I stare at the cloud. A shifting cloud formed of hundreds of tiny white strands with a light gray in between, the white strands that almost look like characters forming, splitting, merging, and diverging. Gathering up in storms only to disappear. A single language branching out into dozens, and the intricate dance of languages merging and splitting. Old words blend into the new to freshen themselves. And new words merging into the old and traditional so that they will outlast countries.

"Well, at least the cause of my death is pretty,” I say while in a power pose.

Because frankly, although it might be really stupid to go in there, that book is definitely magical; it is literally oozing magic. From the looks of it, and the magic fizzling out of the runes, It probably is some form of enchantment, something that really grooves with my vibe. I can’t leave it behind, but how do I get it? Well, what do I have at my disposal to get it out without touching it? I have all my IOAs, or infinite object attempts; I could build an engine the same way I could build a generator; if I attach a blade to it, boom, I have a fan.

“And then with my array of tiny fans, I blow the book out of the cloud!” I exclaim excitement effusing my voice.

But as soon as I said that, I knew that it was ridiculous, plus if I really want to blow it out, I can just do some wind waves. In a void, just waving your hands can be pretty impactful, so plan 1 is to try to blow it out with the Windwave technique. I start by putting in my mind all the evidence that if I am in a fluid that I use to move, then naturally that fluid interacts with each other and draws my hand back. And with a sudden motion, I push the mysterious fluid that I float in towards the cloud, the eerily quiet massive gust of wind buffeting towards the cloud.

To do absolutely nothing, the book doesn’t even move a goddamn inch. What the hell? I clearly felt the fluid with my hand—why didn’t it do anything? I try again, placing all the evidence and all the reasons I have to expect that my motions will generate wind in my mind and wave... to a result of nothing at all. I try again and again, but nothing happens. My head starts to throb because it can’t be that the waves are too weak; there’s no wind resistance in this place. The wind that I generate with wind waves keeps going and gathering speed until I don’t even see them anymore. And from how far away I am, I should be hitting that book like a truck! And even if I hit it with the force of falling salt, after getting hit so often, something should have happened. Is the cloud protecting the book? That should be possible, but what am I supposed to do now?

Wait a second before I try to screw with the cloud, I might as well know what the hell it is.

I squint my eyes and ‘unpeel’ the cloud; my eyes shoot up as I see it: all language. For as long as anything has ever attempted to communicate, language has existed, and while it lives, it grows and develops, dies, merges, and splits into the beautiful tapestry of ideas that form all that we know.

I clutch my head and scream "FUCK." I can’t believe I just tried to glean knowledge about the idea of knowledge.

How is that even a bloom?

Most blooms are formed from fleeting emotions like anger or fear; even if they’re large, fear cannot live forever. Language isn’t an emotion; it’s an idea, an idea that has emotions attached to it but it’s not an emotion itself.

Are all the clouds ideas? I’ve never thought of what they could be, but the ideas are broad enough for me to not get fucked over by my own assumptions.

Either way, that cloud is formed by the idea of language. But how the hell is the cloud so small? It’s hardly a mountain-sized cloud, and it’s about the concept of language itself, not even specifically language, just communication period. It should be so large that it forms the horizon!

UGH. Alright, if the wind doesn’t work and since I’m definitely not getting up in there in a cloud that’s been around since before humankind existed, I’m going to make a really long stick and poke it.

So I pull out my retooled and jury-rigged hair braces turned laser smelter and a bag of iron dust. I made sure to pack a lot because I damn well ain’t going to take the time to grind up my nails while floating around.

I take a bunch of my magnetic nails and put them into a line like I’m forming a marker lightsaber, then throw the metal dust that falls onto the tips due to their magnetic properties and weld the both of them together with my laser. I smile and blow imaginary smoke off my finger, and I holster my beautiful and dangerous hair braces.

“I’ve gotten really good at quickly making structures out of iron, especially after all the practice I had turned my base into a beautiful gleaming edifice of iron,” I say with pride in my eyes.

Stolen novel; please report.

Getting back to the point, I create more raggedy bars and then weld the bars together like I’m stacking a marker lightsaber on top of a marker lightsaber.

I continue to do this until my invention unfolds: a 100-meter-long pole made out of thorny iron and laser-welded dust.

I smile because, frankly, screw danger—why push through a tree when you can walk around one?

With a smug smile plastered on my face, I poke at the book from 100 meters of safety. The iron pole pushes through the void, but when it reaches the cloud, it starts to get torn apart by each line of strange text, smashing the pole into pieces. My smug smile drops from my face as it morphs into a rictus of rage.

“Alright, I get that the ‘clouds’ here can just magically turn physical, but when the hell did they turn into wood chippers?" I yell through gritted teeth, my hands balled into fists, due to the simple fact that I’m getting sick of this BS.

I stare at the tiny stick of iron that’s left behind and throw it into the shredder, which is my obstacle in frustration, only to see it also reduced to dust. Not helping my anger at all. But I turn away from the cloud and attempt to start over. I know I can do this, so I take a deep breath in, visualize my vibrant house in all its chaos, and breathe out.

"Okay, if that pole won’t work due to the word lines obliterating it, let's try something else; if the pole doesn’t work, let’s just go bigger." I orate my fingertips tapping along each other like I’m a ye olde villain in a swivel chair.

Any problem that you can solve with just a bit of hard work is really no problem at all.

I pull out the metal slab from my backpack, and I sigh in happiness for all that no gravity is frustrating—it really is so much easier to carry things with no gravity.

I grab my hair braces, place a thick layer of dust on top, and forge a new plate.

I then heft the plate into my hands and twirl while holding the plate, imitating a hammer throw, letting myself gather momentum before letting go of the thick, sturdy metal plate, which rocketed itself into the blender with alarming speed through the gathered force.

The plate shoots toward the cloud, silently traveling with immense speed within the astral. And it slams inside! With mighty clangs, the plate is battered by the storms of mystical words, but it still invades the space and gets into the inner sanctum before being battered out of the cloud. While watching the battered plate drift away, I tap my chin.

“It looks like the standard slab that I use for construction is durable enough to get some ways in; it just gets slapped out, not broken, so if I throw it hard enough, I might be able to slam the book out of there.” I muse.

But wait, if that happens, wouldn’t the book be shredded by the writing?

Ugh, now that I know that those little word projectiles exist, any solution gets thrown out the window.

If I try to magnetize the book and pull it out, the book will be torn to pieces and thus utterly useless.

If I try to push it out, I’ll first have a big, heavy thing slam into it and then have it turn into pieces. No matter what I think, there’s no way for me to remotely grab and protect the book from its surroundings.

I steel my expression and try to think of something else before settling on my own nerve-racking course of action. I know that the slab is enough to protect me from the physical threat if I can block the strikes quickly enough, so if I get the book and then slip it into my shirt, I should be able to get the book unscathed.

My face contorts into a grimace. I don’t have the ability to get that book out without risking either it or myself, and frankly, I can’t let go of something as valuable as a spellbook.

Without any sort of guidance on how to advance in this strange world, I’ll probably die of old age before ever leaving this place. It took scientists hundreds of years before we could even dream of figuring out the secrets of our own universe, and that was with thousands of them specializing in tiny slices of knowledge in order to advance humanity’s knowledge.

It’ll have to be me. I ball my fists together before releasing them and breathing out in one fluid motion. With a calmer mind, I think that while I might be risking my life, I don’t have to be stupid about it, and I should take the most care in order to get out of there with my skin intact.

I put on a crude iron vest made with two iron plates wrapped tight across my torso, protecting my torso and all my internal organs. I should be fine; there's nothing crucial in my arms or legs. And since the only helmet I could make would be a bucket, it would be foolish to make it. I’m going to need my sight if I want to survive this.

I take a deep breath and hold the image of my beautiful family in mind. With this struggle, I shall come closer to you. I breathe out and start swimming toward the cloud agonizingly slowly; any speed won’t give me enough time to react.

I hold the plate on top of my head; in the void, the weight doesn’t matter, so it is as light as a switch. The only reminder of its weight is the momentum and force of the plate. The plate was held as if it were a shield in some ancient war, protecting my head as I paddled deeper into the gray cloud that makes up the bloom of language. My eyes dart around, watching out for the deadly words that I am swimming through.

My arms strain as I swiftly change the momentum of the plate so that it could protect me from a bullet darting in to try to attack my skull. Ugh, I swim forward faster to make up for the time lost by the attack, and my frantic kicks have the appearance of the last motions of the drowned.

I gritted my teeth because, as if that first attack alerted the rest of the scripts, I kept getting battered by them. I kick and kick as my legs get nicked, the blood oozing out like ketchup spurted out in orbit.

I gasp: the swarm is gathering into one large hammer blow. I use a wind wave to boost myself out of the way, but despite my frantic actions, my knee gets slammed by the accumulated force of the words.

I scream my pain, echoing out in the mysterious fluid that makes up the in-between of this strange world. But I can’t stay here; I have to keep moving, so I start kicking even harder; speed isn’t on my side with so many blows pushing me off course.

But as I desperately swim towards my goal, I feel that something is draining out—but what blood? Am I even going in the right direction?

I look towards my goal, the center of the cloud, seeing it right ahead! I smile with triumph, but when a whip-thin script keens toward me, I have to duck behind my crude shield yet again. But I’m getting there!

As blood spreads around me as if I were a crudely scored steak, I keep on swimming; I just have to get a little bit farther. I think with how close I am, I can do this.

I tucked my feet in one last desperate attempt to reach the inner sanctum and let my momentum carry me inside. I sprawl into the one safe area of the cloud and see my prize, the book!

But what the hell is this? There’s another corpse attached to it!