was thirty.

Not that he was complaining.

When a professor saw him and heard “freshmen,” they were usually pretty lenient with his grades, and he definitely needed it. His first few tests and papers of each semester were usually up to snuff, always high A's and showered with commendations.

But as soon as that mid-semester burnout hit, his grades tanked as hard as his motivation did. He would start skipping classes, missing assignments, his A's dropped to D's faster than he could blink. Then he’d be back where he always was, staring down his academic progress page and watching his GPA creep towards unsatisfactory. If he screwed up again, this year would be the last.

He couldn’t be sure how his mom and dad would react, though he knew it wouldn’t be good. It could be explosive, for wasting all that time, or perhaps passive disappointment.

"Look at our son the screw up, we don’t even know why he ever dreamed of breaking out of the monotony. He never would have made it."

Someone bumped into him on their way out of class, and he realized a few moments too late that they’d been dismissed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stood, shaking off the emotions of his nightmarish daydream as he gathered his things.

“Mr. Donovan. A word?”

Mr. Timmon waved him over to his desk at the front of the room, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He crossed the classroom, walking past rows of high school-esque desks, to stand in front of the blackboard next to Mr. Timmons. He was a tall, slightly chubby man, with a mop of graying red hair that stuck out in a few places. As he approached, Mr. Timmon removed his glasses and met his gaze, his dark brown eyes hiding an intelligence that didn’t come across in his teaching style.

Max ran a hand through the mess of brown waves on his head and gave Mr. Timmons an awkward nod.

“Yeah?”

Mr. Timmon tapped his folded glasses in his hand, his expression… disappointed. Then he spoke,

“Can you tell me why you missed your last three homework assignments?”

Max would have been more nervous, but his fear of the inevitable had exhausted him a bit, so he was honest.

“Negligence, I guess. Uh- sir.”

Mr. Timmon drew his mouth into a hard line, his gaze on the floor as he nodded concurrently. He stepped behind his desk as he continued speaking,

“Then why were your initial grades in my class so commendable?” He asked, spreading a few completed tests across his desk before continuing, “With your lack of attention, I thought you might have been a cheater, but considering your recent results…” He locked eyes with him, “I’m not convinced you are.”

The young man made a face, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“I’m- what do you mean?”

Mr. Timmon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What I mean is, you aren’t a cheater, and you aren’t an idiot.”

“Um… thank-?”

The professor suddenly cut him off.

“But you are, however… lazy. You won’t apply yourself.”

Max’s chest felt a bit heavy. He stammered,

“Well I-“

Mr. Timmon let out a flustered sigh,

“You’re a smart kid Max. You stopped answering my questions, what, the third week of class? A lot of these other kids…” He gestured towards the hallway with his briefcase.

“They struggle with this. They get tutoring, they study all week, they fill my office hours, just so they can pass.”

He paused, looking defeated as he circled around the desk towards the door. “You could pass on your own, with no help from me.” He shook his head, “but you refuse.”

Max wasn’t sure how to respond. This hurt worse than being told he was stupid, because he at least knew that wasn’t true.

He opened his mouth to speak but Mr. Timmon waved a hand at him dismissively,

“There’s a test on Thursday, and a quiz due tonight. I suggest you at least skim the material.”

The professor sighed, striding out of the room and leaving Max in front of the blackboard, letting the door close behind him. For just a moment, he stood alone. His shoulders felt heavy, he couldn’t wipe the drooping frown from his face.

He felt lost, knowing that he should be doing something, but not knowing if any of it was worthwhile. Even if he did do well on this test, what then? Try to bring up his abysmal grade point average? Get a degree in something that will have him working at a desk until he’s eighty? Do the same soul-crushing work day in and day out for the rest of his life, as just another nobody?

He trudged out into the hallway, other college students pushing past him, going home or going to their next classes. His limbs felt heavy, his mind swam with uncertainty as he made his way down the linoleum-tiled hall and through the glass doors. He wanted to make his parents proud, to do something that mattered, but he couldn’t sell his soul for that.

He felt more lost than he had before he walked onto campus that morning, so much to do, but so little reason to do it. Maybe Max should go home, try to enjoy the last few times he gets to spend the evening with mom, dad, and his sister. Have dinner together, watch a movie, not take for granted the final times he gets to be a kid that finishes his homework and tells his parents goodnight.

He aggressively wiped the mist from his eyes, trying to hold back a sniffle as he walked out to his car. It was an old, beat-up little vehicle with bad gas mileage and a worse transmission. But, it was his, and it got him where he needed to go. He threw his backpack into the passenger seat of the small, gray sedan and looked over the top of his car at the campus ahead of him. He decided he would walk through the arts building one last time, and he had to use the restroom anyway.

Something must have been wrong with him, or maybe he was just in a depressed, sentimental mood, but he missed when he was new here. When going to school didn’t inspire existential dread and a fear of failure.

He crossed the lot to the arts building and pushed open the glass doors, breathing in the faint smell of paints, construction paper, and the carpet that lined the auditorium. He strolled slowly down the hallway, reading the bulletin signs that adorned the walls and made the place feel like an elementary school. Posters for plays, events, and arts-related classes were strung up alongside them, and the nostalgia burned in his chest as he remembered what it felt like to be a little kid. Back when the only thing he worried about was reading books and getting to see his cousins at Christmas.

As he continued through the halls, he stepped through one of the art displays that led to the rest of the building. It was an odd room, with doors at either end, leading into different classrooms. It felt more like a shared storage closet than a display room, but Max had always enjoyed walking through it. He passed a mirror and stopped for a moment, giving himself a half smile.

In the glowing, white light of the display room, Max looked tired. His messy, dark brown waves fell onto his forehead, just above the bright, blue eyes and pale face. He rubbed at spot on his cheek, realized it was a freckle, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. As he stared, he felt his own inner critic whispering into the small moment of peace,

“Just some kid who thought he was special…”

He quickly turned away from the mirror, heading for the far door and feeling mentally exhausted. He was tired of the introspection, sick of everything bearing on him. He wanted to go home and just forget it all.

Yet as he reached for the door handle, a final piece of art caught his eye.

This one stood out a bit, compared to the other pieces in the room. It was a wide, landscape-style painting, depicting what looked to be the inside of a castle. Max was no expert on medieval history, but it was tell-tale enough that he knew what he was looking at. It looked like someone’s chambers or living quarters, with a large, canopied bed in the center, surrounded by a hearth, shelves covered in books and glass vials, and tapestries mounted on the walls.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Max squinted his eyes. The painting seemed… familiar, to some degree, friendly even. He stared at the brush strokes, the hues of soft orange and red that conveyed the warmth of the hearth, the subtle shadows that outlined the stone and woodwork.

He knew the feeling of that room, somehow, as if he’d sat in the chairs by the hearth. It pulled at him, as if his mind was drawn toward the canvas itself.

It wasn’t until he felt his legs give out that he knew something was wrong.

Max's vision went dark, he held out to his arms to catch himself as he fell, but grasped at air. Panic surged through him as he began to lose his senses, feeling as if he were tumbling through a void of sensory suppression.

His skin buzzed from the numbness, his vision was swimming with clouds, the only sounds he heard were muffled and ambient.

“Am I dying?” He thought, grasping at every possible explanation. “Is this how it ends?”

For the briefest of moments, he felt relief, as if dying would remedy all of his problems. Soon enough, however, the fear of mortality once again struck him, and his stomach heaved.

Max tumbled through endlessness, his mind flashing through images of paintings, quills and paper, then the room he had seen moments ago. It flickered and blinked through his senses, and he desperately latched onto it, praying that there was something he could do. He concentrated, thinking only of the room, of the feelings that welled up within him as the scene flashed around him.

Within a few moments, he could feel the warmth of the hearth. He cried out in relief, straining to grab onto the feeling of something that wasn’t an endless void. More sensations came to him, the smell of wood and smoke, the warm, flickering light of the fire, the soft bed beneath him.

He begged internally, performing the mental equivalent of kicking and screaming. He opened his mouth, and one word escaped.

“PLEASE!”

The roaring in Max's mind screeched to a halt, and he found himself in warm silence.

He lay motionless, on his back, his entire body prickling and stinging like he was blistered from the sun. He tried to control his breathing, his desperate panting gradually slowing as he took in his dimly lit surroundings.

He was in the room.

He traced his hands over himself, checking for injuries, his eyes still wild as they flitted about the room. Max stared in abject horror at his surroundings as he sat up, fearing the worst.

“Is-Is this it?” He asked aloud, shaking as he tried to stand. He steadied himself with his hands, feeling the soft, maroon bedspread, almost silky to the touch.

“Is this death?”

Was he trapped in his last few memories? Held prisoner in the final scene that his eyes beheld as his body failed? He nearly jumped off the bed and strode about the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to look at anything, touch anything, all he could think to do was panic.

“Hello?!”

He approached the only entrance to the room and yanked on the knob, but of course, it was locked. He slammed his shoulder into the sturdy, oaken door, over and over again. He kicked at the frame, trying anything that came into his mind. He grabbed one of the wooden chairs and heaved it into the door, shattering the legs into splinters and barely even denting the oak planks.

Max was no slouch physically, but with every attempt, he grew more weary. He violently struck at the knob, further breaking the chair leg he used as a club. He delivered a final, savage kick at the door, planting his sneaker in the wood before falling backward.

He panted heavily, sweat beading on his forehead as he raised up on his elbows.

“Where…” He mumbled in between breaths, “Why…”

Max sat up, his back against the bedframe as he looked at the door in all its impassable glory. For a moment, he was silent, his forearms resting on his knees as he tried to calm down.

Part of him knew something was terribly wrong, that this could have been some kind of final prison for his consciousness. The last thing his mind could comprehend as he passed away.

Yet, another part wouldn’t accept that. He was alone, exhausted mentally and physically, and his nerves were strung to the very edge. Something had to be done.

Max closed his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

“C’mon Max, you can do this. Think.”

He shakily rose to his feet, taking a deep breath and trying to steady himself. His eyes were drawn to the bookshelves that covered the far wall, their contents ranging from small journals to massive books that must have been at least three inches thick.

Max stood in front of them, feverishly reading their spines. Maybe there was something he could latch onto, the same way he’d found the room in the void. Many of the titles were familiar, but rang no substantial bells and definitely didn’t feel real in any sense.

History of The Echo: From The Binding to Now.

The Consequence of Creation: Volume 1.

How to Kill Trolls, for Dummies.

So, Your “Deity” Was Actually a Demon: What to Do Next.

Multiclassing and You: Is It Worth The Risk?

Mis-click: How to Refund Your Levels Without Going Broke!

The Holy Bible.

Max did a double take, making a face at the last one.

He continued his survey of the area. Some of the titles sounded like history books and the others like cheap video game articles, maybe remnants of what he’d partaken in during his life?

If so, then why was the Bible there?

As he continued along, his eyes fell on the nightstand that accompanied the massive bed. Where it had been previously bare, there lay a single, black book on the wooden table.

Max stared for a moment, unsure if he was remembering correctly.

“Maybe it was already there?”

He thought, cautiously approaching the nightstand.

It seemed, in all outward appearance, a normal (though rather exquisite) book. The spine and cover were black leather, embossed with what looked like a pattern of thorns that wrapped around the tome.

Max felt the urge to open it, much more so than he had the others. It bore no defining text like the other tomes, just the designs that contrasted the leather.

Slowly and shakily, he picked up the book.

It was light, far too light for its size. Max peeled open the soft, leather cover to the first page, and began to read, but his blood ran cold.

Name: Maximillian Treis Donovan

Level: 0

Acuity: +0

HP: 1

Deflection: 0

Class: None

Attributes:

Might (+0)

Deftness (+0)

Vigor (+0)

Intellect (+0)

Sense (+0)

Presence (+0)

Resistances:

Mig (+0)

Def (+0)

Vig (+0)

Int (+0)

Sen (+0)

Pre (+0)

Defense Check:

Physical (0)

Magical (0)

Skills:

Acrobatics (0)

Animal Handling (0)

Arcana (0)

Athletics (0)

Crafting (0)

Deception (0)

History (0)

Insight (0)

Intimidation (0)

Investigation (0)

Medicine (0)

Nature (0)

Perception (0)

Performance (0)

Persuasion (0)

Sleight of Hand (0)

Stealth (0)

Survival (0)

Amidst the nonsensical jargon of stats and roleplaying game buzzwords, was his full name.

He knew it shouldn’t unnerve him. If he was trapped in his own consciousness, of course he would know his own name, and that would be reflected in his surroundings.

But if he wasn’t…

He turned to let go of the book, but as his fingers released the tome, it disappeared in a puff of smoke. He jumped back in surprise, giving a girlish squeal, then composing himself.

“I need get out of here…” He mumbled, clutching his chest. “I’ll die of a heart attack before the starvation sets in…”

Max shook himself, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment and weighing his plans going forward. The door was his only way out.

He set his jaw.

It was time to get to work.

Against the desk on the far wall, a leather satchel sat open, next to some papers, quills, and other assorted baubles. He took the satchel, as well as the scribing supplies, which included inks, and a blank journal. He grabbed a few of the lighter books off the shelves, including titles such as Leveling and You, the aforementioned history book, Traveling The Echo, and finally The Bible, though the latter was mainly due to internal guilt.

Once he had secured what struck his fancy, he began his escape.

With additional investigation, he determined the door wasn’t just locked, but didn’t seem to move at all. It had hinges and a knob, but even with excessive force it wouldn’t jiggle in the frame, utterly immobile.

Hypothesis brewing, he tore a strip of the silk canopy from the bed, and fashioned it around the broken chair leg, not unlike a torch. He held the makeshift torch over the hearth fire, igniting the silky fabric and creating a small, sputtering flame.

Max immediately took it to the door, trying to wedge the torch between the wood and the stone below. He assumed if the door could be weakened, he could perhaps break it free from the frame.

He chewed his lip, aiming to keep the fire alive, but also in contact with the wood. He knew that burning anything in an enclosed room was a bad idea, but escape meant survival, perpetual imprisonment meant a death worse than smoke inhalation.

Max stepped back, crossing his arms as he observed. The torch burned for a few minutes, but even as the stick burned down, the door remained unchanged.

He swore under his breath, kneeling down, scooping up the scorched leg, and tossing it into the hearth.

What now?

He had already examined the knob, and knew that he couldn’t work around it like a modern lock. Jimmying the door open wouldn’t be a possibility, and if the wood was impervious to fire…

He rolled his eyes, seemingly disappointed in himself.

“Why do I always go with the most complicated option first…”

He began to examine the hinges. They were simple, iron rods, shoved into the metal rings that joined the door to the wall.

“More than likely, easily dislodged.” He thought, searching the room for a moment and retrieving up one of the iron stokers for the hearth. He weighed it in his hand, dropping the tip as if it were a hammer.

“Not bad…”

He carefully aligned the point with the bottom of the hinge pin, turning the ring-like grip towards the ground. With a quick strike of his hand, he drove the stoker upward, and the pin seemed to move ever so slightly.

“Once more, with feeling…”

He grabbed the stoker with both hands, and brought his knee up into the grip. Pain throbbed into his thigh and he grimaced at the impact, but he didn’t care. He tried again, grunting as he drove it home, and the pin jumped up several inches.

Max let out a breathless laugh, striking it over and over until the pin burst from its housing and clattered to the floor. He allowed himself a moment of celebration, boxing an invisible enemy as he prepared for the next pin.

“Let’s go baby, next one.”

Quickly and eagerly, he knelt for the second hinge. There wasn’t near as much room, but Max was too determined to be bothered by the cumbersome angle. He wedged the poker under the pin, and relentlessly struck at the metal, each *clang* slowly working the pin higher and higher.

Max felt his heart jumping. He was one step closer to answers, to progress.

To freedom.

The pin sprang free, and he immediately jammed the stoker between the door and the frame, prying at the wood. He heaved, bracing a foot on the wall as he slowly pulled the surfaces apart.

Max grit his teeth from the effort, and just as he was losing steam, the door separated from the frame. He stumbled backward, the door jolting from its housing and crashing to the floor with a resounding THUD.

He let out a whoop of triumph, grabbed his satchel, and gripped the stoker in his right hand as he turned to leave the room.

As his sneaker crossed the threshold, he heard the shuffle of cloth, and a voice whispering something incomprehensible. Max tried to jump back instinctively, but was suddenly gripped by nothingness, held completely still and suspending in mid-air.

He tried to scream, but it was useless, he was frozen in space by whoever was beyond the door.

The origin of the shuffling sounds entered his view, and Max floated backwards, as if the figure was moving him. It was an old man, at least in his seventies by Max’s assumption, with a long, greying beard that reached his chest. His hair was shock white, and shorn close to his head. His robes were dark purple, with collars and cuffs that glowed with a faint white light as he strode into the room.

He gave Max a cursory smile, the lines on his face crinkling as he did so.

“Good evening my boy. I-“

The man paused, his gaze leaving Max and circling the room, eyes widening.

“Good God child, you were only here for… an hour, perhaps two? What warranted all this…” He paused and whirled his hands, as if searching for a word,

“…contempt?”

Max felt his blood begin to boil, but he couldn’t speak. He struggled against the magical restraints, and the old man gave a knowing nod.

“Ah, my apologies child.” The man waved his hand, and Max found his mouth free.

The old man continued,

“Now how abo-“

“WHAT WARRANTED IT?!”

Max interrupted, shouting at the man in a fit of confused rage. “I was taken against my will! And shoved into a box with an impenetrable door, and thought I was dead! What do you mea-?!”

The man raised his hands and Max felt his mouth close again. The man sighed dejectedly, his face registering remorse.

“Yes yes, I understand my boy. These events can be… unsettling, to say the least. But!” He pointed a finger into the air, “I’m sure you will learn with time. Allow me to remedy some of your… concern, with an introduction.”

The old man bowed deeply, placing a hand over his chest as he smiled.

“I, am Althorus. Divine sorcerer and humble servant of The One Who Is.”

He stood to meet Max’s eyes, then glanced at the stoker still clenched in the young man’s hand. He chuckled,

“I would like to let you down, but I would prefer if we could avoid the violence, yes?”

Immediately, Max’s bonds fell away, and he landed shakily on his feet. He stood there for a short moment, composing himself, then looked up to face Althorus. Much of what had come out of the older man’s mouth might as well have been a different language, but he made a mental note. Althorus was in service to a higher power, or at least said he was, and had the ability to freeze Max in place. He would need to keep an eye on the old man.

Max set his jaw, shoving the stoker into his belt loop and crossing his arms. He wasn't a fan of being backed into a corner, but observation and cunning would serve him well.

“I’ll be needing some answers, soon too.”

The sorcerer nodded in a sagely manner,

“Very soon, child, your questions will be answered. Though sadly…”

Althorus paused as he turned to leave the room, gesturing to the hallway with one hand,

“…I believe it will only bring you more questions.”