‘All I can see is red.’ He observed.

Trying to move his body, but only managing to flail it around a bit, he added: ‘And I can’t move either.’

Talking didn’t produce satisfactory results either, so he assumed he somehow had gotten brain damaged.

‘Or perhaps I died. Maybe I'm some plant-like animal with primitive vision. I could a fetus in a womb or in an egg…’ As his thoughts trailed off, he heard murmurs and what he could only assume to be a door opening.

Weirdly accepting of the situation, he conjectured he’s most likely in a womb. Which meant at least he’s not brain damaged. ‘Though this does raise the question what kind of world I’ve been born into, even being reborn on Earth in a poor Bangladeshi family or something would be quite bad.’

‘Status,’ He thought, as a test. Which didn’t work.

Trying to manifest it into existence made some words pop into his mind's eye:

Name: N/A

Age: N/A

Status Conditions:

Isolated Mind

Trying to focus on his status condition didn't do anything, so he went back to pondering.

He supposed, that although did have a name, he never attached value to it, and he didn’t particularly care about it. Thinking about his Isolated Mind status condition led him to consider the status of his mind, which made him wonder why his baby brain supported his adult thinking, tying back to what Isolated Mind might do.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Murmurs reaching his ears again, he began listening carefully, trying to figure out what language was being used…

It sounded like ritual chanting made speech with a lot of ooh sounds thrown in, which is to say he didn’t know. He did know, however, that who he assumed to be his mother was authoritatively talking to another woman, whose responses were short; leading him to believe his family was at least well-off.

A sudden tiredness caught washed over him when the dimming of the light caught him in his introspection, and he tried to sleep.

A number of loud metal-on-metal clashing sounds were heard, waking him up. Frightened of the potential implications, he tried to distract himself by further introspection.

‘How about magic? Surely this world has magic,.’ He searched his hyperalert mind, only barely able to grab from it the concept of mana.

Now — almost therapeutically — he began concentrating, trying to feel the mana he knew was in and around him. Trying to feel its energy. ‘Most probably there were multiple types of mana, and I just have to find… fire mana. A flame, a searing flame depositing soot on whatever comes into contact with it…’ A particularly loud clash was heard, followed by shouting. ‘Mana is usually depicted as being gas-like, so perhaps,’ he reasoned ‘I should try to find such substance…’

Having fallen into a trance-like state, part of his lucid consciousness registered faint feelings of peace surrounding him; lightly tugging onto it, he fell into even deeper into the trance.

As he embraced these sensations, he felt ecstasy. The purest sense of relief washed over him, a sense of belonging rising from within. His mind was purged of all thought and emotion, leaving only this bliss.

And then, when it eventually stopped building, he was left craving more. So tried to reach out to it. He tried to manipulate it, to no avail. As what must be hours passed, the sweet syrup slowly moved toward him. The trickling continued once more.

A couple more hours pass, and he starts craving peace. To become one with the very concept of peace.

A tiredness flares up. A need for sleep he has always had — yet never felt — overwhelms him, sleep beckoning.

Contentedness and a sense of longing for more are all that’s left, and with time he'll get more. More and-

He wasn't claustrophobic, but anyone would experience terror feeling what he feels. That terror pulls him back to a state of lucidness, his now fully awake logical mind making him even more terrified of what’s come.

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the helplessness. Softly flailing one’s limbs around would do nothing in this situation, which is, sadly, all he could do. Knowing this, he tried to mentally strap in as best he could.

He was not one for crying, having last cried probably years ago. He had known academically, however, that — as a newborn— he must cry, lest he potentially obtain health issues.

The terror felt at the feeling of being crushed for hours on end, juxtaposed with his abruptly ended ecstasy, made this quite the non-issue, though.

As he cried and cried, vividly emulating a sense of loss and dread; simultaneously feeling a primal terror, he reached a state of catharsis and finally slept.