Pain. All-encompassing, bone-deep agony that radiated through every fiber of my being. I awoke gasping, my breath ragged, my body convulsing with the aftershocks of some incomprehensible torment. My skin burned, slick with blood and soot that reeked of sulfur, the acrid scent clawing its way down my throat with each inhale. My limbs ached, the sensation akin to molten lead having been poured into my very bones, solidifying into an ever-present, torturous weight. And my head—

Gods above, my head.

It felt like something had burrowed into my skull, gnawed away at my brain, and then replaced the missing matter with writhing, flesh-eating maggots. Each pulse of pain sent white-hot shards of agony through my temples, turning every thought into an uphill battle against the onslaught of suffering. I groaned, shifting slightly, and realized with dawning horror that I was bound—heavy iron chains wrapped around my wrists, my ankles, even my neck. Cold, black metal dug into my skin, enchanted sigils flaring to life at my slightest movement, whispering curses in a language that slithered along the edges of my mind.

I tried to move, to take stock of my surroundings, but everything around me felt wrong. The walls, if they could even be called that, were slick and pulsing, living flesh stretching taut over an alien structure. A dim, bioluminescent glow illuminated the chamber in shades of violet and sickly blue, the light refracting off the glistening mucus that dripped from the ceiling in slow, viscous globs. The air was humid, dense, filled with the sickly-sweet scent of decay and something else—something I couldn't quite place.

A wet, organic squelch echoed as I shifted again, and, due to latent, awakening Gamer's instincts -- I realized that I recognized where I was.

A Mindflayer pod.

No. Nonononono. A nightmare. It had to be.

Unbidden, panic surged, momentarily overriding the pain as I thrashed against my restraints. The chains rattled ominously, but they did not break. My breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal. How did I get here? What had happened? Where was I before this?

D̶͙͉̀̌̋͑̋̂́̕ͅr̶̡̙̋͗̌̑̐̆͑a̵̢̨̛̲̪̦̬͚͎̜̫̰͊g̴̺͐́̎͆̆͑̀͗̍͜ơ̷̢̯̺̪̠͌̍͑͒̊̌̈́̚̚n̸̛̲͂̓́́͗̓̅̎̕͝ ̴̧̧̺͇̣̗̯̝̘̜̒͊͜S̶͔̰͇̪̜̿ͅo̸̲͎͕͚̥̰̎͜u̸̻̲͙͙͙͎̭̙̪͓̓̓l̵͓̦̬͕̖͓̖͍̀̎̃͗̈́̚͠ͅ ̸̢̣̦͍̝̤̳̿͆̆͑̀̿̋̈̄͠ͅA̶͎̲͋̄̅̆͗b̵̝̯̐̾͠s̵̢̯̙̟̳͓͑͗͒̽̏̓̿͒̕͝o̸̰̩̱̻͂̽̃͗r̶̻͙͇͇̯̜̳̟̦̓̍̅̂̑͊b̶̫̬͈͑̀̀̎̀͆͘͝ē̵͕̩̦̖̖̲͍͝d̸̹̗͙͐̀͐̾̌͘͠

Then, the memories hit. Like a dam bursting, an unrelenting flood of information crashed through my mind, a cacophony of knowledge and skill that wasn’t mine—at least, not in the way memories should be.

I bent forward, choking on bile as my stomach twisted in protest. My body convulsed violently, and I vomited onto the fleshy floor, the acrid taste of stomach acid burning my throat. I tried to grasp onto something—anything—that could make sense of what was happening. But instead of remembering a life, I was remembering... techniques. Knowledge. Mastery.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

It was pure skill memory. Not episodic memory, the recollection of past events, moments lived and experienced. No, this was something else. Pure semantic memory—raw data, unmoored from personal history, poured into my mind with brutal force. I did not remember living, but, suddenly, I knew things. I knew how to move, how to fight, how to wield weapons with a mastery that should have taken lifetimes. I knew the properties of metals, the intricate recipes for potions that could reshape reality itself. I knew magic, its weave, its flow, how to bend the very Universe to my will.

And this wasn’t just any level of knowledge. This was... excessive. Impossible. My mind reeled as the truth and its implications sank in.

I was in the body of my Skyrim character.

The absurdity of the realization clashed violently with the visceral reality of my situation. But the knowledge was there, undeniable, seared into my skull like a new supernova in a dark night sky. Raw. Gargantuan. Undeniable. My character had been a walking impossibility, a being of limitless power twisted by glitches and exploits into something beyond even immortal comprehension. My Smithing skill alone had created common "iron daggers" capable of dealing five digit damage -- cleaving through Elder Dragons in a single swing. My alchemy had birthed potions that could render enemies immobile for weeks on end -- and I mean weeks of real world time, not the compressed time of the game. My spells could bend reality itself. My armor could withstand cataclysmic forces. And now, those skills—those impossibilities—were part of me.

My breath steadied. The pain was still there, but something else was taking its place—an intoxicating sensation of power. It coursed through my veins, vast and boundless, yet controlled. The agony in my muscles began to fade, replaced first by a cool numbness, then by something dangerously close to euphoria. I clenched my fists, feeling strength ripple through my frame, the once-overwhelming torment dulled to a mere whisper.

And then, instinctively, I reached out—not with my hands, but with my mind.

The menu was there, waiting for me like an eager puppy. I realized that is was there from the start; lingering at the edges of my consciousness, always ready to be accessed. I pulled it forth, and with a blink, the familiar interface materialized in the back of my mind.

Stats—completely, utterly broken. My health, stamina, and magicka were all displaying negative fifteen digit numbers due to stack overflow. My carrying capacity was... equally absurd. Entire armories worth of equipment, entire libraries of spell tomes, entire lives worth of gathered wealth lay within my inventory.

I exhaled, flexing my fingers. I had access to everything I had ever collected. Every sword, every piece of armor, every ingredient, every artifact. My mind was able to touch it all -- my magnificent hoard, all there, waiting for me. Waiting to be used.

But, first things first -- the chains. I simply willed them into my inventory, and, in an instant, they were gone, whisked away as effortlessly as discarding a wooden plate in Skyrim’s UI. My wrists tingled where they had once been bound, but they were free.

A casual tap from my hand, and the pod's lid exploded outwards. Was I this strong in the game, or was this a function of translating my absurd stats into a real life avatar? This would require further testing. Now, to get cleaned up... a wave of destruction magic exited my body, incinerating every bit of filth covering me in a blink of an eye. A following wave of Illusion and restoration magic left me smelling as fresh as dew on the grass in the Swiss Alps. (Who needs soap, anyway?)

Now, for the clothing.... My inventory contained countless outfits—Daedric armors, forged with tormented souls and enchanted with world-defying magics that positively burned with unholy energy. Dragonscale gear that shimmered with draconic might. Ebony plate, Glass mail, Elven finery. All of them appeared on my body instantly with but a thought. But, after trying them all, I made a decision that felt almost instinctual. Shirtless. Silk pants and a lucky fishing hat.

I straightened my imposing 6'4 Nordic frame, rolling my shoulders as I adjusted to the overwhelming reality of my new existence. This was no game. This was not some fleeting dream or simulation. I was here, in a Nautiloid, in this body, in this world.

And now, it was time to find out what that meant.