> **Finalizing Integration...**
> **Pending: Core Confirmation – Character Profile [UNLOCKED]**
A stat sheet unfolded like a digital scroll, clean and obnoxiously well-organized:
---
**[Character Profile: Tarnis Phoenix]**
Race: Human (*Earthling Subset – Minnesotan*)
Class: *Unassigned*
Level: 1
Gender: Male
Age: 35
**Base Stats:**
- Strength: 3
- Endurance: 2
- Vitality: 2
- Dexterity: 3
- Intelligence: 4
- Wisdom: 4
- Spirit: 1
- Luck: 5
**Health Points (HP):** 10
**Stamina:** 10
**Mana:** 1
---
**Talent: Earthling (Passive)**
**Skill Card Loot Box** – Receive a randomized card pack upon leveling, Levels 1–10.
**Talent: Minnesotan (Active)**
**Hotdish Alchemy** – Craft nutritious meals from random scraps. Boosts stamina, morale.
**Talent: Minnesotan (Bonus)**
**Ya Betcha Boost** – Once per long rest, inspire allies with excessive optimism. Restores HP/stamina.
---
**Title: First of Your Kind**
**Perk: Adaptive Growth Matrix** – Skill cards have increased synergy potential. Cross-discipline growth unlocked.
---
**Legacy Titles:**
…[Expandable List: 9 and Counting]…
---
Christopher stared at it, jaw twitching.
“Yup. That’s me. A low-spirit, high-luck casserole gremlin with a morale buff that comes from *Midwestern optimism*.”
“You are *highly unique* within the system’s parameters,” the Guide replied, tone clinically optimistic.
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me I’m a walking anomaly.”
“Do you object to any of the traits listed above?” the Guide asked, far too formally. “This profile will be locked in for foundational growth and skill synergy progression. I recommend proceeding unless you anticipate significant edits.”
Christopher squinted at the hovering window like it owed him money. “Do I get to reroll any of this?”
“No.”
“Not even the Spirit stat?”
“Especially not the Spirit stat.”
He groaned. “Then yeah, sure. Lock it in. I can’t wait to see how this bites me in the ass later.”
> **[Character Profile Locked]**
> All racial talents and legacy bonuses applied.
> Adaptive Growth Matrix activated.
The HUD shimmered, the clean blue-white glow of progress inching toward some inevitable, painful reward.
> **Awarding Randomized Skill Card Loot Pack – Level 1 Bonus**
> Generating Pack…
> Rarity Spread Calculating…
> Earthling Trait Bonus Applied...
A shimmering card pack materialized in front of him—iridescent, foil-sealed, pulsing faintly like it knew it was about to be deeply disappointing.
Christopher stared at it like it owed him rent.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Loot boxes. The universal language of regret.”
The Guide chimed in serenely. “Would you like a dramatic animation?”
“…Obviously.”
[Opening Pack...]
The air warped. The pack hissed open like a treasure chest with intimacy issues. Cards spiraled upward in a vortex of light, music swelling to absurdly cinematic levels.
One by one, the cards floated into place.
Christopher blinked. “So this is how it begins. Not with a sword… but a randomized dopamine trap.”
Then, with a soft digital ping, a second object appeared midair—sleek, boxy, and glowing just a little too enthusiastically.
[Skill Card Loot Box – Earthling Trait]
Quality: Standard (Non-Premium Edition)
Contains: 1d4+1 random Skill Cards.
Because Earthlings can’t resist a mystery box.
He gave it a long, deadpan look.
“You really built a racial trait around gacha mechanics.”
“Earthlings exhibit an overwhelming cultural fixation on randomized loot systems,” the Guide confirmed.
Christopher sighed. “Cool. I’m not a mage or a warrior—I’m a walking casino ad.”
“The box is complimentary.”
He glared. “I feel so seen.”
He crossed his arms and stared at the shimmering cube like it had insulted his mother.
“…You better give me something good,” he muttered. “If I pull a Common-tier ‘Laundry Efficiency’ skill, I will *riot.*”
The loot box began to solidify—congealing from light into a literal floating box of bad decisions.
Christopher’s face twisted like he’d just stepped in something wet and mysterious. “You have *got* to be kidding me.”
It hovered in front of him, rotating slowly—equal parts magical artifact and gaming abomination. Neon pulses. Glyphs dancing like a pachinko machine doing interpretive rave.
The Guide’s voice lit up with suspicious enthusiasm.
**“Ah! Excellent! Your first reward!”**
Christopher inhaled slowly. “You sound *way* too excited about this.”
**“Why wouldn’t I be?”** the Guide replied. **“It’s a historic moment. You’re about to receive your first skill cards. This is what many Delvers live for.”**
“I feel like I’m about to be sold cosmetic armor in exchange for my dignity.”
The loot box hissed open with a pressure pop and a dramatic *choral flourish* that absolutely no one asked for. A sealed, translucent card pack rose from the center, rotating slowly like it had a SAG-AFTRA contract.
He scowled. “Did the system *seriously* program a dramatic reveal?”
**“The aesthetic is important,”** the Guide replied, matter-of-fact. **“It encourages dopamine engagement and positive association with progression milestones.”**
“Translation: loot boxes are digital serotonin traps.”
Before the Guide could rebut, the top of the pack peeled back with a soft *snap*. Four cards floated out, glowing faintly—hovering like Tarot raised by eSports.
The rest of the pack shimmered away like it had a warrant out and knew it.
Christopher blinked. “Four?”
**“Oh… yes. That’s above the bare minimum for first-level draws, honestly.”**
**“Perhaps the system is easing you in slowly,”** the Guide offered, attempting something like encouragement.
“Gee, thanks,” Christopher muttered. “Can’t wait to see what flavor of underwhelming garbage I just got.”
He reached toward the cards. They didn’t feel like cardboard or plastic—more like some high-end synthetic blend. Slightly flexible, cool to the touch, and textured like frosted glass. The edges shimmered faintly, almost as if heat-treated. Alien. Durable.
But it was the back that really caught his attention.
A deep navy-blue background, etched with silver foil:
> **EARTHLING PROTOTYPE ISSUE**
Beneath that, a second icon gleamed faintly—a snowflake wrapped around a compass rose.
Christopher blinked. “That’s... weirdly personal.”
**“Each card issued to you will carry a Minnesotan sub-designator,”** the Guide explained. **“Your flavor is unique. And… mildly regional.”**
“I swear to God, if one of these is Hotdish Hurl or Lake Ice Step, I’m throwing it into traffic.”
He flipped the first card.
---
> **Skill Card: Pocket Sand**
> **Rarity:** White – Common
> **Type:** Active
> **Keywords:** Combat, Affliction
>
> **Rule Text:** Conjure a handful of sand from thin air and hurl it at your target’s eyes. Temporarily blinds and disorients. Low damage. High annoyance.
> **Cooldown:** 5 seconds
>
> **Flavor Text:** “Who needs fancy spells when you’ve got a pocket full of sand and no shame?”
---
He stared.
Looked up slowly.
Deadpan.
“You’re kidding. This is my first skill?”
**“It is a classic, time-honored technique of disruption and battlefield control,”** the Guide replied, suspiciously proud.
“It’s a *joke*.”
**“It’s tactical mischief,”** the Guide countered. **“Besides, you’ll be surprised how often eyes are unarmored.”**
Christopher rubbed his face. “First official power: summon sand. I am the mighty Pocket Litterer.”
**“You are the prototype Pocket Litterer,”** the Guide corrected with pride.
Before he could argue, the second card began to glow—brighter, richer, humming softly like it had its own theme music. Gold light bled from its edges.
Christopher’s eyes widened. “Okay, that one’s glowing like it’s about to offer me a kingdom or stab me in a cutscene.”
Even the Guide seemed reverent.
**“That… is a Legendary.”**
He reached out slowly. His fingers brushed the surface—and warmth pulsed up his arm like reverent static. He flipped it.
---
> **Skill Card: Helpless Rookie Revival**
> **Rarity:** Golden – Legendary
> **Type:** Passive
> **Keywords:** Resurrection, Legacy
>
> **Rule Text:** If you die before reaching Level 11, you will automatically respawn at your point of death with a 50% experience penalty. This effect can trigger multiple times, but only before reaching Level 11. Once you level past 10, this card is removed and replaced with a lower-tier Legacy card chosen at random.
>
> **Flavor Text:** “Because let’s be honest, you’re probably going to need this… a lot. Don’t worry—even the best heroes had to start somewhere. Just not quite this low.”
---
Christopher blinked. “Wait. This… lets me die? Like, *die-die*? And come back?”
**“It would seem so,”** the Guide hummed. **“A multi-death fail-safe. Quite rare.”**
He frowned. “Let’s not call me expendable. Let’s go with… experimentally resilient.”
**“Statistically preferable phrasing,”** the Guide agreed. **“You’re essentially a beta-tester with respawns.”**
He ran a hand through his hair. “The system *expects* me to die. Repeatedly.”
**“Statistically speaking: yes. Often. Violently. And sometimes hilariously.”**
He groaned. “So I’m not a hero—I’m a crash test dummy.”
**“A resilient crash test dummy,”** the Guide clarified. **“With excellent brand synergy.”**
He flopped backward in his hovering seat, golden card pulsing gently in his hand.
“Pocket Sand and a death loop,” he muttered. Then chuckled. “This is either the start of a legend… or the longest-running gag in system history.”
**“Why not both?”** the Guide replied.
Before he could spiral too deep, the third card began to drift toward him—cool blue glow, pulsing softly like snowfall in slow motion. It hummed gently, like a whisper across language itself.
He caught it. It was *cold*. Smooth.
He flipped it.
---
> **Skill Card: Tongues of Babel**
> **Rarity:** Green – Uncommon
> **Type:** Passive
> **Keywords:** Language, Comprehension
>
> **Rule Text:** Grants full reading, writing, speaking, and comprehension of all spoken and written languages within the Delver System. Includes verbal dialects, regional scripts, telepathic impressions, and ancient glyph chains.
>
> **Flavor Text:** “Because ‘I don’t understand’ gets real old, real fast.”
---
“Wait… this lets me understand *everything?*” Christopher said, eyes wide.
**“An invaluable utility,”** the Guide agreed. **“Especially for a Delver statistically prone to mouthing off at the wrong people in the wrong tongue.”**
“So I’m functionally multilingual *forever?*”
**“Correct. You now possess the linguistics aptitude of a dimensional diplomat.”**
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
“…Still with the emotional maturity of a sentient Red Bull.”
**“Statistically accurate.”**
Christopher tucked the card behind the others with rare reverence. “Okay. That one feels legit. Like… *useful.* Respectable, even.”
**“Enjoy it while it lasts,”** the Guide warned.
One final card floated forward. No glow. No shimmer. Just matte white with a tiny backpack icon and the words *“Bless This Mess”* in comic sans energy.
He caught it, already suspicious.
“…Oh boy.”
He flipped it.
---
> **Skill Card: Beginner’s Burden Buffer**
> **Rarity:** White – Common
> **Type:** Passive
> **Keywords:** Encumbrance, Support, Humility
>
> **Rule Text:** Equip this card to activate a lazy-man’s loot vacuum. Any loose items within 5 feet are automatically absorbed into your limited spatial inventory.
> **Capacity:** Your current inventory cap.**
> *Note: Items removed from this card cannot be returned. Withdraw at your own risk.*
>
> **Flavor Text:** *"When moving house, just let everything disappear for now."*
---
Christopher stared.
“…Did the *card* just call me bad at organizing?”
**“It’s not an insult,”** the Guide said in that calm, HR-approved voice. **“It’s a corrective measure based on observed behavior.”**
“I lost one +4 sword in a Skyrim barrel *once.*”
**“You also carried 47 spools of copper wire, 3 types of ramen, and a microwave oven for six real-world hours in Fallout 76.”**
“That was a *side quest.*”
**“And now it is a cautionary tale.”**
He muttered something about digital betrayal and slotted the last card behind the others.
His first *loadout*, such as it was:
- A fistful of conjured sand
- A death insurance plan
- A universal translator
- And an interdimensional junk drawer that judges him
“…Yeah,” he muttered. “We’re off to a *great* start.”
Then his eyes narrowed at the last card still flickering faintly in his hand.
Wait…
His brow furrowed. His eyes flicked back to the **Beginner’s Burden Buffer**, parsing each line of the Rule Text again. Slowly. Carefully.
“…Wait. Is that what I think it means?”
The card hovered, innocently judgmental.
He tapped a finger against it.
“Guide,” he said slowly, “if this thing hoovers up *everything* within five feet the moment it’s equipped… could I, theoretically, fill an entire container with gear—tools, food, weapons, socks, you name it—stand next to it, and then equip the card?”
A pause.
Then, from the Guide:
**“That is... technically within the operational logic of the card, yes.”**
Christopher sat up straighter. “So I could *prepare a hoarder’s starter kit*—barrels, backpacks, bags of holding full of garbage and essentials—and as long as I stand next to them, slap this card into a slot, it’ll suck everything up into my spatial inventory?”
**“So long as you are within the radius at the moment of activation,”** the Guide confirmed, **“and the objects are not in another user’s possession, yes. The absorption is indiscriminate, immediate, and conveniently unmoderated.”**
He blinked. “So... this is a mobile loot nuke. A walking black hole. An anti-clutter bomb.”
**“That is one interpretation.”**
He turned slowly to the empty air beside him like it was a scheming accomplice.
“This is going to be *dangerous.*”
**“That is *also* one interpretation,”** the Guide said, voice just a shade too cheerful.
Christopher tapped the card against his palm thoughtfully.
“And there’s no return function. Anything I pull out is stuck in the real world, right? No putting it back inside once it's out?”
**“Correct. The card’s storage is one-way. It is designed to prevent abuse, duplication, and infinite hoarding scenarios.”**
“But I *could* preload ten crates of survival gear, drop them in a circle around me, and vacuum them all up the moment I activate the card…”
**“You could.”**
He grinned. “So I’m not just a raccoon with a loot pack—I’m a raccoon with a *summoning circle*.”
The Guide hesitated.
**“…That’s disturbingly accurate.”**
Christopher leaned back, still staring at the card.
"Okay... but what happens when I level up and get a better card? Like, if this one gets replaced? Do I get to transfer stuff over?"
**“Negative. Once a card is removed, its storage pocket collapses. All contents are immediately ejected into the nearest physical space. Preferably non-lethal.”**
“…So I could accidentally *dump my entire loadout* on top of myself if I un-equip this thing in a tight hallway.”
**“That is correct.”**
“…This card is *chaos with consequences.*”
**“Also correct.”**
He smirked, slipping it into the back of his floating deck. “Perfect. We’re gonna have *so much fun.*”
> **[Character Profile Locked]**
> All racial talents and legacy bonuses applied.
> Adaptive Growth Matrix activated.
>
> **Portal initialization sequence engaged.**
> **Estimated Transfer: 30 seconds.**
Christopher’s jaw dropped. “Wait, *wait*—portal?! Like *now* now?!”
He slapped the air in front of him like he could physically grab the HUD. “No countdown? No confirmation prompt?!”
> “You confirmed your profile. Transfer is the next step.”
“Hold on, *hold on*! Am I getting *Isekai’d*?! Is this how it happens? No warning, no suitcase, just poof—I wake up in a field full of anime waifus and slime monsters?!”
The Guide hesitated. That alone was terrifying.
> “Processing term: ‘Isekai’... Genre of Earth fiction involving sudden dimensional relocation. Often accompanied by overpowered skillsets and unresolved emotional trauma.”
Christopher stared, wide-eyed. “You’re not *denying* it.”
> “Your situation contains elements consistent with Isekai fiction. However, you retain partial contact with your origin point. A full severance is not currently in effect.”
“That’s not better!” he yelled, hands flailing. “Okay, new plan—*pause the portal.* Give me, like... twenty minutes. Or a day. A weekend. Something!”
> “Portal activation is part of the finalized integration process. Delays are nonstandard.”
Christopher pointed furiously at the glowing text. “Too bad! I still have laundry on the couch, rent due in four days, and a *cat meme folder* I haven’t backed up. I’m not crossing dimensions without getting my affairs in order!”
A pause.
> **[User Request: Preparation Delay]**
> **[Query Sent to System...]**
He held his breath as the portal’s hum grew louder—like a vacuum warming up to devour his entire life.
> **[System Response: Temporary Preparation Period Granted]**
> **Delay Timer: Indeterminate**
> **External variables may influence transition window.**
The portal shimmered—and then paused. Still active. Still terrifying. But waiting.
He collapsed into his chair with a groan of pure existential whiplash.
> “You have been granted time to prepare,” the Guide confirmed. “You will not be forcibly extracted—yet.”
“Thank *God*,” Christopher muttered, rubbing his face. “I need to, like… cancel my gym membership. Or at least ghost them properly.”
> “You may use this window to make logistical and emotional arrangements.”
“Oh good. Nothing like interdimensional travel with the added joy of filing a change-of-address form.”
He stared at his apartment—chaotic, cluttered, and suddenly... precious. His mess. His world.
And for the first time, it *felt* like he was about to lose it.
> “You are not being erased,” the Guide said gently. “You are transitioning. And you are not alone.”
Christopher laughed—dry, hollow. “Feels pretty alone from where I’m sitting.”
> “Incorrect. You will still be connected to the Delver's Den Network. Streaming access, communication, audience interaction—all preserved.”
He blinked. “Wait—people can still *watch* me?”
> “Correct. You remain a contracted creator with active viewership systems. You will be streaming *from* within the Delver System.”
"...So I'm going to be the world's first live-streamed Isekai protagonist?"
> “If you prefer that phrasing—yes.”
Christopher stared at the HUD, then sighed. “Well. Shit. Guess I better update my socials.”
He flopped into his chair with the grace of a man whose entire worldview had just been stapled to a firework and launched into low orbit.
“Just... give me a second,” he muttered, rubbing his face.
His eyes drifted toward the laptop on the corner of the desk—old, slightly scuffed, its charging cable doing a precarious loop around a coffee mug. Familiar. Grounding. He reached out and hit the power button.
The startup chime echoed through the apartment like a soft piano note in a cathedral. Something about it... calmed him. One last comforting noise from the world he knew.
Then the HUD blinked.
> **New Device Detected. Integrate Christopher’s Laptop into User Interface?**
> **Yes / No**
He raised an eyebrow. “Yo, Guide—this is probably the dumbest question I’ve asked all day, but... will I have Wi-Fi wherever I’m going?”
> “You will have access to the Delver System’s proprietary communication network. It supports real-time broadcasting, information access, and audience interaction.”
Christopher squinted. “You’re saying I can still stream... from *another world*?”
> “Correct. The network is interdimensional and independent of Earth-based infrastructure. Consistency is maintained through system-anchored relays.”
He leaned back, blinking at the ceiling. “So... magic Wi-Fi?”
> “A crude but not inaccurate description.”
A laugh escaped him—dry, disbelieving, but genuine. “Good. Because going off-world without internet? That’s where I draw the goddamn line.”
> “Understood. Would you like to integrate your laptop now?”
He hovered a finger over the glowing **Yes**.
“Might as well,” he said, mouth twitching into a crooked smile. “No sense half-assing the apocalypse.”
He tapped it.
The laptop flickered—screen stuttering, then stabilizing as soft glyphs scrolled along the edge like ripples on the surface of a lake. His HUD pulsed once, gently. A faint warmth crept into the base of his skull—not invasive, just... aware.
> **Device Integration Complete. Laptop Synced to User Interface.**
> “Your laptop is now fully integrated,” the Guide confirmed. “You may access files, stream, and communicate from any system-supported location.”
Christopher let out a long breath, eyes closing as he tilted his head back against the chair. “Okay,” he whispered. “At least I’m not going completely dark.”
The ceiling offered no comfort.
But the Guide did.
> “Correct. Now—shall we proceed?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, heart finally starting to settle into something resembling a rhythm. Then he cracked one eye open, squinting at the floating HUD.
"...Hey, Guide?"
> “Yes?”
“Can I get a link to my streaming profile? For Delver’s Den. I want to post it. Discord, Twitter, the works. Keep it vague, no spoilers. Just... let people know something’s coming.”
A soft chime pulsed in his vision. A new notification unfolded in clean, simple text:
> **Delver’s Den Stream Profile Created**
> **Generating Shareable Link...**
Seconds later, a small URL materialized midair, glowing in soft blue light like a streamer’s bat signal.
> **[Delver’s Den Profile – Subscribe for Launch Notifications]**
> “There. You may distribute this freely,” the Guide said. “Once your stream goes live, your audience will receive real-time updates and access.”
Christopher smiled—small but real—and pulled out his phone. His fingers danced across the screen as he opened Discord, hovered for a moment... then dropped the link.
No caption. No context.
Just a single ping.
**@everyone — Something wild is coming. Watch this space.**
Then to Twitter.
> **Big things coming. New platform. New adventure.**
> **Stay tuned.**
> #DeathDiceAndDungeons #DelversDen
He watched the retweets trickle in almost immediately.
It felt... real. Still terrifying. Still insane. But *real*.
He lowered the phone and exhaled again, slower this time.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s get weird.”
> “Excellent,” the Guide replied. “Preparing next sequence...”
“Guide,” Christopher said slowly, still staring at the frozen portal icon pulsing quietly in the corner of his HUD, “can I get a ballpark on how long I’ve got? Just... guesstimate it for me. I need to prep.”
> “Current projected delay: **14 Earth days.** Subject to modification based on internal and external variables.”
“Two weeks…” He exhaled sharply. “That’s either not enough time or way too much to panic properly.”
> “You now possess sufficient time for basic resource organization, personal arrangements, and psychological stabilization.”
“I mean, *we’ll see* about that last one.”
He scratched at the side of his neck, still fidgeting, brain already spinning into lists and contingency plans. “Okay, so... what exactly *can* I bring?”
A soft *chime* rang in his HUD, and a new window unfolded—clean, minimal, and unnervingly bureaucratic:
> **[Delver Transfer Permissions]**
A checklist began unfurling, line by line, each one appearing with a soft digital *tick*:
? Clothing
? Electronics (e.g. laptop, phone, e-reader)
? Survival Gear (tools, knives, multitools, first-aid kits)
? Sentimental Items (photos, journals, small objects)
? Plants & Seeds *(Pending organic scan protocols)*
?? Weapons *(Subject to system compatibility)*
? Firearms
? Explosives
? Pets *(Pending organic scan protocols)*
? A Towel *(This line was added manually)*
He stared at the final entry.
“…Okay. Did you just Hitchhiker’s Guide me?”
> “Yes,” the Guide responded without a hint of irony.
> “Statistically, users who bring a towel survive **17%** longer.”
“That’s... weirdly specific.”
> “Correlation is not causation. But the trend is notable.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Great. So... clothes, tech, survival gear. Sentimental crap gets a pass. Weapons are a maybe. No guns, no bombs, no cats. But towels are *mandatory.*”
> “Correct. Towels are strongly encouraged.”
“Got it. I’ll add it to my pre-apocalypse checklist between ‘spare socks’ and ‘last decent burrito.’”
His heart rate hadn’t quite settled, but the part of his brain that lived in spreadsheets and Reddit survival forums kicked into gear. He yanked out his phone, pulling up his bank app with the speed of a man who’d checked his account far too often in the last few years.
One checking.
Two savings.
Three credit cards.
$2,173.49 in actual, usable money.
$23,490 in open credit.
He blew out a breath. “I’ve got... two grand of spending power, twenty three grand of credit on the cards, and maybe four weeks before creditors think I joined a cult in the woods.”
A notepad blinked open on the side of his HUD—intuitive, already categorized.
He started muttering as he typed:
- **MEDICAL SUPPLIES**
- **TOOLSET & METALWORKING**
- **FARMING SUPPLIES**
- **CLOTHING & CAMPING GEAR**
- **FOOD STORAGE**
- **ELECTRONICS & POWER**
- **SURVIVAL KIT**
He stared at the list for a second, then added:
- **EXISTENTIAL PANIC SNACKS**
“Because if I’m going to pack a shovel and antibiotics, I’m also bringing gummy worms and two jars of Nutella. I refuse to die in another dimension without *emotional carbs*.”
> “Acceptable.”
“Glad I’ve got your blessing.”
He folded his arms, leaning back from the floating list and glancing sidelong at the glowing transfer checklist again. “So what do you think, Guide? Too much? Not enough? Am I overpacking for the apocalypse?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then:
> “Your organizational efficiency has increased by **43%** since initial system exposure. Progress is noted.”
He blinked. “...Wait. Was that a compliment?”
> “No. It was data.”
“Huh.” He tapped the list, a little smirk forming. “Still felt like a compliment.”
> “That is a common side effect of positive reinforcement feedback loops. You are learning.”
He stared at the air for a second, unimpressed. “I am *being emotionally gaslit* by an overachieving spreadsheet.”
> “Incorrect. You are being **mentally optimized** by an adaptive survival AI preparing you for extradimensional insertion.”
“...Cool. I’ll just put that on my résumé between ‘Dungeon Master’ and ‘Accidentally Started a Riot at Gen Con.’”
His HUD pinged again as the to-do list saved itself to his task panel. A pulsing corner notification whispered, **“0/7 Completed. Please Begin.”**
He sat back, drumming his fingers on the desk.
This was real.
Two weeks.
One portal.
And the world’s most sarcastic GPS voice was telling him to pack for another reality.
He reached for his phone again. This time, not for banking apps or shopping lists.
Discord.
He opened the server—**Death, Dice & Dungeons**—and dropped straight into the general chat.
Then paused.
How do you even start this?
He frowned. Typed. Deleted. Reworded.
As soon as he hit send, Discord erupted like a mimic convention in a cutlery shop.
**TarnisPhoenix**:
**Hypothetical question, @everyone.**
If you were going to get Isekai’d in two weeks and could bring anything with you—
but **no guns**, **no explosives**, and **no pets**—
what would you pack?
Then, without missing a beat, he posted the “official list” that had been haunting his HUD:
> ? Clothing
> ? Electronics (e.g. laptop, phone, e-reader)
> ? Survival Gear (tools, knives, multitools, first-aid kits)
> ? Sentimental Items (photos, journals, small objects)
> ? Plants & Seeds *(Pending organic scan protocols)*
> ?? Weapons *(Subject to system compatibility)*
> ? Firearms
> ? Explosives
> ? Pets *(Pending organic scan protocols)*
> ? A Towel
**TarnisPhoenix**:
*Just playing around with something for /r/WritingPrompts. Nothing serious. Definitely not having a preemptive identity crisis.*
The server barely had time to process before the messages started flooding in.
---
**8Bit**:
*NOPE. I recognize this energy.*
*This is “chaos is coming and I’m lying about it” energy.
Same vibe as the cursed library dungeon but with more panic.*
**Gilly**:
*You put “towel” on the list.*
*If this ends with you riding a space llama into a wizard tower, I swear I’m not healing you.*
**Sargrom**:
*Be honest: Are you writing a campaign or planning to vanish into the woods with your dice collection?*
*Because either way, I want in.*
**GlidingEagle**:
*Still think this is chili dimension prep.*
*Bring heirloom seeds. Especially hot peppers. You'll miss flavor and/or destroy royalty with spice.*
**DionysusNero**:
*Bring duct tape.*
*Solar power is great but don’t forget wind turbines. Water wheels too if you find moving water.
And pack a *real* power bank. Like, the kind that charges a whole-ass house.*
**BaliLali**:
*Given your horrible ADHD, bring Adderall with those antibiotics.*
*Also electrolytes. No one wants to be the dehydrated chosen one.*
**Ozzy_YT**:
*pocket engineering reference guide.*
*Also: detailed field medical manuals. Especially ones that teach you how to synthesize penicillin and insulin from scratch.*
*You do *not* want to guess when someone’s dying of sepsis.*
**KaiNoSleep**:
*Bring a dirt bike.
No roads? No problem.
Also, you’ve always wanted an excuse to Mad Max your way through a goblin camp.*
**8Bit**:
*WAIT—can the bike run on biofuel?*
*Because if so, you're legally required to name it “Choppercorn.”*
**Gilly**:
*Also don't forget to bring books. Like *real* ones.*
*If you rely on your phone for everything, you’re one mana surge away from becoming a caveman with trust issues.*
**GlidingEagle**:
*Tactical spoon. I’ll die on this hill.*
*It feeds you *and* stabs the guy who tries to steal your soup.*
---
Christopher just sat there grinning like an idiot, watching his “totally hypothetical” thread mutate into a full-blown gear audit.
His HUD’s notepad pinged. He updated the title without even thinking:
> **"Operation Isekai Loadout: Streamer Edition (w/ ADHD Addendum)"**
The checklist was already growing.
- **Medical Supplies**
- **Toolset & Metalworking**
- **Farming Supplies**
- **Power Generation (Solar / Wind / Water)**
- **Camping Gear**
- **Food Storage & Cooking Gear**
- **Reference Materials**
- **Weapons & Weird Shit**
- **Snacks & Sanity Items**
- **Towel (non-negotiable)**
- **Dirt Bike??**
He didn’t confirm anything. Didn’t explain.
But as the server spiraled into memes, engineering diagrams, chili packet rankings, and arguments about whether *Nutella counts as a morale booster or a war crime*—Christopher sat back in his chair, looked at the slowly rotating portal icon in his HUD, and muttered:
“…Best writing prompt I’ll ever post.”
The night didn’t blur.
It **escalated**.
By midnight, the server was still lit with chaos. By 2AM, it had evolved into a full-blown Isekai logistics summit. And by 4:41AM, Christopher was cross-referencing forge supply chains, caloric density conversion tables, and Reddit threads titled *“If you had to rebuild civilization with a hoodie and trauma, what would you bring?”*
Discord hadn’t slept. Neither had he.
They were still going—posting, theorizing, correcting each other’s power ratios and debating whether a tactical spoon counted as both weapon and utensil (consensus: yes).
And his checklist? It had mutated into a **living spreadsheet of doom**—system-optimized, color-coded, and populated with enough weird prep ideas to impress a Dwarf Fortress speedrunner.
> **Christopher’s Isekai Loadout Master Sheet v5.2.1**
> *(Drafted: 04:41AM)*
The spreadsheet was growing sentient. Or maybe that was just the sleep deprivation.
But it was coming together—piece by chaotic piece.
---
**? CLOTHING (Projected: 15%)**
- Weatherproof layers, thermal base, cloaks (1 dramatic, 1 functional)
- Reinforced boots + sandals for camp use
- Armored gloves
- Sewing repair kit
- Sock count target: 14 pairs (Guide flagged “minimum threshold”)
- Safety goggles + scarf combo (Sargrom: “desert vibes”)
**? ELECTRONICS & POWER (Projected: 10%)**
- Laptop (already synced)
- Rugged e-reader (to load with field manuals & *trashy novels*)
- Research: **Bike crank generator**, **foldable wind turbine**, **compact hydro turbine**
- **Heavy-duty solar panel kit** (cost??)
- **House-grade power bank** (adds +50 lbs, probably worth it)
- Extra cables, converters, waterproof casings
**? MEDICAL SUPPLIES (Projected: 10%)**
- Trauma bag: gauze, chest seals, compression wraps
- Antibiotics, antifungals, antivirals
- Painkillers, antihistamines, epipens, caffeine pills
- **ADHD meds** (“DO NOT FORGET” – BaliLali, all caps)
- Electrolytes
- Field manuals: *Penicillin/Insulin DIY*, *Grim & Gross Wilderness Care*
**? TOOLSET & METALWORKING (Projected: 10%)**
- Multitools (standard + brutal)
- Compact forge kit (research options)
- Anvil?? (May need to be local-world sourced. Freight not viable.)
- Hammers, chisels, portable welding torch
- Ingot molds, collapsible vice
- Wire spool, duct tape, epoxy
- Bolt cutters + crowbar
- Pocket caliper (“for smug moments” — Ozzy_YT)
**? FOOD & MUSHROOMS (Projected: 10%)**
- MREs, freeze-dried meals, protein bars
- Chili packets, soy sauce, four hot sauces
- *Mushroom logs* (lion’s mane, oyster, shitake, and the likes...)
- Canning starter
- Collapsible pressure cooker
- Tactical spoon (Guide-approved)
- Nutella, peanut butter, hard candy
- “Existential Panic Snacks” → gummy worms (Costco bulk x3)
**? FARMING & SEEDS (Projected: 10%)**
- Heirloom seed bank: veg, herbs, tea, GlidingEagle’s peppers of doom
- Microgreens
- Soil additives
- Rooting hormones
- Solar grow panels (foldable)
- Backup mushroom tent (folds into a suitcase cube)
**? SHELTER & ENVIRONMENTAL (Projected: 10%)**
- Lightweight tent w/ thermal lining
- Tarp & mesh combo
- Sleeping bag, inflatable bedroll
- Research: portable wind + water turbines
- Camp stove, filters, biodegradable soap
- Firestarters, paracord, rain rigging supplies
**? BOOKS & KNOWLEDGE (Projected: 5%)**
- Engineering, chemistry, medicine, metallurgy, botany
- Blank notebooks, waterproof pens
- Earth maps
- *Calvin & Hobbes Collection* (“soul armor” — Gilly)
**? PERSONAL / COMFORT (Projected: 5%)**
- Family photos (scan & seal)
- Old DM notes
- Sketchpad + pencils
- Hoodie (sentimental AF)
- Weighted blanket
- Bluetooth speaker, lo-fi playlist
- Two towels
- One *exceptionally soft* towel (Guide added “bonus” tag + winking emote)
**?? COMPATIBILITY / MAYBE PILE**
- Foldable dirt bike (w/ toolkit + spare tubes)
- Drone (mod power for turbines)
- Barbarian-friendly axe
- Machete (collapsible)
- Fold-out forge bellows
- Beekeeping box (Dionysus: “future honey = future gold”)
---
The list pulsed softly on his HUD. Still a draft. Still absurd. Still growing.
But it was his.
Christopher hadn’t bought a single item. Not yet. But the framework was there. The bones of a ridiculous, over-engineered, probably-doomed survival plan.
And for once, he felt... focused.
His Discord crew had devolved into late-night chaos. Someone was composing a ballad about “The Spoon That Smote a Troll.” GlidingEagle and 8Bit were now deep into a debate about whether tactical chili qualified as a melee weapon or an area denial tool.
He watched them, sipping lukewarm coffee.
Then asked, without thinking:
> **TarnisPhoenix**:
> *Okay, so hypothetically—if you had to trade a set of tools for safe passage through a goblin toll bridge, what set are you offering?*
They answered instantly.
He smiled—just a little.
This wasn’t just prep anymore.
It was ritual.
It was focus.
It was **his** chaos, finally pointed in one direction.