It’s almost five PM. I finish looking over a spreadsheet and check a few emails—emails I barely remember writing. With a couple of minutes to kill, I slip into one of my more unhealthy hobbies: daydreaming. It’s by far my most enjoyable pastime, though probably not the best for productivity. Given my love for fantasy literature, my daydreaming never runs out of scenarios. My mind is an endless realm of dragons, magic, and impossible quests.

A friend suggested I try meditation, something about grounding myself. Grounding? What does that even mean? Focus? I can’t even concentrate on my own breathing for five minutes without my mind wandering. I'd rather fight a dragon, slay it with style, and look cool doing it. But learning about meditation led me down an inevitable rabbit hole: Reddit. It didn’t take long before I was reading about astral projection—the concept of leaving my body, soaring through the cosmos where anything was possible. Count me in!

Of course, there’s just one catch: you need focus to project. That’s the problem. I’ve been trying for months, yet I always end up back where I started: daydreaming. It's the same cycle. So, after the usual evening routine—grabbing a frozen meal from the back of my freezer and eating it in a daze—I go to bed. I recite a few affirmations to my "guardian spirit," something I learned online, though it feels silly. Still, my daydreaming persona—the one in my head—is powerful, charismatic, and way too overpowered to make me feel embarrassed for long.

As I drift off to sleep, or maybe I fall asleep, I feel a sensation. It’s like driving a car with busted suspensions over a dirt road, bumpy and strange, but I can’t tell if I’m awake or caught in a hyper-realistic dream. The weirdest part? I can’t move. My body feels heavy, paralyzed. My eyes should be open, but all I see is a blurry, foggy darkness, and two shadows concentrate on my chest. I should be terrified, but instead, I’m more fascinated by how calm I am in the moment.

The shadows start to take shape. At first, they’re vague, like images loading in a YouTube video, moving from the lowest quality to 4K clarity. Slowly, I see them more clearly: two humanoid figures, about the size of puppies, draped in shifting black cloaks. The cloaks shimmer, dark and liquid, constantly changing hues. Each of them has a proboscis, a sharp, needle-like mouth, plunged deep into my sternum.

I should feel panic, but there’s something strangely compelling about the whole situation. The shadows on my chest—now more defined—siphon something from me. It’s not blood or breath, but something deeper, like the very essence of who I am. A cold wave of revulsion rushes through my chest. I’ve never wanted to annihilate something so badly—not even my neighbor, who drones on about the weather every morning in the elevator.

The anger surges through me. It’s hot, raw, visceral. My arms—though they should be immovable—feel like they’re trying to swim against honey. The sensation is sluggish, thick, but I try anyway. It’s like my limbs are trapped in a dense, viscous substance, but I can still force my will against it. I focus on my arms. I try to move them, to push the creatures away, but my hands—glowing with a faint, golden aura—pass straight through the mosquito men.

A sense of defeat washes over me, but I dig deeper. I concentrate harder. My aura, now swirling around me, darkens with my intent. I focus my energy into my hands. They solidify, the golden glow becoming more defined, more tangible. The shadows recoil slightly as I attempt to shove them away again. This time, they don’t pass through me. It feels like pushing against something solid, like I’ve breached some invisible barrier.

Suddenly, the image of a weapon forms in my mind. I concentrate—try to shape my energy into a blade, a dagger. But the result isn’t a dagger. No, it’s a jagged shard of glass, sharp and brittle. Not exactly what I envisioned, but it’ll do. I push it forward with all my might, aiming for the two shadow figures' eyes. The resistance is faint, but it’s there, real, as if I’m carving through the air itself. I press harder.

And then it happens. My hand—my golden, Krueger-like hand—slips through the shadowy forms, as though they’re not even real. The two figures recoil, their black cloaks starting to shimmer with an unnatural golden hue, like the fabric itself is cracking, fissuring into golden veins. The sharp, unholy screech of tearing fills the air, echoing from every direction.

I don’t panic. I should. I feel my aura fluctuate, like it's being drained, like my very soul is being pulled out through the cracks in my body. I can feel myself growing less...real. Less solid. The sense of being drained is overwhelming, yet somehow, I stay calm. My vitality is slipping away, or at least that’s what my mind tells me. But in the strange, detached space I occupy, I can't quite bring myself to care. My vision blurs again, and the golden cracks in the creatures' cloaks widen as they hiss, retreating.

But the calm remains. Despite everything, despite the strange draining sensation, I remain unafraid. It’s as if the line between reality and dream has blurred completely, and I’ve slipped into a space where fear holds no power.

What were once black, shadowy creatures now became swirling blobs of golden light. Their forms shuddered and began to implode, collapsing inward toward the spots where they’d been stabbed. The golden light shrank, and with it, the suffocating pressure that had been clinging to my very being. And just like that, they were gone. It felt like invisible shackles around me had shattered, setting me free. For the first time, I was able to manipulate the aura surrounding me with ease.

I tried to stand, but it was as though my consciousness had been transferred into the golden, ethereal form I now occupied. I was weightless, fluid, like I existed outside of my physical body. I took a few hesitant steps away from it and noticed a golden rope tethering me to my still, lifeless body. It was a surreal sight—a strange, glowing umbilical cord connecting my consciousness to the physical world. The reality of it hit me like a cold gust of wind, and with it, an unfamiliar wave of fear began to settle deep within me.

I started to hyperventilate, gasping for air. I hadn’t even realized I needed to breathe until now. My golden form trembled slightly as I bent forward, hands pressed to my knees. A wave of nausea overtook me, but it wasn’t coming from my golden body; no, it felt as though it were originating from the golden rope itself, as if whatever was connecting me to my physical form was somehow causing this discomfort.

I struggled to steady myself, to regain some semblance of control over my scattered thoughts, when something flickered at the very edge of my vision. A faint, unnatural glimmer—so out of place, so foreign. My instincts pulled me toward it. I focused, narrowing my attention to the blinking light. As I did, something strange happened. The light came into sharper focus, and then, a text materialized before me. It wasn't any language I recognized. The symbols shifted and fluctuated like living things, twisting and reshaping with an otherworldly rhythm. But strangely, I could understand it.

Juvenile Leech Killed (Level 3)!
+3 EXP (Additional +3 due to level difference)

Juvenile Leech Killed (Level 2)!
+2 EXP (Additional +2 due to level difference)

Skill Learned: Manifestation (Common)!
Your imagination is your limit. Shape your aura into whatever you desire. Anything manifested is limited by your aura and mass.

Skill levels primarily with your Astral Mind, secondarily with your Astral Body.

The message felt like a whisper in the back of my mind, something that wasn’t quite spoken but known, an innate understanding as if my consciousness had absorbed it by sheer proximity. It didn’t take long for the words to make sense—everything was tied to the Astral Realm, to this plane of existence I found myself in. I had just gained a new skill, an ability to manifest my aura into tangible shapes, as though my imagination was the only boundary left.

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And then came the final line, one that sent a shiver down the length of my spine.

Welcome to the Astral Realm, Fourth Level. Please choose your name.

The weight of the message hit me like a bolt of lightning. This was more than just some vivid dream, more than astral projection or a mere out-of-body experience. I was here—really here—in the Astral Realm. It was real, and the implications were staggering. What did it mean to be in the Fourth Level? What was this realm? And why did I need to choose a name?

Given my vivid imagination, one could fairly assume that I’m an aficionado of internal monologues. After all, a mind that constantly wanders through fantastical realms should have a penchant for self-dialogue, right? But truth be told, I rarely indulge in it. There’s something about it that feels too… inward, too constrained by the boundaries of my own thoughts. But this? This situation? It definitely warranted some internal commentary. So, with all the eloquence I could muster, I thought to myself, “What the fuck?”

It was the only phrase that could capture the disorienting surrealism of the moment. Here I was, standing—or rather, floating—in an entirely new realm, tethered to my physical body by a glowing golden rope, experiencing something that was far beyond anything I’d ever imagined. I was surrounded by unfamiliar laws, rules, and experiences, yet there I was, trying to make sense of it all. It was a mix of awe, confusion, and a growing sense of panic that I couldn't quite suppress.

Still, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, my mind settled into that familiar, strange calm, as if everything happening was part of some grand puzzle I was just beginning to understand.

The more I thought about it, the more a strange excitement bubbled within me. Either this was a hyper-realistic dream, or perhaps I had suffered a stroke—or a ruptured aneurysm. Or maybe, just maybe, this was real. After all, three hundred thousand people on r/astralprojection couldn’t all be full of it, right?

As my thoughts churned, the oppressive darkness around me began to shift. It wasn’t immediate, but gradual, like the slow lifting of a fog. The hazy void reshaped itself into something startlingly familiar: my bedroom. My physical body lay sprawled on the bed, motionless yet peaceful, as though trapped in deep sleep. Everything looked distorted, though—blurry, as if I were peering through warped glass. The world shimmered, fragile and tenuous.

I turned my attention to the blinking screen that still hovered in my peripheral vision, but before I could focus, the very fabric of the space around me seemed to tear. A jagged rent in the air opened, growing steadily wider until it stabilized into an oval portal. From its depths emanated a kaleidoscope of impossible colors, hues that shimmered and shifted beyond human comprehension. A calming warmth washed over me, spreading through my golden, ethereal form. It was intoxicating and overwhelming all at once.

And then, from the portal, it emerged.

A magnificent stag stepped forward with measured grace. Its body shimmered like liquid gold, each movement fluid and deliberate. Its mane, impossibly radiant, seemed to catch and refract every fragment of light. A regal crown of antlers adorned its head, studded with iridescent, multicolored gems that pulsed faintly, as though alive. Its hooves, so solid and powerful they looked capable of shattering stone, barely disturbed the air as they touched the ground. The creature radiated a quiet majesty, a presence that was both commanding and soothing.

A wave of conflicting emotions surged through me. On one hand, I felt an irresistible urge to approach it, to bury my hands in its impossibly soft fur, like greeting a long-lost companion. Yet on the other, I wanted to kneel before it, to pledge my undying loyalty to such a divine being.

So naturally, I froze.

I was never good around people, let alone something that looked like it had just stepped out of a myth.

The stag’s piercing gaze met mine, its eyes gleaming with ancient intelligence. When it spoke, I didn’t hear a sound in the usual sense. Instead, its voice resonated directly in my mind, echoing with an odd mix of power and exasperation.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I blinked, stunned. That...wasn’t what I expected. Its tone, far from the deep, commanding bellow I had imagined, was closer to a goat’s braying, sharp and indignant.

The stag’s luminous eyes narrowed. “What have you done? Why are you in the system? No, no, NO! This can’t be happening. I’m so screwed!”

The rapid shift from divine majesty to outright panic was so jarring, I forgot to respond. My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, uselessly attempting to form words. I had spent countless hours daydreaming about what it would be like to meet an astral being. None of those fantasies involved being cussed out by a celestial deer.

“I-I was just trying to—” I stammered, but the stag cut me off with a frustrated snort.

“Shut up! I need to think.” Its antlers pulsed faintly as its eyes shimmered with a faint inner light, clearly lost in thought.

I decided the smart thing to do was let it sort through its crisis. After all, I wasn’t about to argue with a creature that looked like a divine arbiter of realms, even if it seemed just as confused as I was.

Turning away from the flustered stag, I finally addressed the blinking text that still floated persistently in my vision:

Welcome to the Astral Realm, Fourth Level. Please choose your name.

The weight of the question—Choose your name—hung heavy in the air. The implications of the message were profound. I wasn’t just a visitor here. This wasn’t a fleeting moment of lucidity in a dreamscape. This was something bigger. The Astral Realm wasn’t just a backdrop for my imagination; it was a place with rules, inhabitants, and, apparently, a system.

But a name? Why did I need one? Was it some kind of rite of passage? A way to cement my existence here? Or was it more practical, like a username for an online RPG? My golden form flickered as my thoughts churned. I had always imagined myself in my daydreams as a hero with a commanding name, something with power and gravitas, but now, standing on the precipice of an unknown reality, those fictional names felt hollow. 

A part of me wanted to be childish and choose my gamer tag, I.slay.dragons. It was tempting—a bold proclamation, dripping with the kind of bravado my daydreaming self would fully embrace. But as the thought lingered, unease crept in. What if that choice came back to bite me? This wasn’t some online game where I could shrug off a bad username. This felt deeper, more permanent.

Besides, I’d read somewhere that names carried power. Was that true? I had no idea, but something about the thought resonated. If there was even a sliver of truth to it, choosing the wrong name could have consequences I wasn’t prepared for. Better to pick something grounded, something that wouldn’t make me cringe every time an astral being said it aloud.

The system seemed to sense my hesitation. A subtle pulse rippled through the golden tether connecting me to my physical body, and the blinking text reappeared, sharper now, more insistent.

Would you like to choose “Alex” as your name? Y/N

The simplicity of it caught me off guard. Alex. It wasn’t grand or ostentatious, but it was solid. Familiar. A name I’d always identified with in a quiet, unspoken way. For all the strangeness of this moment—for all the impossible realms and golden forms—choosing “Alex” felt like clinging to a piece of myself, a thread of normalcy in an ocean of the surreal.

It was steady, unassuming, but mine.

I took what felt like a deep breath—though I wasn’t even sure if my ethereal form required air. My golden fingers hovered for a moment, and then I confirmed my choice.

Yes.

The instant I did, the text vanished, replaced by a gentle chiming sound that resonated in my very being. For a fleeting moment, I felt an odd sense of completeness, as if choosing the name had somehow cemented my place here. Alex. My name, my anchor, my identity.

Whatever came next, I wasn’t just an observer anymore. I was Alex—and I was here to stay.