I kneeled on those bland, worn-out cushions, the perfect place to take out my frustrations. Slamming my unprotected fists into the soft, spongy surface couldn’t hurt, surely. So, I did just that, driving my fists into the cushion’s forgiving material, as I mentioned just a second ago. Assuming you’re paying attention.

“Do you hate me, system dude? Or…system chick? You clearly had some reason to put me and fake Greg in the same forest by the same teleportation point. Or…I guess it was all my fault to think of him as someone separate. My shitty mental state. But to let me go through another day like that…”

[I can hardly be described as a being close to some concept of a gender. You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson about formality but I will kindly not press the point further. I do not hate you as I do not hate anyone. Everything is simply a probability and a statistic and you appear to be unlucky. The chance of you ending up at the same relative location was just as lucky as you encountering your dead relatives there. With the advent of your integration, anything is theoretically possible with the correct power, application, and technique. Now then, if I am correct, which I always am, you were in the middle of assaulting the ground?]

“Sure, sure. I think I need a break. Today has been just…too much.”

That and antipsychotics make me drowsy…really just something it had no right doing if it wouldn’t even help me immediately.

[Feel free to take it then, waste this time away. In that case you simply forfeit the right to the path search and any rewards that may come along with it. Assuming you fail to fulfill the requirements. This is not a difficult stage.]

My hand slid to a requested pen sitting by my side.

No, I wasn’t enthralled by rewards—

Did I want them? Of course.

Who wouldn’t crave that fleeting, instant payoff

for their efforts?

But now, with the weight of it all pressing in,

I feel like a hollowed-out shell.

The ideas I’d absorbed, the beliefs I’d clung to,

still linger, clawing at the edges of my mind,

restless, unyielding, refusing to release.

So, to drown it out,

I smashed my fists against the ground.

My knuckles screamed with every impact,

skin split and raw,

the jarring force meeting

that strange, slimy—not quite solid—surface,

sending painful jolts through my arms.

A fast paced and blaring tune playing in my ears,

it softened beneath me, just as I’d remembered.

Not that it mattered.

Not worth dissecting.

With a heavy sigh, I let it go.

No! No, that’s awful. Really awful. It’s not even a poem at that point, I’m just talking about what’s happening! Another one in the pile. I tossed the crumpled page over my head in frustration.

This way was not how it had been before,

Previously more flexible,

I’d been running on fumes just to get this far,

Numbing myself with empty notions,

Trying to become a “blank slate,”

Desperately blurring reality’s jagged edge,

Just as I’d distanced myself

From my parents’ deaths,

Whittled down to cold, detached facts of life.

Eventually.

Revenge would come soon enough.

The justice system—flawed as it is—

Why does it even operate like this?

The world isn’t fair…but it ought to be.

Wasn’t I supposed to have

some kind of advantage here?

Why didn’t I?

Just as fucking bad. I tore the page to shreds, running each piece through my fingers before separating the letters from their comrades in arms.

How did he erase every trace of his scheme,

Walk away untouched, as I stood there,

Trying to tell the truth,

Trying to fit in,

Trying not to drown in despair,

Struggling to connect, to thrive—

Always floundering, always out of sync,

Conversations now feeling like echoes

Borrowed from screens instead of life.

Utterly alien.

Is this who I’ve become?

Have I really fallen this far?

Maybe it’s the toll of that “gifted kid” title,

The honor-student curse,

Assuming life would be kinder,

And yet I’m haunted by perfectionism,

By endless delay,

By that consuming fear of failing,

Etched into my family’s history,

Passed down like some twisted legacy.

And here I stand, on the brink of something real—

A sliver of success, maybe even power.

If I could just grasp it,

Maybe I’d be something more, someone worthy.

But first, I had to confront

That nothing here would come without a price,

No matter how well I knew it,

That whisper in my subconscious

I always wanted to believe otherwise.

And if I can’t accept that,

What does it mean for me?

Am I even likable?

Or maybe it was inevitable—

The torment that followed me, grade after grade.

Was this fate? Is it just who I am?

“Is it possible to like me? Am I all alone? Is this fucking real? Answer that, once and for all! Tell me the truth!” My questioning started as a whisper but soon rose to a wail.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

[You lack conventional reading skills, so that subtracts from it. But if you were able to actually read and saw my previous message to you, then you would know that everything is possible now. Everything. Even liking you…and this being real. Maybe it’s fake, maybe it really just is all an acid trip. Maybe you just have to figure that out yourself, or perhaps I could give you some assistance. Was your life on Earth even real? If this feels and seems the same as reality, why treat it as something different?]

I need a nap. I need a break from my murderous thoughts. I need a break from diminishing myself. I need a break from this false reality. I really need a fucking nap.

Maybe, if I just surrender to sleep,

I’ll process this mess in my dreams,

sweep out that lurking dread,

let my body find peace,

let my weary head recover

whatever shreds of sanity remain.

Shouldn’t I feel grateful, even privileged,

to sleep without the grind of work, school,

and all that nonsense?

Nah, forget it.

Here I am, arguing with some phantom,

some figment of my own invention.

So, shut up, brain.

And, just like that, I drifted off,

slipping into sleep faster than I expected.

But hours later, I blink awake,

still heavy-lidded, and just as tired.

The thoughts, they pick up where I left them,

spinning in circles, relentless.

Why do I feel like I need to mend the world’s wounds?

What makes me, a privileged guy,

untouched by systematic oppression,

believe I’m the one to change it?

Everything feels so…melancholic,

this weight settling in

like it comes from unlocking memories

I’d rather bury deep, forever.

That felt a bit better; actually finding some success in writing out how I felt…if only I could write a good conclusion to it…

Maybe it’s that slow realization—

existence as a species feels so pointless,

like I’ve barely changed since I was fourteen,

aside from growing taller.

Shouldn’t I be training right now, doing something?

But I just… don’t feel like it.

SHIT! Another one ruined, another page in the pile, more time wasted, more reason for doubt of myself. A pillow of pages, a blanket of papers, a lullaby of letters, a tidal wave enveloping me in words.

[It is referred to as a quarter-life crisis among those on your planet. Such a thing is not unheard of in a time like this. Although your reasoning is much different as you care little for the ending of the world compared to what you want to do in it.]

“You can…read my thoughts?” I exclaimed, suddenly disoriented.

[What can’t I do?]

Good point. Touché, system, touché.

“A few questions on that path…Tell me again, straight answer this time, Is this real right now? And if it is, is Greg getting stronger by the minute?”

[Of course it’s real. Right?]

“Come on, just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ already!” I said breathily, quite exasperated.

The notification disappeared to be replaced with another.

[Information on other living organisms does not come free, and I explicitly stated it previously that if it looks real and feels real then you should treat it as such.]

Fine. Be like that. Maybe I should treat it like that, though, you know? It’s worth a try.

As I sat here, a thought took its time sinking in, a faint ember sparking within the depths of my mind, then slowly catching fire, growing brighter and hotter with each passing second. That, if I’m going to save everyone from a miserable existence, a real existence or just one made up in my mind, I’d better get strong enough to actually change something. It wasn’t a sudden bolt of inspiration, more like a slow, creeping certainty winding its way around all my doubts and contradictions. A rather simple conclusion overall, but a much needed one.

I’d always flirted with the idea of heroism, of being some kind of savior figure, but was that what I really wanted? Or was this just another way to feed my own need for validation—an ego trip disguised as nobility? A way to create some grand persona, to build a version of myself that was worth admiring?

A flicker of doubt tugged at me, forcing me to look inward. Maybe it didn’t matter, I reasoned, brushing the thoughts aside. Maybe you just have to start somewhere, even if you don’t fully know why. Maybe I use the word maybe too much in my thought processes. It was like those times I’d get a burst of motivation and drop to the floor to crank out 20 push-ups right before bed, imagining I’d wake up somehow transformed, stronger, something I did quite often with little exercise elsewhere. Sure, it was ridiculous, but at least it was a start. And a start was something. Something leading to nothing.

The truth was, I’d let myself grow soft. Since leaving high school, I hadn’t exactly thrown myself into anything. College barely got my attention before I’d checked out of that, too, like some half-hearted attempt to care about a world that kept slipping away. I’d spent so much time doing nothing, convincing myself that there was time to figure things out. But here, I was realizing, time was a luxury I no longer had.

So, could I actually do something? The question echoed in my head, louder than I expected. I’d made it this far, reached the circle, survived until now against whatever odds were stacked against me. Maybe that meant I could push a bit further, maybe even train. Yeah… training. I could start here. Build myself up from whatever shreds were left.

I clenched my fists, feeling a surge of energy pulse through my veins. Yeah, I thought, letting the determination settle in. Fuck it. Let’s do this.

“Can you get me…a punching bag…a random weapon…a pair of 30 pound weights…and uh, maybe a training dummy? Do you think that’s enough? Do other people ask for more?”

[Please limit how many questions you ask at once, it could be considered rude. Is that all you need, that you personally thought up yourself? Feel free to ask for more at any time.]

“Sure, I guess.”

And so, what I asked for materialized directly in front of me, slowly phasing into existence. At first, they appeared as faint, translucent shapes, barely visible, but within moments, the details sharpened, and the objects became solid, their edges crisp and surfaces gleaming with a lifelike sheen. It was as if reality itself was adjusting to their sudden presence. I watched the transformation with a mix of curiosity and hesitation, absently scratching the right side of my neck, my fingers grazing over the familiar, raised texture of a bumpy birthmark. It always stood out, like a small imperfection I’d never quite gotten used to. My mind raced with indecision—should I dive in right away, or wait? Something in me urged caution, but impatience tugged at the edge of my thoughts.

[Stage 2: Find Your Path - Time remaining: 63:27:40]

[The point of this to figure out who you were was before this. I do recommend that you move on. If you wish to think further, wait until later. The next stage may allow for that.]

A tattered black punching bag hung limply in the air, suspended by a steel thread that connected it to a sleek, dark metal plate, which seemed to float ominously in the space above. Its surface, rough and cracked, bore the scars of years of relentless blows. But what really caught my attention was the dilapidated training dummy beside it.

The dummy stood on a circular wooden base, though the wood was so decayed it barely held together, darkened and rotted with age, looking like it could collapse at any moment. Deep, jagged slashes marred its frame, as if it had been hacked at with countless blades, leaving it looking weak and ready to give in to the slightest force. Despite its fragile appearance, it remained upright, an odd feat for something so worn down. Two splintered wooden arms jutted out at awkward angles, sharp and pointed, like they were waiting to impale anyone foolish enough to attack it head-on.

Atop the dummy hung a sagging sack with sketched on, childlike features drawn on it, a face that resembled a dotted stick figure sketched by yours truly in my sixth-grade art class. The eyes were uneven, the mouth was a lazy scribble—it was almost absurdly out of place. Yet, there was something unnerving about it, especially with the thick, glowing aquamarine umbra-like mist that surrounded the dummy, giving it an eerie presence that defied its flimsy structure.

Next to the dummy lay two blocky, black cubes that were probably supposed to be weights, though they looked more like dense, unwieldy chunks of metal than anything practical. Wrapped haphazardly around them was the weapon I had requested, though I hadn’t expected… this. A chain. Just a simple, heavy chain. No sword, no bow, no shield—just a cold, metal length of links. How was I supposed to fight with a chain? Whip it around? Strangle someone? I wasn’t strong enough for that.

I keep delaying. Better to just train. And probably also get more specific at what I ask for when I have the ability to ask for anything.