My mother. I don’t remember much about her—just flashes, really. My father swears she’s still here, trapped by the System, hidden away. He says everything he’s done—all the chaos, all the destruction—has been for her. To bring her back.

And maybe he believes that. Or maybe he’s just clinging to a shred of hope to justify all the blood on his hands. Or maybe—just maybe—he’s telling the truth, and she’s out there, waiting for someone to save her. I don’t know. What I do know is, whatever he’s planning? It’s going to rip this world apart.

My father thinks it’s not real, but he’s wrong. This is reality—a different one than Earth, sure, but real all the same. Every scar, every loss, every moment.

And perhaps that’s what makes it worse.

Because this place… it’s fractured. A patchwork of magic, tech, and lies. A shadow of something bigger, something more dangerous. And me? I’m stuck in the middle, wielding powers I never asked for, tangled in a prophecy I want nothing to do with.

This isn’t just about magic or gods or survival. It’s about everything. A collision of worlds, a war barreling toward us like a runaway freight train, and no one—not even the gods—are ready for it. Least of all me.

I didn’t ask to be Hades’ chosen, didn’t volunteer to shepherd the dead through this chaos. But here I am, trying to keep them moving—and trying even harder not to end up as one of them.

And honestly? I’m tired. Tired of prophecies, tired of the rules, tired of being shoved onto a path I never chose. I’ve spent my whole life just trying to survive. Why do I always have to be the one to fight? Why can’t I just… live? Find a little peace? Have a relationship that doesn’t end in betrayal or tragedy? Hell, a simple life filled with hot meals and soft beds would be nice.

But no. Instead, I get this. A “unique set of skills." My user interface—same as every Traveler here—keeps track of it all. Tracks the flow of energy, EXP gains, skill progression. It’s like having an accountant strapped to my soul, tallying up my wins and losses.

Without it? We’d all probably end up like the first wave of Travelers here—losing our minds instantly, unable to process the changes this world forces on us. The System makes it easier, sure. Gives us numbers to cling to, progress bars to chase. It makes sense of the chaos.

But it’s also a damn lie.

The system isn’t here to help us. It’s a cage, dressed up like a guide. A way to keep us playing the game, to keep us chasing the carrot. I’ve seen the glitches, the cracks in its shiny facade. I’ve seen how it nudges us, pushes us toward paths it wants us to take. Like rats in a maze, running in circles while someone else holds the cheese.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

And here’s the kicker: I don’t know if there’s a way out.

Maybe this is all we are now—players in someone else’s game. Pawns on a board we didn’t build, following rules we didn’t write. And if there’s no way to change that… Then maybe it’s time to flip the table.

Everyone’s got their way of coping, their ritual for keeping the chaos at bay. It’s not just about survival—it’s about cultivation. In this world, conquering the universe earns you EXP, but keeping it? That’s the trick. Fortifying those gains takes practice, discipline, and a little ingenuity. Cultivation is how we turn fleeting victories into lasting strength, anchoring ourselves against the storm.

For me, it’s alchemy. There’s something about the act of creating—mixing ingredients, measuring out powders, boiling potions—that makes sense when nothing else does. It’s personal, tactile, real. Strange, considering I came from a world where food was a luxury and famine was the norm. And yet, my greatest joy isn’t just in brewing potions that fizz with magic—it’s in making food. Real food. Meals that warm, that nourish. It’s a small rebellion in a place so bent on destruction.

I remember the first healing potion I ever made. It was crude, barely drinkable, and looked more like swamp water than anything medicinal. But I made it. And in that moment, for the first time since landing here, I felt like I had a sliver of control. Like I wasn’t just surviving—I was doing something that made this world a little less horrible.

Alchemy isn’t just about mixing things together. It’s about transformation—taking something raw and turning it into something that heals, strengthens, or just makes you feel human again. It’s a metaphor for everything I’ve been through, honestly. Taking broken pieces, ugly fragments, and trying to shape them into something worthwhile.

The hiss of a bubbling potion, the earthy smell of crushed herbs—it keeps me grounded. It reminds me there are still parts of me that belong to me. In those moments, as fleeting as they are, I find something like peace.

And when I can’t do alchemy, I write. Journaling doesn’t fix anything, but it gives me space to breathe, to process. Not that I think anyone will ever read this—hell, I’m not even sure I’ll reread it—but still. Writing feels like a lifeline. A way to sort through the mess in my head.

The last time I saw my brother, he told me to get ready. He said I needed to prepare for what’s coming. He told me to find a prophecy, one hidden in something called the Mostly Harmless Prophecies by Rita Nutkins. Whatever the hell that is. He said I’d need it to beat the Tower.

The Tower. Thirty floors of pure, unrelenting hell, clawing at the horizon like a jagged wound in the sky. Each floor more treacherous than the last. They say it’s a relic from some ancient war, a monument to hubris and destruction. Only citizens are supposed to have a shot at conquering it. But no one ever has.

Travelers like me? We’re capped at Floor Twenty-Five. Hard limit. Supposedly unbreakable.

Then again, I’m not your ordinary Traveler.

But it’s not like I have a choice. Not really. Alex told me I had to. That’s reason enough, but it’s not the whole truth. I have to climb it—for him, for me, for everyone who looks at us like we’re nothing but pawns in a rigged game.

I have to prove them wrong.

Tomorrow, we head for the Tower in the Southeastern Stronghold. The colleges of the gods are gathering there for the Winter Games.

Tomorrow, I figure out if I’m the hero of this story, or just another pawn in a game I never wanted to play.