Thung. Thung. Thung. Thung. Thung. Thung.
A dull, rhythmic throb pulsed against the inside of my skull like a slow drumbeat, measured and insistent. Each pulse echoed through my temples, dragging a thread of discomfort across my brain like some unseen metronome of pain. My body felt hot, too hot. My shirt clung uncomfortably to my skin, damp with sweat, like it had been glued there. I lay sprawled on what I thought was my bed, eyes shut tight, breathing uneven, my mind struggling to piece itself back together after whatever nightmare had just gripped it.
Except… something was off.
A strange scent clung to the air—earthy, gritty, like old stone and rusted metal, overlaid with something dry and organic, like untreated wood that had been left out in the rain one too many times. The mattress beneath me was scratchy and uneven, not the cool, springy comfort of memory foam but something rougher. Cruder. Wrong.
Then—bam—a sharp beam of sunlight lanced through my eyelids, a narrow, blinding spotlight that struck straight into my brain and lit up the headache like a stage production. I flinched, brow furrowing, even as I remained frozen in place. I wasn't ready to move yet, not with my skull pounding and every inch of me screaming to crawl back into unconsciousness. But there was no peace to be found.
It was either lie there and let the world keep stabbing at my senses, or get up and face whatever this was.
I was just about to grumble and roll over when a single realization slammed through the haze like a lightning bolt.
*My bed is nowhere near my window.*
That alone was enough to jolt me upright—well, I tried, anyway. I threw myself into a sit-up, only to immediately smack the top of my skull into something solid overhead with a painful thunk that made my eyes water.
"Ow—god, what the hell—" I hissed, eyes snapping open.
And then I froze.
The room I found myself in was… not mine.
Stone walls. Uneven, rough, and grey, like they'd been carved by hand centuries ago. Wooden shutters, slightly askew, let streaks of sunlight in through slats that didn't quite close. The furniture was mismatched and ancient-looking—worn-down wood with chips and splinters, a warped dresser missing a handle, a crooked desk tucked into the corner. The bed I'd been lying on? It was massive, but crude—stuffed with hay under a sheet that smelled faintly of mildew and age. And the space itself felt *smaller*, like everything had been built for someone just a bit too big for it. Or maybe... I had grown.
Slowly, cautiously, I sat up and dragged myself to my feet, limbs heavy and head still pounding. I moved toward the desk, hoping for some kind of explanation. A phone, a note, *anything.* That's when I caught a glimpse of something in the warped, tarnished mirror leaning against the wall.
Someone tall stood in the reflection. Someone with broad, wiry shoulders and lean muscle. Arms dusted with coarse hair. Fingers too long, nails too sharp. A face with a square jaw and sunken blue eyes under heavy brows. And long, tangled dark hair falling past the collarbone.
I stopped breathing.
That someone was me.
"What the actual hell," I whispered aloud, the sound of my voice startling me—it was deeper, rougher. Not my voice. Not *me.*
Panic surged in my chest, heart pounding like a drum as the room swam slightly. My knees wobbled. I grabbed for the desk to keep from falling, grasping its edge with desperate fingers—and felt something wet and tacky beneath my palm.
I looked down.
Blood. A smear of it, dark and drying, stuck to the cover of a small, leather-bound book that had been resting there, partly open. I recoiled, but something about it… called to me. Familiar.
I sat down heavily, not trusting my legs, and pulled the book closer. My fingers trembled as I opened it, and as the pages turned, a strange sense of déjà vu hit me like a punch to the gut. Recognition flared in my chest, hot and nauseating.
"A tome of Ego?" I breathed, staring at the distinctive script. "No way. No *way.*"
It was impossible. Ridiculous. But the thought planted itself in my head and refused to leave.
*Wait… Am I?*
No. No, that couldn't be it. That was insane. I had to be dreaming. That had to be the explanation. If I was not dreaming, then none of this would make sense. And if I *was* dreaming, then I wouldn't be able to read, right? That's how dreams worked. You couldn't read in dreams. Right?
My thumb brushed the cover—and the book *snapped* open with a violent force that made me jump, fluttering like a bird trying to escape. It landed open on the desk before me, pages ruffled, until it stilled. And when I leaned over to look, my stomach dropped through the floor.
On the left page: a sketch. A figure tall and gaunt, sinewy and wild-looking, with familiar sharp features and shaggy hair. My character. Arthur Landis. The one I had made in The Ark of Azathoth just before I woke up here.
And on the right page, written in neat but erratic lines of red ink, the character stat sheet.
[Tome of Ego ]
Owner:Arthur Landis
Age: 18
Job: Jobless Leech
Race: Human (Cursed)
Traits: [Lycanthropy], [Gift of the Black Pharaoh]
Perks:
(Read the Fine Print),
(Mom Didn't Say Anything),
(Regeneration: One),
(Animalistic World: One),
(???)
Drawbacks:
(Miss.Fortune),
(Fear the IRS),
(???)
Characteristics:
(Curse of Desire),
(Lycan Transformation),
(???)
Primary Stats:
Strength: 6
Agility: 5
Endurance: 3
Mental: 2
Arcana: 4
I stared at the page in stunned silence.
No. Nope. No way.
The black sphere. The one from my nightmare .Or what I had mistakenly believed to be just a product of my unhealthy mind . That thing had *actually* done something. It had turned me into my own goddamn character.
MY. OWN. CHARACTER.
The how or why didn't even matter anymore. Not when the full implications were sinking in. I was stuck. Trapped. Living out the worst kind of cosmic joke.
And the kicker?
It was all *chat's* fault. They thought it'd be hilarious to saddle me with the "Fear the IRS" drawback. Hilarious. Taxes. In a game. But now that little joke was an active death sentence. That drawback meant I would be hunted—literally—by tax enforcers. If I didn't pay up, the game would sic a hit squad on me.
Ha. Ha. Hilarious.
I let out a bitter laugh that turned into a shaky breath. Because I knew exactly where I was now.
The Ark. The last bastion of civilization. A shining city beneath the protection of Azrha the Goldfiend, a dragon who'd taken it upon herself to guard what remained of humanity—not out of kindness, but because the dungeon beneath the city gave her an endless stream of treasure to hoard and their by strengthen her. And in return for that protection? Taxes. Back-breaking, soul-sucking taxes. Everything in the Ark ran on them.
Anyone who couldn't pay was forced to delve into the dungeon below in search of riches—primarily Fleming Stones, magical stones pulled from monsters that could be alchemized into just about anything. And if you didn't want to dive into the hungry maw of the dungeon?
Well, you could leave.
Right out into the post-apocalyptic wasteland swarming with horrors left over from a five-thousand-year-old celestial war.
So yeah. I was officially screwed.
With a Mental stat of *two*, I wasn't smart enough to be allowed to apply let alone accepted into a cushy job. Not to mention the three unknown effects from [Lycanthropy]. I had no clue what was going , no money, no allies.
Just a cursed body, a cursed book, and a cosmic IOU from the dragon IRS.
And the dungeon? That was my only hope.
Dead man walking. That's what I was.
**No! I can't think like that!**
Defeat was already trying to claw its way into my head, whispering doubts like a devil on my shoulder. But I shoved it back with a snarl. I couldn't let myself spiral. Not now. In the game, I'd made it to the tenth floor *without even trying*. Just messing around, laughing, experimenting with builds and dumb strategies that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. That was me at my most chaotic.
So what if this was real now? So what if my life was on the line? If I took things seriously—really *focused*—I could definitely make it to at least the fifth floor. I *knew* I could.
And if I played my cards right, that would be more than enough. Enough to survive. Enough to pay off the damn dragon's taxes.
That optimism lasted all of five seconds.
I collapsed backward in melodramatic despair, limbs flopping like some dying fish on a dock. "Play it smart," I said aloud, like the phrase alone would change anything. Smart? That was a foreign word to me. An imported concept. Untranslated. Alien.
…Well, okay, that was a lie.
I wasn't actually hopeless. I was putting on a show. Old habits die hard. I'd spent one year learning how to dial my reactions up to eleven, stretching them like taffy until they became entertaining. Dramatic despair? Perfect content. Just enough self-deprecation to be likable.
But behind the over-the-top flailing, the clown mask, the exaggerated groans, I did know a thing or two about how this world worked. I wasn't lost. Not yet. I knew the mechanics—intimately. I'd used half of them every day for hours . I'd even been spoiled on many things by chat. That counted for something, right?
So, swallowing my dread like a bitter pill, I grabbed the *Tome of Ego* and tossed it onto the straw mattress of my new, unfamiliar bed. Then, steeling myself, I did something I normally avoided like the plague: I started reading. God, I hated reading. But now it wasn't just flavor text—it was survival.
I pressed my finger to *(Animalistic World: One)*, and sure enough, the tome shivered to life beneath my touch, pages rustling like feathers in the wind. Just like in the game.
*Good. One less thing that changed.*
I already knew what *(Regeneration: One)* did. In the game, it meant regaining about ten percent of your max HP every sixty seconds. A nice passive. Not flashy, but it could save your ass. Still, I had no clue how that would translate to this new, hyper-real flesh-and-blood reality. Was it still based on percentages? Would it actually work in the middle of combat or just out of it? Did it hurt?
Before I could finish spiraling into those questions, the tome stopped flipping and settled on a new page. I leaned in, eyes scanning the ink with urgency. Every second felt heavy.
**[Tome of Ego]**
*(Animalistic World: One):*
*Humans are dull creatures. They do not truly witness this world—their eyes are blind, their ears deaf, their minds burdened by slow and heavy thoughts. This is but a grain of the curse that drags humanity beneath even the lowliest worm.*
*But you dared to step beyond the filth your kind worships. A small step, yes—but a step. You now perceive the world closer to how animals do. Your senses sharpened. Your instincts honed. Your thoughts, at last, unburdened by doubt.*
*So enhanced senses, better instincts, and maybe a buff to my Mental stat?*
It was honestly a little underwhelming, especially compared to how broken things could be in-game when stacked with the right perks. But hey, beggars couldn't be choosers. Not when I was one misstep away from being monster feed, so maybe it was more useful than I give it credit for.
I sighed and flipped to the next one: *(Curse of Desire).*
The name alone made my skin crawl. I didn't think that this one will be particularly friendly. Still, I braced myself and read.
**[Tome of Ego]**
*(Curse of Desire):*
*What is a werewolf? Many claim to know the answer—citing magical theory, religious doctrine, or folk legend. But none of them know the truth.*
*A werewolf is not a creature. Not a spell. Not a disease. A werewolf is a *curse*—a curse born from the festering, unfiltered desires of mankind. It is desire made flesh. It is need turned to hunger. Rage turned to claws.*
*It is a manifestation of everything a man lacks, twisted into a form that can take it by force. To become a werewolf is to rip the world open and take what you were denied. With teeth. With blood.*
---
I stared at the page, reading the last line again and again.
A curse born from desire.
It sounded like a pure physical buff , would explain the claws and canines I had even in human form.
So… why was this listed under *characteristics* and not *perks*? In the game, that kind of thing mattered. Categorization changed depending on how positive it affects your character, so why was it a characteristic ?
I reared the entire again and again but could only think of one answer, it made me a cursed creature. Curses made you vulnerable to light-based damage, especially holy relics. That could kill me if I wasn't careful.
I scratched at my chin, feeling the three-day-old beard I'd inherited from this new body. Rough. Itchy. *Very* not me. I'd probably get used to it eventually, but right now, it just added to the strangeness.
*I'll need to experiment. Carefully.*
Finally, I reached for the one that had haunted me from the start: *(Lycan Transformation).* the most iconic thing about a werewolf, its ability to turn into a monster that dwarfed a normal human . If I could shift at will, I might actually stand a chance in this place. And the best part? The moon had shattered eons ago in this world. So I doubted it'd be tied to any lunar cycle.
---
**[Tome of Ego]**
*(Lycan Transformation):*
*To become a beast—a curse upon all that is holy—is a terrifying experience. All that you are is amplified fivefold. Strength, senses, instincts, and rage. But beware: as your body twists, so too does your mind.*
*The transformation frays the soul, erodes identity. You become something raw. Something true. The beast awakens only with a price , and once stirred, it slumbers not easily.*
---
I exhaled slowly.
This was it. My ace in the hole. A five-times multiplier across the board, if the text was to be believed. The cost? My mind. My sense of self. Maybe my sanity.
In the game insanity expressed itself in the form of your character doing things on its own . How would this affect me, now that I was the character? Would (Mom Didn't Say Anything) stop me from doing things again my own will or would this really drive me insane?
But still, fivefold.
Fivefold was *everything* in a world that wanted me dead.
If I could master this… no, when I mastered this, I wouldn't just survive—I'd thrive.
I leaned back, letting the tome rest against my lap as my heartbeat slowed. I was still terrified. I still had no idea how I got here. But I was no longer paralyzed.
I had a plan. I had tools.
And most importantly— I had a role to play.
I was Arthur Landis.
Cursed. Inexperienced.
And maybe—just maybe—a little dangerous.