Ryan blinked awake, his body shuddering as if yanked from one world into another. His left arm—**his arm**—was whole. No blood. No scar. Just the familiar fabric of his orange T-shirt, untorn and unstained.
"What the hell…" he muttered, his voice shaky but his grip on reality firm.
He was standing in his living room.
The cream-colored walls, the cozy couch, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen—it was all there, just as he remembered it. The familiar creak of the wooden floorboards under his feet grounded him, but something felt… off.
The bay windows looked out into an endless void, stars sparkling like cold, distant eyes. No streets. No neighbors. Just an infinite expanse of darkness and light.
"Okay," Ryan said, pacing the room. "Okay, I'm losing it. I was in Eryndral. I was… I was on a wall. There was a battle. A sword. My arm—"
He flexed his left hand, staring at it as if it might dissolve into smoke. It didn't.
The air was normal—warm, breathable, Earth-like. Gravity pressed down on him just as it always had. The house itself felt real, from the faint smell of coffee lingering in the kitchen to the soft texture of the couch under his fingertips.
But outside…
He stepped toward the window, his reflection staring back at him. Beyond the glass, the void stretched endlessly, stars swirling in patterns that made his head ache.
"This is insane," he whispered. "I'm in my house, but my house is… where? Floating in space?"
He turned away, shaking his head, and noticed his desktop pc open on the dining table. The screen glowed faintly, casting a pale blue light across the room.
His stomach dropped.
> Job Application: Reality Parameters
>
> Status: Update Scripts
>
> Next Cycle Begins in: 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes
Beneath the text was a list of options, neatly formatted like a corporate form.
> Safety Protocols Available:
>
> - Safe from Wounds
> - Safe from Legendary Beasts
> - Safe from War
All the boxes were blank.
Ryan stared at the screen, his mind racing. "What is this? Some kind of… interface? A menu?"
He reached out to the keyboard, his fingers hovering over the keys, but he hesitated. The implications of choosing—or not choosing—felt enormous, like tipping the first domino in a cosmic chain reaction.
"If I click something… what happens? Does it change Eryndral? Does it change me*?"*
The hum of the refrigerator grew louder, filling the silence. Outside, the stars seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"I don't even know what this is," he said aloud, running a hand through his hair. "How can I choose? How can I not* choose?"*
For now, he left the options blank, the empty boxes taunting him with their possibilities.
Ryan stared at the glowing screen, the words Job Application: Reality Parameters burning into his retinas. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised but trembling—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
A chuckle bubbled up from his chest. Then another.
And suddenly, he was laughing—wicked, loud, uncontrollable laughter that echoed off the bedroom walls.
"A fucking job application?" he wheezed, slapping his knee. "That's it? That's my OP isekai power? No truck-kun? No goddess in a white void explaining shit? Just— bam*, here's a fucking HR form for godhood?"*
The absurdity of it all sent him into another fit of giggles. He spun in his e-sport chair, arms spread like some anime protagonist bathing in his own epiphany. The RGB lights of his PC pulsed along with his manic energy, painting the walls in shifting neon.
He jumped to his feet, pacing.
"Okay. Okay. So I don't have to die to get powers. No tragic backstory. No bullshit tutorial. Just—" he gestured wildly at the monitors, "—this. A cheat menu. On my terms."
The realization hit him like lightning.
He was—
He was the protagonist.
Not some side character. Not some hapless victim. He was the guy with the power to rewrite the rules.
The fear, the pain, the terror of Eryndral—it all melted away under the sheer, giddy weight of that truth.
Ryan turned back to the screen, his grin stretching ear to ear.
"Safe from Wounds... Safe from Beasts... Safe from War..." he muttered, tapping the desk with each option. His reflection in the monitor was a stranger—eyes bright, face flushed with something hungry.
Outside his window, the stars shimmered. The void seemed to hold its breath.
"I could check them all," he whispered.
His fingers twitched toward the mouse.
His heart pounded.
For the first time since arriving in this nightmare, Ryan Mercer felt alive.
Ryan's laughter still hung in the air as he pushed away from the desk, his chair spinning from the force. The screen's glow lingered in his vision like an afterimage—those unchecked boxes still taunting him. But not yet. First, he needed answers.
The Living Room
The TV blinked to life with a press of the remote. A late-night talk show host smirked at a camera, delivering a punchline Ryan didn't hear. His fingers hovered over the channel button. Cartoons. News. A nature documentary about deep-sea vents. All normal.
"How?" Ryan muttered, thumbing the volume up, then down. The speakers hissed static at max volume, exactly as they should. The remote's batteries weren't even low. "Where's the signal even coming from?"
Then he took out his phone from his trouser pocket.
One bar of signal. Wi-Fi connected.
Ryan burst out laughing again, holding it aloft like a trophy. "Are you kidding me? I'm in a cosmic void with full bars?"He opened a browser. Google loaded. YouTube played a clip of a cat falling off a couch in 2012. His laughter died into a disbelieving grin.
The Bathroom
The faucet gushed cold, then hot, when he twisted the knobs. Ryan cupped his hands under the stream, dousing his face. Water dripped down his chin, chilling his shirt. He wiped the mirror with his sleeve—his reflection stared back, grinning like a madman.
"Okay," he told it. "Either I've lost it, or reality's just really bad at horror games."
The Kitchen
The fridge hummed when he yanked it open. Milk, eggs, a six-pack of apple juice—his college staple. He grabbed a carton, tore the straw off the side, and punctured the foil with a satisfying pop. The juice was tart, sweet, real.
He chugged it, crumpled the empty carton, and tossed it toward the trash can. It landed with a rustle.
Then he paused.
"Wait."
Ryan turned back to the fridge. There, in the door shelf, sat an identical six-pack of apple juice—unopened, untouched. His fingers twitched. He pulled one out. The straw was still attached.
The trash can, when he looked, was empty.
But his stomach still sloshed with the weight of what he'd drunk.
Ryan's pulse pounded in his ears.
The Bedroom
He collapsed onto the bed, springs creaking under his weight. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above him. His phone, still clutched in his hand, buzzed with a notification—a spam email about student loan refinancing.
Ryan burst into breathless laughter.
"This," he announced to the stars outside his window, "is bullshit."
But the giddiness coiled tight in his chest. Nothing ran out. Nothing changed. It was his world, his rules—a dev's sandbox where consequences didn't stick.
The PC's monitors still glowed from the desk. The Job Application waited.
Ryan rolled onto his side, grinning into the pillow.
For the first time in years, he couldn't wait to clock in.
Ryan glanced at his phone again. The calendar read "09 September 2025." He checked the clock—10:00 p.m.—the exact moment he had crossed into the fantasy world. Here, time itself had frozen.
Ryan pushes himself off the bed, crossing the short distance before sinking into the chair.
Ryan's grin lingered as he flopped back into his e-sport chair, the familiar cushioning grounding him in the absurdity of it all. The RGB lights of his PC bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, matching the whirlwind of emotions in his chest.
This felt like winning the lottery—no, better. It was like randomly selecting a game item in some sketchy desktop game and actually winning the $100,000 grand prize. His stomach fluttered with the kind of giddy disbelief that made him want to scream, laugh, and pinch himself all at once.
The screen still glowed with the text:
Job Application: Reality Parameters
Status: Update Scripts
Next Cycle Begins in: 6 days, 23 hours, 45 minutes
Ryan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "So… is this my new job?" he mused aloud, his voice tinged with laughter. "Are they hiring me to… what? Play God? Or just live life with cheat codes?"
He chuckled, spinning in his chair. "If this is God's work, they've got a weird hiring process. No interviews. No background checks. Just… bam, here's a desktop pc and a void to play with."
But his amusement softened as he read the screen again, really read it this time.
Submit To: [email protected]
Ryan's eyebrows shot up. "Avarnith… Veythralis…?" He mouthed the words, testing their weight. "Wait, Avarnith—that's the continent. And Veythralis… that's the world?"
His mind raced. "Okay, so this isn't just some random fantasy generator. It's tied to an actual place. And… I'm sending a job application to it?"
He snorted, shaking his head. "I thought the email would be something like '[email protected]'. But no, it's got actual coordinates. What even is this?"
For a moment, he tried to decipher it—what did the email address mean? Was it an address in some cosmic bureaucracy? A command line terminal for reality? But the deeper he thought, the more his head hurt.
"Whatever," he muttered, leaning back. "It's not like I'm gonna get a rejection letter if I screw this up."
His eyes drifted back to the options:
Safety Protocols Available:
- Safe from Wounds
- Safe from Legendary Beasts
- Safe from War
Ryan's grin widened. "This is basically a cheat menu. Like those old game hacks where you'd type in 'godmode' and laugh as the enemies couldn't touch you."
He hovered the cursor over the first box. "Why not, right? Let's go full invincibility."
Click.
A soft chime echoed through the room, the box filling with a checkmark.
Safe from Wounds
Ryan's heart leapt. "That's one. Let's see… how about no more monsters?"
Click.
Another chime.
Safe from Legendary Beasts
He moved to the third box, ready to check it too—
Nothing happened.
Ryan frowned, clicking again. And again.
"What? Why can't I check all of them?"
Then he saw the small print at the bottom of the form:
Note: Select 2 out of 3 options to define reality.
"Oh, come on!" Ryan groaned, slumping in his chair. "Two out of three? That's such a tease."
His earlier giddiness evaporated, replaced by a sudden seriousness. This wasn't just a game anymore. This was a choice.
He stared at the screen, the unchecked box taunting him.
Safe from War
"If I don't pick this… Eryndral's war will keep going," he murmured, the weight of it sinking in. "But if I do… what do I lose?"
Ryan leaned back, running a hand through his hair. The room felt smaller now, the stars outside colder.
For the first time, it wasn't just his world he was messing with.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, the glowing monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. His fingers tapped rhythmlessly against the desk as he chewed his lip, eyes locked on the three options.
Safe from Wounds.
Safe from Legendary Beasts.
Safe from War.
Two out of three.
His left arm—whole, unmarked—twitched at the memory of steel slicing through flesh. The phantom pain was enough to make his decision easy.
"No more missing limbs," he muttered, clicking Safe from Wounds with finality. The box filled with a soft chime, like a cash register confirming payment.
Next, his mind conjured the Umbrathorax—that writhing shadow-beast with its jagged, fractal scales, its maw wide enough to swallow a house. The way its golden eyes had pinned him like a specimen.
"No contest," Ryan said, selecting Safe from Legendary Beasts before he could second-guess himself. The second chime echoed, higher-pitched this time.
That left Safe from War unchecked.
He stared at the empty box, imagining Eryndral's cobblestone streets soaked in blood, the cries of villagers swallowed by steel and fire. Would stopping the war really be better? His stomach twisted. Stories thrived on conflict. Kings rose and fell by it. Was a world without war even livable, or would it rot from stagnation?
And then there was the selfish thought, whispered from the back of his skull: A battlefield is where heroes are made.
Ryan exhaled sharply. "Not my problem. Not yet."
His finger hovered over the Submit button.
***Send Application?***
He pressed it.
A loading bar appeared.
5%... 35%... 72%...
Submission Complete.
Ryan blinked.
No magic circles. No tremors in reality. Not even a Drakensvale-style light show. Just... silence.
"Huh," he said to the empty room. "I kinda expected more fancy."
The stars outside his window glittered, indifferent.
With a shrug, Ryan pushed back from the desk. The RGB lights of his PC pulsed lazily, cycling through colors as if nothing monumental had happened.
He grabbed a towel from his closet—still smelling faintly of his old detergent—and headed to the shower. The water was hot, the pressure perfect. Steam fogged the mirror until his reflection vanished entirely.
As he dried off, he caught himself absently flexing his left hand again. No wound. No scar. But he remembered.
Back in his bedroom, he collapsed onto the mattress, the sheets cool against his skin. The ceiling fan spun above him, its rhythmic hum lulling him toward sleep.
His last coherent thought before darkness took him:
"I wonder if it worked."