Our hero—though at this moment he felt about as heroic as a turnip—lay on the ground. Consciousness arrived like an unwanted software update—abrupt, confusing, and with an inexplicable number of floating boxes. The man blinked twice, then a third time for good measure. The boxes remained, hovering with the persistence of particularly determined butterflies, complete with health bars, status effects, and what appeared to be a mini-map in the corner that looked about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
His brain was sluggish, as though someone had stuffed every one of his thoughts into a jar, shook it vigorously, and returned it to its shelf without tightening the lid properly. The air around him smelled faintly of wood smoke and old leather, coupled with something distinctly unpleasant—wet wool, perhaps. Yet, none of that explained the glowing blue rectangle hovering at the center of his vision: **Welcome, Adventurer.** The text pulsed with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for children's television hosts or particularly zealous religious converts. Below it, smaller text offered helpful suggestions like "Try standing up!" and "Breathing is recommended!" with exactly the sort of chipper condescension one might expect from artificial intelligence attempting to be helpful.
This immediately invited a spiral of questions and theoretical tangents he wasn’t quite prepared to wade through. Instead, he squinted at the hovering text, biting at the inside of his cheek. Was it holographic? Hallucinatory? A stress-induced digital interface brought on by weeks of gaming? He cautiously reached out, sweeping at the air in a dignified manner (it was not dignified) to see if the floating text interacted with his gestures. It didn’t.
This is the dumbest dream I’ve ever had,” he muttered. He had no better hypothesis yet, aside from the troubling possibility that he wasn’t dreaming but deeply, irreversibly cursed.
The process of vertical realignment—standing up, for those not burdened with an interface that insisted on gamifying basic motor functions—revealed a village that looked as though it belonged on the cover of "Medieval Fantasy Monthly"—if such a publication existed. Thatched roofs sagged at aesthetically pleasing angles, smoke curled from chimneys in perfect spiral patterns. A nearby fountain bubbled cheerfully, its statue of some forgotten hero wearing what could only be described as the world's most impractical armor.
He stretched, tested his balance, took a step, and promptly stepped on a nail. To his relief and mild horror, no pain followed. Instead, hovering text appeared:
[-1 HP]
A glowing exclamation mark hovered above the head of a passing villager, who smiled and waved. The man raised his hand to wave back, only to notice his own arm was clad in leather armor that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. At least, he didn't think it had been. Actually, he wasn't quite sure what he'd been wearing before or, more concerningly, who he was. The notification chimed helpfully in response and two new lines of text joined the first:
* Find Clues to Your Location
* 0/3 Steps Completed
“Fantastic,” Alan grumbled. “I’m not just in a video game—I’m in a tutorial. Somebody save me.”
His attempts to recall how he'd arrived in this particular situation proved about as successful as trying to nail pudding to a wall. Each reach for a memory resulted in the mental equivalent of a "404 Not Found" error, like knowing you've eaten breakfast but being unable to remember what it was
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A chicken strutted past, its identity confirmed by a helpful tag reading [Common Chicken: Non-Combat NPC]. The chicken, at least, seemed perfectly content with its designated role.
♛ ♛ ♛
In the grand cosmic scheme of things, certain fundamental questions plague existence: Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? And for our bewildered hero standing in the village square, what in the name of all that's digital was his own name? The sudden realization that one's identity has gone missing is uniquely disconcerting, rather like discovering someone has stolen your underwear drawer, but considerably more existential.
He stood there sifting through his memories, each potential name slipped further from his grasp, like trying to find that one crucial email from six months ago that he definitely didn't delete but somehow marked as spam. The exercise proved about as productive as trying to teach calculus to a cabbage.
"Steve?" he ventured aloud. The name hung in the air like an awkward high-five at a conference of network engineers.
"Dave?" This attempt felt even less convincing. A nearby merchant's cart creaked past, its owner eyeing him with the sort of concern reserved for people who talk to themselves in public squares. Above the merchant's head floated [Herbert the Gardener], which seemed unnecessarily specific for a background character.
He tried more exotic options, each more desperate than the last. "Bartholomew? Zeus? X Æ A-12?" A passing guard gave him a look that suggested he was one unusual name away from being escorted to whatever passed for a mental health facility in this realm.
Fragments of what might have been memories drifted past—the taste of coffee, the sound of keyboard clicks, a deadline that suddenly seemed far less important—but his name remained stubbornly out of reach, like an itch in the middle of one's back.
A girl skipped past, her hair bouncing with the kind of enthusiasm only adventure or youth can provide. She paused mid-skip, head tilted like a curious sparrow. "Why do you keep saying different names?"
"I'm trying to figure out what mine is," he admitted, feeling somewhat ridiculous explaining his existential crisis to someone who probably had homework to do.
The girl's face scrunched up with the particular brand of exasperation that twelve-year-olds reserve for particularly dense adults. "But it's floating right above your head!" She pointed upward with the authority of someone who had mastered the art of reading floating text years ago.
He craned his neck upward, and there it was: [JustAlan, Lvl 1, No Class Selected, Race Pending] hovering about a foot above his head in elegant, glowing script. It looked entirely too smug for a collection of floating letters.
The universe, it seemed, had a peculiar sense of humor—or perhaps just a fondness for minimalism. "Just Alan." Not "Alan the Magnificent" or "Alan of the Seven Keyboards" or even "Alan, Destroyer of Deadlines." No, he was simply... Just Alan. It had all the grandeur of being introduced as "Sort of Bob" or "Kevin, I Guess."
The "No Class Selected" and "Race: Pending" entries pulsed with a faint golden glow, accompanied by small lock icons. When Alan tried to interact with them, a message appeared:
[Class/Race Selection unlocked at Level 10]
"Helpful as ever," Alan muttered. "Nothing like being told I haven't developed enough character."
The girl was still watching him with that particular blend of curiosity and judgment that children seem to perfect. "Are you glitching?" she asked. "You should try turning yourself off and on again."
Above her head floated [SarahMiller, Lvl 11 Mage, Human], which was, frankly, a far more impressive than his own. Just Alan found himself wondering if there was perhaps a side quest that could upgrade his name to at least "Alan the Somewhat Noteworthy" or at the very minimum "Alan With Some Potential."