> **Live Feed Enabled – Visual + Sensory Stream Active**
The overlay shimmered like the edges of a dream glitching in real time. Three familiar pings echoed across Christopher’s HUD like stage lights flaring to life.
> **[DionysusNero has joined Voice]**
> **[Sargrom has joined Voice]**
> **[GlidingEagle has joined Voice]**
“Yo!” Dionysus’s voice burst in, sounding like a caffeinated lumberjack who’d just wrestled a bear into a beekeeping suit. “Alright, what the hell is this? You trapped in a screensaver?”
“This looks like a Windows 98 background for people who meditate with DMT,” Sargrom muttered, dry as the Minnesota wind.
“Are those clouds? Is that static? Is that… *humming*?” GlidingEagle sounded fascinated. “Why is the void breathing? Bro, this looks expensive.”
Christopher smirked, floating in the endless digital abyss like a smug cult leader about to monologue at a TED Talk. “Gentlemen… welcome to the premiere episode of *Christopher Tries Not to Die in Another Dimension.*”
“Oh my god, it’s the NDA game,” Sargrom said, deadpan. “This is it. You *actually* got in, didn’t you?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Christopher said with mock solemnity, “but hypothetically, if this were an ultra-secret project wrapped in enough CGI and legal threats to bankrupt Netflix—yes.”
Dionysus whistled. “Damn. Delver’s Den really throwing down with the promo budget. You hire ILM for this?”
GlidingEagle laughed. “I saw your prep stream last night. Don’t think we missed you feeding an *anvil* into your card like it was a Pokemon move.”
“It was beautiful,” Dionysus added. “The fridge too. Like watching Marie Kondo fight a black hole.”
“You guys are just mad I figured out how to beat Skyrim inventory physics with ADHD and a summoning circle made of Tupperware,” Christopher quipped.
Then it hit.
A new voice—silky, feminine, and unsettlingly precise. Like Alexa had taken a weekend course in seductive customer service and PowerPoint foreplay.
> **“Finalizing character…”**
Christopher’s head snapped up. “Okay. That’s new. Guide, you hiring interns?”
> **“Please remain still. Baseline profile is stabilizing. Calculating inherited modifiers. Applying racial templates.”**
“...She sounds hot,” GlidingEagle said. “And vaguely like my therapist.”
“Bro, if your therapist talks like Cortana mixed with Siri, I got questions,” Sargrom muttered.
Christopher raised both eyebrows. “Okay. If I end up with a second AI, we’re calling it Clippy’s revenge. But if this turns into Cortana vs Jarvis, someone bring popcorn.”
“I’m just waiting for her to start asking for my credit score,” Dionysus added.
“You joke,” Christopher said, smirking. “But if she tries to upsell me on a stat booster pack, I swear to God—”
> **“Do not interrupt finalization.”**
All three of his friends paused.
“…Wait,” GlidingEagle said slowly, “is she talking to *us* or *you*?”
“Pretty sure that was directed at me,” Christopher replied.
Then grinned at the camera like a raccoon caught stealing data cables.
“Either way… this just got real.”
The void pulsed like it heard him.
And then, with a sound like windchimes processed through a synthesizer, his stat sheet unfolded in front of him—etched in glowing runes and ultra-clean UI lines.
A pane of translucent crystal hovered midair, spinning gently as the data finalized.
---
> **[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]…
>
> **Visibility:** PRIVATE (Local View Only)
> **Classification:** Subject Zero – Anomaly Detected
>
> **System Note:** Additional review pending. Proceed with caution.
---
“Wait...” DionysusNero’s voice squinted. “Is that your stat sheet? Are we *in* character creation right now?”
“I feel like we’re not supposed to be seeing this,” Sargrom said.
GlidingEagle laughed. “Bro, you’re leaking classified anime energy. This is full-on character customization mode. Can you edit stuff?”
Christopher squinted at the stat panel, zeroed in on the detail that suddenly felt way too editable.
> **Age: 35 (+)**
A tiny, glowing plus sign blinked beside it like it was taunting him.
His eyebrow twitched. “Wait... I can *edit* this?”
The Discord channel went *dead* quiet.
Sargrom spoke first. Slowly. Deliberately. “Don’t.”
“I know that look,” he continued. “That’s your ‘what if I make bad life choices *on purpose*’ face.”
“Too late,” DionysusNero groaned. “We’re in it now. Send it.”
GlidingEagle’s grin was practically audible. “Ohhh, this is gonna be good. Do it. Whatever it is—do it. We believe in you, chaos child.”
Christopher stared at the [+] like it was the big red button on a nuclear sub—mysterious, glowing, and absolutely not designed for self-control.
“Sargrom… guys… I have a stupid idea.”
“Uh oh,” Sargrom muttered. “That’s how horror movies start.”
“You had *better not* be about to poke something with cosmic consequences,” Dionysus added. “You remember what happened the last time you installed a ‘free skin’ mod.”
GlidingEagle leaned in like he was physically at his keyboard. “Click it. Channel the gremlin. We demand content.”
Christopher tapped the [+].
The number blinked. Then morphed.
A dropdown unfurled like a curtain being pulled back on a bad decision.
18 through 99.
He scrolled. Scrolled past the reasonable. Past the sensible.
Clicked:
> **Age: 18**
He stared at it.
“God forgive me,” he whispered, “I wanna see what happens when I crank the dumb dial.”
A single glowing button appeared beneath the dropdown:
> **[Apply]**
No warning. No confirmation box. Not even an “are you *sure*, you disaster-prone ferret?”
Just pure, silent complicity.
He clicked it.
> **Applying age modification…**
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
**CRACK.**
His spine *screamed.* Tendons snapped like cello strings being tuned by a chainsaw.
“OH GOD WHY DOES THIS *HURT?!*” Christopher howled, his voice punching straight through his Discord mic at *max gain*.
“Jesus Christ—” Sargrom recoiled in real-time. “Is that *his voice?*”
“What the *hell* was that?!” Dionysus shouted. “It sounded like someone just crushed a soda can full of cartilage!”
GlidingEagle’s mic cracked with static from laughing too hard. “HE’S FOLDING LIKE A LAWN CHAIR! THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
On screen—*their screen*—Christopher’s feed warped.
The Discord overlay *shimmered*, then *snapped* into a totally new layout.
A third-person character creation model rotated slowly, surrounded by UI sliders and glowing cosmetic fields. Skin tone. Height. Hair options. Age. A glowing “AGE: 18” tag pulsed like a warning label.
“Wait—what the hell?” Dionysus yelped. “The *camera angle changed!* Did your feed just go full *Skyrim modded startup screen?!*”
“I CAN SEE HIS SPINE,” Sargrom yelled. “IS HE *WARPING?!*”
Back inside the void, Christopher screamed again, his voice cracking like a boy band dropout mid-puberty. His bones realigned *out loud*. Muscle and flesh crawled in reverse down his limbs. His jaw *snapped* audibly as it reshaped into something younger—and undeniably more *punchable.*
“MY KNEES FEEL AMAZING BUT ALSO LIKE THEY’VE NEVER KNOWN PAIN,” he shrieked. “WHY DOES MY STOMACH SOUND LIKE BUBBLEWRAP?!”
> *Snap-crack—TWIST—pop.*
His hips made a sound like someone crunching gravel in a microwave.
The Guide’s voice finally returned. Calm. Clinical.
> **“Age recalibration complete. You are now eighteen.”**
A cheery little *ding!* followed.
> **“Congratulations! Your knees no longer pop when you sit down, but your prefrontal cortex just took a minor downgrade. Use caution.”**
“WHY IS THE *FONT* SMUG?!” Christopher wailed, curled up in digital fetal position.
Sargrom couldn’t stop yelling. “YOU’RE *YOUNGER* BUT YOU SOUND LIKE YOU JUST LOST A FIGHT TO A BLENDER.”
Dionysus was swearing in French. “What the fuck is this rig?! Who designed this? *David Cronenberg?!*”
“Can we get a *rewind*?!” GlidingEagle cackled. “He just Benjamin-Buttoned *in stereo.* Someone clip that!”
The stat sheet refreshed.
---
> **Age: 18**
> **Biological Regression Modifier Applied**
> *Perk: Youthful Recklessness* – +5% to dodge chance when doing something incredibly stupid.
> *Penalty: Reduced Wisdom in social interactions with actual adults.*
---
“I *hate* this,” Christopher groaned, voice now noticeably higher. “I *feel* like a walking Mountain Dew commercial.”
“Welcome to puberty speedrun, Any%,” Sargrom muttered.
“This better come with a *free college refund,*” Dionysus added.
GlidingEagle was wheezing. “Dude. You got nerfed by nostalgia.”
Christopher, still half-curled in air, just muttered bitterly:
“…Worth it.”
The taunting glow of the stat sheet hadn’t even faded before the peanut gallery came for blood.
“*BRO YOU ACTUALLY DID IT?!*” Sargrom’s voice exploded through the headset like a concussion grenade made of disbelief.
“Your body made *noises,* man,” Dionysus choked out, caught somewhere between admiration and horror. “You rewound yourself like a bootleg VHS tape and I think I heard your *lungs re-situate.*”
GlidingEagle was fully feral. “DUDE. Your skin’s glowing like a K-pop idol and your voice just dropped *two years* off its tax bracket. This is the best episode of cursed Twitch I’ve ever seen.”
Christopher floated in the void like a guy who’d just faceplanted into a chalk outline of his own life choices. His body was still twitching slightly, like the hardware hadn’t caught up with the patch.
“New rule,” he groaned, voice half-broken, “never press [+] unless you're emotionally prepared to *relive puberty at 3x speed with system sound effects.*”
> **“Would you like to re-lock your age to prevent future tampering?”** the Guide asked, its tone suspiciously helpful.
“YES,” Christopher snapped, without a shred of hesitation.
> **[Age: 18 – Locked]**
> **Decision finalized. Biological regression sealed.**
He exhaled. Hard. “Great. I’m now legally a system-certified adult with the decision-making skills of a sleep-deprived college freshman.”
> **“Statistically accurate,”** the Guide purred, the voice of a smug AI stretching across a sunbeam of superiority.
Christopher dragged a hand down his now smooth, vaguely glowing face and mumbled, “…I need an adult.”
“You *are* one,” Sargrom, Dionysus, and the Guide replied in *perfect* synchronization.
He floated there, emotionally damaged and digitized.
“God this game has no chill.”
> **“Correction,”** the Guide said smoothly, *utterly* unbothered. **“You have no chill. The system is simply matching pace.”**
Christopher groaned. He flicked his gaze back to the stat sheet.
Strength: 3.
Spirit: still garbage.
Age: now locked at *“young and dumb.”*
Then—
> **Gender: Male (+)**
He blinked.
Tilted his head.
Squinted.
“…Oh *no*,” he said, slowly grinning like a raccoon who just found the snack drawer labeled *‘Do Not Touch.’*
“What. Did. You. Find,” Sargrom asked like a man preparing to file a friendship insurance claim.
“I think…” Christopher said, voice practically vibrating with chaotic anticipation, “…I found the gender modifier.”
“Nope.” Sargrom again, louder now. “*Don’t you dare.*”
“Oh no,” Dionysus muttered. “We’re two keystrokes away from *Reincarnated as a Waifu in the Backrooms: The Game.*”
“DO IT,” GlidingEagle screamed, absolutely unhinged. “DOOO IT.”
Christopher tapped the [+].
The dropdown *slid* open like it was hiding secrets no mortal should access:
> Male
> Female
> Custom
No music. No lighting effect. Just pure, understated power waiting for its next victim.
“I mean… we’re already in the cosmic void,” Christopher said innocently. “Might as well test the *gender engine.*”
“Chris. Chrissy. Christabella. *Please don’t*,” Sargrom begged.
“I believe in this timeline,” GlidingEagle countered. “Let’s gooo!”
Christopher selected **Female**.
> **Gender Change: Queued. Apply changes?**
>
> [Yes] [No]
He hovered. Smiled. Whispered like a warlock casting a forbidden spell:
“Alright, boys. Buckle the hell up.”
He hit **Apply**.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then—
**AGONY.**
“OH *FUUUUU—*”
His scream cut off as his throat *snapped*, pitch rising like a *dying modem* midway through puberty.
Bones twisted like they were being *un-cooked*. Tendons *shrieked*. His body arched violently in the air, joints popping as if time itself was pressing **undo** on testosterone.
“GHHHHAA—*aaaAAAHHH—oh fuck oh *shit*—MY HIPS ARE ARGUING WITH EACH OTHER!!”
Mid-scream, his voice *fractured*, cracking hard into a higher pitch that squeaked out like a terrified anime protagonist on helium.
“Oh my god,” Sargrom whispered in horror. “He’s *transforming live.*”
“I think he just broke three octaves,” Dionysus gasped.
“He’s *genderscreaming!*” GlidingEagle was *cackling*. “I love this. I hate this. This is beautiful. I need another therapy session after this.”
A wave of *heat* rolled off Christopher’s body—intense, burning, not fire but *reformatting*. His bones reshaped. His waist *cinched*. His chest *compressed* then *flared*, like a regretful 3D printer adjusting mid-job. His center of gravity *spun*. Every muscle rewired like a corrupted Blender rig finding God.
He wheezed. “WHY DO I *HAVE HIPS?!* WHO NEEDS *BALANCE?!*”
His throat constricted—then relaxed with a smoothness that felt disturbingly *intentional*.
Everything *recalibrated*. Skin prickled. Muscles realigned.
Then—
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
> **Reconfiguration Complete.**
> **[Gender: Female]**
> *System Note: Vocal profile and internal schematics updated. No gameplay penalties detected.*
> *Hormonal acclimation modifier applied. Mood volatility: +20%. Sarcasm threshold: Unchanged.*
> *New customization options unlocked.*
Christopher floated there, still panting, the chaos just starting to settle.
Then, in a voice that was undeniably hers—smooth, sharp, and *just slightly dangerous*:
“…I *hate* how well that worked.”
Sargrom was quiet.
Then:
“…You sound like the kind of NPC who joins the party late but has a hidden subclass that turns the final boss into pudding.”
“Oh no, *I’m simping,*” GlidingEagle said dramatically. “Quick! Someone roll for charisma saving throw!”
“Goddammit,” Dionysus muttered. “I’m too old for this anime bullshit.”
Christopher—now Chrissy, now whatever—just floated in the void with new hips, new hair physics, and a HUD that had the *nerve* to sparkle like she’d unlocked a dress-up DLC.
She exhaled through her nose.
Then smiled faintly.
“…Next time,” she said, voice velvet-wrapped razorblades, “I’m reading the patch notes *first.*”
The air hadn’t even stopped shimmering when a new prompt pulsed into being:
> **New options unlocked in customization menu.**
> Would you like to lock this configuration or continue exploring identity presets?
Christopher—no, she wasn’t ready to give up the name just yet—stared at the glowing prompt like it had just insulted her hoodie.
She was still hovering in the post-shift afterglow of panic, her voice an octave lighter, body unfamiliar in twenty places, and the ambient ache of *being redesigned* settling like lactic acid into her joints.
Her lips parted. “…Let’s… let’s *not* lock anything just yet.”
“Smart,” Dionysus muttered. “Always preview before you commit to the new save file.”
Sargrom still sounded like he was rebooting. “You—you gender-swapped mid-character creation. On stream. In front of a hundred people. While screaming like your skeleton was being filed down with a belt sander.”
“I’ve got regrets in my teeth,” she muttered, wincing as she tried to roll her shoulders. “They clicked. That’s not normal.”
GlidingEagle was clapping. “It was majestic. The scream? The mid-shift pitch crack? Poetry. Absolute poetry. This is your viral moment.”
Christopher groaned, flicked her eyes back to the stat sheet like a woman scouring a credit card statement after a drunken Etsy binge, and muttered, “Fine. Let’s see what damage we’ve done.”
> **Gender: Female (+)**
>
> *New customization options available.*
Her gaze snagged on the glowing **[+ Customize Appearance]** tab pulsing at the bottom.
“…Oh no,” she whispered. “That’s never good.”
She hovered.
Paused.
“Please don’t,” Dionysus said, suddenly serious. “You *barely survived puberty 2.0*. Don’t push the patch.”
“Push it,” GlidingEagle chanted. “You owe it to science. For journalism.”
Sargrom sighed. “This is how cursed waifus are born.”
She tapped it.
The void rippled like a stone dropped in a cosmic koi pond. A *massive* customization panel unfolded with a whoosh of air and UI shimmer that screamed *premium cosmetics tab in a mobile gacha game*.
And there, floating in front of her, was a *fully rendered*, slowly rotating 3D model of herself.
High-res. Anatomically accurate. Real-time cloth physics. Hair catching invisible light like an RPG character in a cutscene.
She stared.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. “I’m in a K-pop dream sequence.”
Sargrom coughed. “Oh my god. It’s character creator roulette.”
“No. No, it’s *fashion isekai* now,” Dionysus added. “This is how VTubers are made.”
The options bloomed like a cursed flower garden.
---
**Sliders:**
- Hair Length
- Skin Tone
- Eye Shape
- Voice Timbre
- Muscle Density
- Lip Fullness
- Ear Sharpness (??)
- Tail Toggle (???)
---
And then, further down:
---
> **Breast Size**
> **Nipple Type** *(Dropdown…)*
> **Jiggle Physics** – *[Soft / Medium / Anime]*
> **Waist-to-Hip Ratio**
> **Buttock Volume**
> **Hip Sway Multiplier**
> **Thigh Gap Intensity**
> **Vulva Detail (Advanced View)**
---
She froze.
“…This is... a lot.”
The Guide’s voice drifted in, serene as always.
**“Customization depth was requested by 97.3% of testers in prior realms. These presets reflect accumulated player engagement data.”**
GlidingEagle was wheezing. “This is *deeply* player engagement coded. Bro—wait—do we have *tail options?* There are *tail options?* What genre is this?!”
“I can’t breathe,” Dionysus muttered. “The *Jiggle Physics* menu has a dropdown. It’s not a slider. It’s a *commitment.*”
Sargrom sounded like he was losing his will to live. “Is that a *Hip Sway Multiplier*? With decimals?!”
Christopher stared at the number beside it: 1.0.
Then noticed the max value.
“Three point five,” she read aloud. Then added, “That’s not a multiplier, that’s a *declaration of war.*”
“I swear to god,” Dionysus whispered. “If you become a magical girl with max sway, I’m calling your mom.”
She instinctively tugged at her hoodie—then froze mid-motion.
Her eyes dropped.
Paused.
Stared.
Very softly, very flatly, she whispered, “…I have tits.”
There was a long beat of silence.
“You *looked,*” Sargrom said.
“She peeked,” Dionysus gasped.
GlidingEagle was openly laughing now. “Can we get that on a shirt? No wait, better—make it your new stream alert. ‘*I HAVE TITS*—Welcome to the chaos!’”
She didn’t even blink. Still staring downward.
“They’re... symmetrical,” she muttered. “Like... uncomfortably well-rendered.”
“Check the Nipple Type dropdown,” GlidingEagle encouraged like a man trying to tip a cow for science.
“No!” she snapped.
Then hovered her finger over it anyway.
Paused.
“…Do I dare?”
The Guide chimed in again, voice smooth and unhelpfully serene:
**“This customization interface includes 437 primary permutations, not including hybrid features, active dynamics, and environmental response overlays. Would you like to enable Safe Mode?”**
She looked at the list again.
> *Bounciness Matrix*
> *Heat Mapping Subroutines*
> *Moisture Response Logic (Experimental)*
> *Clothing Interference Physics: Enabled*
Then glanced at her live camera feed, which was still broadcasting to her **Delver’s Den stream**—*and climbing*. Fast.
> **Viewers: 117**
> **Chat: ??????????????**
“…I’m live. I’m doing all this *on stream,*” she whispered, eyes wide with horror. “There’s probably a clip already. I’m probably *already a meme.*”
> **Clip Name: “Character Creator Goes Too Far ???????? #DelversDen #TarnisTranscends”**
“…Guide,” she said, voice dangerously low. “Enable Safe Mode.”
> **Safe Mode enabled. Restricting visibility to PG-rated appearance sliders.**
> **Returning to default female configuration. Custom changes not saved.**
The panel collapsed with a soft *whoosh*, the void around her settling into something marginally less mortifying.
She floated there, arms crossed tightly under her now-confirmed new assets, face somewhere between *emotional meltdown* and *streamer trauma blackout*.
“I hate everything,” she said. “Including you, Guide.”
> **“Affection logged,”** the Guide replied sweetly.
She turned her head just enough to glare into her Discord overlay.
“Not one of you clipped that, right?”
Sargrom coughed. “...Define ‘clipped.’”
Dionysus: “Let’s not lie to each other.”
GlidingEagle: “Girl. I’m uploading it to *two* TikToks. And the thumbnail is just your shocked face mid-*I have tits.*”
Christopher didn’t even try to stop it. She just sank lower in her hover field, one arm flopped dramatically over her face.
“Uncharted territory,” she muttered. “Somewhere out there, the gods are watching… and unsubscribing.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“I just wanted to change my *age.* Now I’ve seen a dropdown menu labeled *‘labia shading.’* I need a shower. And a priest. And maybe a *user agreement lawyer.*”
She stared at the glowing sliders like they might bite her.
“Okay… okay…” she muttered, hands visibly trembling as she hovered back over the interface. “I’m gonna do something *incredibly stupid.*”
The **Jiggle Physics** setting pulsed innocently at *Medium*.
She squinted at it like it owed her money.
Then, with grim determination, slid it…
To **Anime**.
There was no warning. No fanfare.
Just *physics*.
The moment she let go, the model in front of her began to oscillate. Not bounce. Not jiggle.
*Oscillate.*
It was like someone had enabled *soft-body chaos mode* in a modded JRPG and forgotten to include shame.
Her digital chest moved in waves—soft, reverent, and *utterly divorced* from Newton, gravity, or God.
And it just... kept going.
Five full seconds. Still rippling.
Christopher choked on her own snort, cough-laughing into her hands. “Oh my *god.* I just invented seismic side quests.”
“THAT’S NOT JIGGLE,” Dionysus shouted. “That’s *tsunami.*”
“Those aren’t breasts, those are ballistic pendulums,” Sargrom wheezed. “You could solve climate change with that kinetic energy.”
But she wasn’t done. Of course she wasn’t.
Her gaze slid downward.
> **Breast Size: 34%**
The slider practically dared her.
She grinned.
And *slammed* it.
> **Size: 100% (Warning: May affect balance)**
> [Apply]
“Apply,” she whispered, like someone who’d just pulled the pin on a glitter grenade.
Then everything happened at once.
---
*THWUMP.*
Her center of gravity *shifted*. No—*lunged*. Her chest yanked her forward like she’d just body-checked herself with a pair of over-inflated beanbags strapped to her ribcage.
Her spine *arched*.
Her arms *flailed*.
And the sound her back made?
It was the auditory equivalent of a tree snapping in half during a storm.
“OH *GOD*! MY SPINE!” she shrieked, limbs pinwheeling as she floated like a ragdoll in zero-G. Her chest jiggled like someone had enabled *debug mode* on the entire torso and forgotten to cap the framerate.
The Guide chimed in—exactly one second too late.
> **“Warning: Mass distribution altered. Posture penalty applied. Recommend rebalancing loadout.”**
“*YOU THINK?!*” she roared, clutching her lumbar like a retired MMA fighter. “I’ve got *two memory foam mattresses* strapped to my *sternum!* I’m gonna need a forklift to stand up straight!”
Sargrom had fully lost it. “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!”
“I was thinking... *what if more?!*” she screamed, spinning helplessly.
GlidingEagle was shrieking with joy. “This is the greatest character creation stream *in history.* The physics engine is *crying!*”
Dionysus was sobbing with laughter. “You don’t need a party healer—you need a chiropractor and a *load-bearing enchantment!*”
She rotated mid-air.
The *bounce lagged behind her* like a separate entity, trailing her movement like it was trying to catch up in real time.
The sway was independent. Alive. It jiggled with the confidence of a woman in a shampoo commercial *and* the menace of a wrecking ball.
Christopher’s expression contorted into pure horror. “I broke the *universe.* If I fight like this, I’ll accidentally knock out three party members *per dodge roll.*”
> **“Would you like to activate Support Harness Mode?”** the Guide asked sweetly.
“I’d like to activate a *time machine* so I can go back and slap myself,” she hissed. “I was *one scroll away* from being reasonable!”
Another chime appeared:
> **Would you like to keep changes?**
> [Yes]?[No]?[God Help Me]
She stared.
Then *slammed* [No] like it was a panic button at an OSHA violation.
Instantly, the weight lifted.
The bounce stopped.
Her spine whispered a soft, blessed *thank you* into the void.
She sagged in place like a woman released from a sentient bra made of lead and regret.
“No more sliders,” she muttered, rubbing her lower back. “Sliders are *cursed.*”
She floated there, exhausted, wobbling like she’d just survived interpretive dance combat. Her arms hugged her chest like they were shielding her from future trauma.
“No more sliders,” she said again, weaker this time. “Promise.”
---
On Discord, Dionysus was *losing it.*
“*Sargrom, clip that,*” he howled. “The second she hit apply—bro, I *heard* her spine give up on life.”
“Oh I got it,” Sargrom croaked. “Timestamp 13:37. That was the sound of vertebrae handing in their resignation.”
GlidingEagle was practically vibrating. “I *swear to god,* you better call that clip *‘The Great Boobening.’* I’ll pay for the t-shirts.”
Christopher wasn’t wearing a headset, but their voices rang in her skull like divine punishment. It was like God had assigned her *three sarcastic spirit guides* and given them direct neural access.
Then she paused.
Frowned.
“…Wait,” she whispered. “What happens if I switch *back* now?”
> [Gender: Female (+)]
She tapped the **Gender** field.
Selected **Male**.
Hit **Apply.**
The rush returned—but gentler. Less like a transformation, more like *snapping back into Default Dumbass Mode?.*
Her limbs bulked. Her frame broadened. The weight vanished. Her shirt hung looser again, the curvature of her chest receding like a bad VR filter being turned off.
The symmetry was gone. The bounce—replaced with deadpan stillness. A strange calm settled into her bones.
Christopher looked down.
Patted his now-flat chest.
Stared into the distance.
Then muttered:
“…I *miss them.*”
He flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck with a series of satisfying pops that echoed through the void like warning shots from the god of bad ideas.
“Whew,” he muttered, voice dropping back to its familiar register. “Welcome back to the meat locker.”
His eyes flicked toward the **Customize Appearance** tab.
Still glowing.
Still alive.
Still whispering: *you up?*
“…Wait. I get *sliders* as a dude too?”
The Guide didn’t answer. It didn’t have to.
So of course, he tapped it.
The panel unfurled in front of him like the UI equivalent of Pandora’s Box. The model spun into view—male-bodied now, shirtless, neutral, rotating like it was being prepped for a cursed character mod showcase.
At first? Harmless. Tasteful.
Hair density. Jawline. Shoulder width. Muscle definition. Calf symmetry.
Then—
> **Penis Size**
> *Slider Range:* [Modest] – [Average] – [Towering Insecurity] – [Third Leg]
He blinked.
Hard.
“…Oh my *God.*”
His mouth went dry. His soul left the building.
“Who *coded* this?” he whispered. “And why does *Third Leg* sound like a B-movie title and a medical emergency?”
“CHRIS,” Sargrom bellowed. “I *know* that silence. Do not—*I repeat*—do *not.*”
Dionysus sighed so hard it came with an emotional wheeze. “This whole UI feels like it was designed by an unsupervised Discord mod on Monster Energy.”
“Third Leg,” GlidingEagle said reverently. “For the culture. For science. For future generations.”
Christopher said nothing.
Just… reached forward.
And with the grim determination of a man about to lie to himself, he dragged the slider all the way to the end.
> **[Third Leg] Selected.**
> [Apply]
Tap.
The interface pulsed.
The void *thumped*.
His legs *shifted*.
His knees *questioned the terms of service.*
He looked down.
His eyes widened.
Then *widened more.*
The air changed.
Gravity hesitated.
“…oh my *God.*”
> **“Warning,”** the Guide reported calmly,
> **“You have exceeded the recommended length-to-thigh ratio. Running, rolling, or any form of aggressive dancing may cause blunt trauma.”**
A second voice, female and deeply unhelpful, followed:
> **“System Note: Congratulations. You are now statistically incompatible with 94% of fantasy armor codpieces.”**
Christopher clutched his face like he was trying to unsummon himself.
“I didn’t *want* this! I just—I was *curious!*”
“Bro,” Sargrom wheezed, “you look like you’re smuggling a *bard.*”
“Why does it *cast a shadow?!*” Dionysus shrieked.
“NEW TITLE UNLOCKED!” GlidingEagle cackled. “*Weaponized Insecurity!* I’m printing that on a hoodie.”
Panicking, Christopher slammed the slider back to **[Average]**, hitting **Apply** like he was defusing a cursed relic.
The model adjusted. Equilibrium returned.
The shadow? Diminished.
Crisis: mostly averted.
He sagged in place, arms limp, breathing like a man who’d just lived through a transformation montage directed by Michael Bay.
“Okay,” he wheezed. “*Now* we’re done. No more sliders. No more upgrades. No more... *anatomical overreach.*”
> **Would you like to save this configuration as a Preset?**
> [Yes]?[No]?[*NO.*]
He slapped *No* like it owed him child support.
But just as he was about to close the menu, his gaze drifted.
Back to the slider.
It sat at **[Average]**, calm, unassuming.
He bit his lip.
Then—gently—nudged it just a *little* to the right.
Not to Third Leg.
Not even to Towering Insecurity.
Just… *confidently above average.*
> [Apply]
The model shimmered.
No fanfare. No trumpet blast.
Just the faintest sense of... *personal improvement.*
He exhaled slowly, straightened up like nothing had happened, and *definitely* didn’t make eye contact with the digital reflection.
> **Configuration updated. Slight adjustment recorded.**
> **Statistical metadata modified. Flirtation compatibility: +2%**
“*WHAT?!*” he yelped, whirling toward the HUD like it just doxxed him on stream.
Sargrom's voice cracked through his mental feed like a lightning bolt. “HE *DID* IT! HE *ACTUALLY* LEFT THE BUFF!”
“You *stealth-buffed your junk,* bro!” Dionysus groaned, both impressed and horrified. “You didn’t *reset*, you *refined!*”
GlidingEagle was howling. “A *dongpatch.* Live. Midstream. Canonized.”
> **Clip Saved: “The Courtesy Tweak – TarnisPhoenix Buffs With Dishonor”**
> Tags: #StreamerRegrets #MidstreamBuff #DelversDen #SmallBuffBigChaos
Christopher floated there in the void, arms folded, lips tight.
He said nothing.
He didn’t have to.
The silence was *guilty.*
Only one setting blinked at the bottom of the stat sheet:
> **Age: 18 (Locked)**
That? That was noble.
Everything else—the sliders, the chaos, the physics-enabled sins?
He would carry that burden.
Quietly.
Forever.
Maybe even proudly.
“I hate all of you,” he muttered, voice flat.
Sargrom: “You *buffed* your dick. You did this.”
Dionysus: “And you *broadcasted it.*”
GlidingEagle: “This is what peak character creation looks like. Clip it. Ship it. Frame it.”
Christopher sighed.
“Guide,” he said weakly.
> “Yes?”
“…Are we *finally* done?”
> “Just one more step.”
His HUD blinked.
> **Initializing Final Class Selection…**
> **Preparing Portal Interface…**
The void pulsed.
And everything began to shift.
For a long moment, he just floated there.
No snark. No twitch. No sliders.
Just him. And the softly glowing number beneath his name.
> **Age: 18 (Locked)**
Then, quietly:
“Hey, Guide?” he asked, voice softer now. Uncertain. “Wait… is this real? You’re seriously letting me *de-age*?”
There was a pause.
But not technical. Not buffering.
It was *thoughtful*.
Measured.
When the Guide finally responded, its voice had that smooth, impossibly even cadence that made it all the more unsettling.
> **“Biological age within the Delver System is determined by mental elasticity, cognitive rhythm, and emotional durability. You selected a younger framework—your neural pathways adjusted accordingly. The change is structurally sound.”**
Christopher blinked. His breath hitched—barely.
“So… it’s not just cosmetic? I’m not *pretending* to be 18?”
> **“Correct. You are, in measurable ways, neurologically and biologically younger. You retain memory cohesion and personality consistency, but your physical and cognitive baseline now reflects your chosen age.”**
He drifted there in silence, brain buffering more than any server lag ever had.
“…And you’re okay with that?” he asked, quieter this time.
> **“The system is designed for adaptive embodiment. You chose youth. The system accepted your choice.”**
He stared at the empty air like it might blink back.
“Right. Because obviously a rogue-lite RPG progression system with *interdimensional reach* should be allowed to just—*rebuild me.*”
No response.
No denial.
Only silence.
He let out a low breath, almost a laugh—breathless and a little wild.
“Huh. You’d think hitting rewind on my entire *biology* would feel weirder.”
> **“You were always inclined toward regression when presented with unstructured freedom.”**
He frowned. “Was that a *dig*?”
> **“Observation.”**
He snorted. “Cool. Glad to know the omniscient AI thinks I’m emotionally twelve.”
His body, though? Felt... right.
The kind of right that was dangerous. Addictive.
No stiffness in his lower back. No static in his joints. No weight of years in his shoulders. His breath came easier. Vision clearer. His heart beat like it hadn’t been clogged by four years of takeout and panic.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m eighteen again. My spine works. My jawline came back. I haven’t embarrassed myself in a shirtless selfie *yet*. And apparently, my greatest enemy is the customization tab.”
From inside his head, Dionysus muttered, “The sliders were your final boss and you still wiped.”
“Shut *up*,” Christopher said, grinning despite himself.
His eyes landed again on the age display.
Still.
Bright.
Unmoving.
> **Age: 18 (Locked)**
He hovered for a moment longer. Letting it settle. Letting it *be real*.
No bounce physics. No sway. No cursed shadows. No cursed dong patch flashbacks. Just him—restored. Recalibrated. Slightly enhanced. Arguably upgraded.
He sighed and ran a hand through his freshly de-aged hair.
“Guide… can we lock it all in? No more tweaks. No more sliders. I’ve had enough trauma for one day.”
> **“Final confirmation requested. Proceed with character finalization?”**
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Please. For the love of caffeine and my last three functioning brain cells—just lock it in.”
A soft chime echoed through the void. The interface shimmered, content.
> **Configuration Locked.**
> No further changes permitted unless granted by System Override.
> Welcome, Delver Tarnis Phoenix.
He exhaled.
A long, shaky breath.
Then—
A full-body *shudder* hit him as a repressed memory clawed its way to the surface.
“…God. The Third Leg…” he whispered, haunted. “It reminded me of the clown scene under the bed from *Scary Movie 2*…”
He visibly gagged.
“Oh *NO*,” Dionysus groaned. “Why would you *say* that?!”
Sargrom immediately broke. “I KNOW *EXACTLY* WHAT SCENE HE MEANS! The way it wraps around the neck—*oh my God!*”
GlidingEagle was wheezing. “You just unlocked a repressed memory I didn’t even know I had. I need therapy. I need a *scroll of forget.*”
“Why did it *cast a shadow?!*” Dion whispered again, voice cracked and hollow.
“I didn’t *mean* to awaken ancient horrors!” Christopher barked, scrubbing his face with both hands. “Okay. It’s done. It’s locked. I’m young again. I have a spine. My junk is proportional. I’m calling that a win.”
The interface pulsed.
Pleased.
Smug.
A little too self-satisfied.
Then—
The Guide’s voice returned. Crisp. Formal. Almost… *cheerful*.
> **“Now that character configuration has been finalized, you are hereby required to acknowledge the Delver System’s Post-Integration Risk Disclosure Agreement.”**
Christopher froze.
“…Wait. *What* agreement?”
The UI shimmered with slow, glacial menace.
Then unfurled downward like the *scroll bar of doom* on a tech startup’s Terms of Service page.
Line after line.
Clauses. Disclaimers. Latin.
It did *not* stop.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s legal *eldritch.*”
The Guide’s voice returned—but something had changed.
No longer the cold, clinical assistant.
Now it was *cheerful*.
*Over-caffeinated*.
The vocal embodiment of a freshly graduated law intern who just landed their first job in an office located three floors above a sealed hellmouth.
---
> **“By finalizing your Delver profile, you hereby waive all system liability in the event of total body dismemberment, disintegration, transmutation, exsanguination, spontaneous combustion, possession by extraplanar entities, or any afflictions defined under Clause 73-B as ‘worse than death.’”**
---
Christopher blinked.
“*Worse than*—what’s worse than *death?!*”
No answer.
Just the smile-in-a-voice cadence of someone clearly enjoying this too much.
---
> **“This includes but is not limited to: dimensional fragmentation, irreversible psychic looping, soul dilution, narrative redundancy, sudden musical numbers, uncontrolled mitosis, memory inversion, and the rare but statistically possible phenomenon known as ‘Existential Collapsing Limbo Spiral.’”**
---
“WHAT THE *FUCK* IS THAT SUDDEN MUSICAL NUMBERS ONE?!” Christopher shouted, recoiling like the terms of service had just reached out and licked his cheek.
> **“Clause 87-D: In the unlikely event of involuntary harmonized vocal outbursts, Delvers will not be held responsible for unintentional choreography, summoned backup dancers, or emotionally destabilizing ballads.”**
“That’s a *musical number* clause?!” he barked.
---
Sargrom’s voice detonated through his neural stream. “*Nah bro—* that’s too many syllables. If I can't pronounce it, I don’t want to *die* from it.”
“You ever read a disclaimer and feel it *judge* you?” Dionysus said, tone dry enough to peel paint.
GlidingEagle muttered, voice haunted, “*Narrative redundancy*. That’s the one that’s gonna haunt me. I can barely handle watching filler arcs, man.”
---
> **“Additionally,”** the Guide chirped, as if reading a brunch menu, **“the system is not responsible for any of the following: romantic entanglements, trauma bonding, NPC betrayals, spontaneous nemesis generation, the inconvenient timing of tragic backstories, or the weaponization of emotional vulnerability during high-stress combat scenarios.”**
---
“Oh come *on*,” Christopher groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “That’s just every anime *ever.*”
---
> **“All Delvers also waive the right to litigation in the event of becoming the subject of divine prophecy, magical cloning, cursed object attachment, inherited blood feuds, soul ejection due to dramatic irony, or memory recursion triggered by theme music.”**
---
Christopher’s jaw hung open. “That’s just... *plot.* That’s literally just plot.”
> **“Correct.”**
---
He scrolled.
The list just kept going.
- **Clause 141-C**: Reality decoupling.
- **Clause 92-A**: Reincarnation misrouting.
- **Clause 50-B**: Accidental villain arc.
- **Clause 118-G**: Forced participation in magical tournaments while emotionally compromised.
---
At the bottom, glowing like a trap disguised as consent:
> **Please say ‘I acknowledge’ to proceed.**
He stared.
Stared longer.
Then slumped in quiet, spiritual surrender.
“…I acknowledge.”
---
> **Acknowledgment confirmed. Welcome, Delver. Please enjoy your stay. And remember: all trauma is final.**
---
He sat up slowly.
Eyes hollow.
“That’s not comforting.”
---
> **“It was not intended to be.”**
---
The massive legal scroll finally vanished—folded in on itself like a cursed PDF absorbed into the core of a dying star.
Christopher groaned and rolled his shoulders as the system recalibrated around him. His HUD flickered once, then stabilized—clean, intuitive, glowing just a little *too smug* for something that had almost given him hentai-induced spinal trauma.
He could feel it now: the interface settling over his perception like a neural veil.
Light. Responsive. Unreasonably elegant.
Like an Apple product, if Apple had partnered with *H.R. Giger and a contract demon*.
A soft glow outlined his vision, highlighting key markers—vision enhancements, threat assessment bars, stream integration, emotional state readouts (why?!), and—
God help him—**flirtation probability heatmaps.**
The Guide returned, voice now sliding back toward its usual cool professionalism—but not *quite* all the way.
> **“Now initiating system interface walkthrough…”**
---
> **[HUD OVERVIEW: Tarnis Phoenix]**
> ? **Left Panel**: Health, Stamina, Mana
> ? **Top Right Panel**: Active Buffs, Debuffs, and Ongoing Effects
> ? **Top Center**: Compass, Targeting Reticle, Environmental Data
> ? **Bottom Center**: Skill Quick Slots, Hotbar Configuration
> ? **Lower Left**: Party Chat / System Notifications
> ? **Lower Right**: Stream Overlay Sync / Viewer Interaction Tools
---
“Damn,” Christopher murmured under his breath, rotating slowly in the glowing blue haze of his finalized interface. “This is cleaner than half the AAA releases I’ve played.”
> **“System integration is optimized for clarity and rapid feedback,”** the Guide said, sounding suspiciously like it took pride in that.
> **“Your attention span demanded it.”**
“Okay, that’s fair,” Christopher muttered.
A flick of mental focus opened the settings menu. It blossomed into a slick, seamless interface—like someone fed Apple’s UI team a steady diet of hallucinogens and quantum processors.
Everything was there:
- Graphical fidelity sliders (with an optional *"Surreal Aesthetic" filter)
- Interface themes with toggles like *"Fantasy MMO"*, *"Clean Streamer Overlay"*, and *"Cosmic Horror"*
- Sound settings—including one ominously labeled **Sarcastic Bloop**
He hovered over that one.
“I swear if that’s your voice doing it, I’m uninstalling reality.”
The Guide made no comment.
But he could *feel* it judging him.
He scrolled lower.
Into **Gameplay Settings**.
That’s when he saw it.
Nestled near the bottom of the menu. Easy to miss.
> **No Experience Gain** – *[Toggle: Off]*
He squinted.
Paused.
Frowned.
“…Wait. What the hell is *this?*”
No tooltip.
No help icon.
No cheery voice prompt.
Just the toggle.
“Guide?” he asked, slowly. “Why is there a setting to *disable experience gain?*”
The silence that followed wasn’t technical.
It had *weight*.
Then:
> **“That setting exists for participants who wish to remain in a static narrative loop, preserve low-level conditions, or engage in challenge runs.”**
Christopher stared.
"So... there's a button that just... turns off leveling. *On purpose.*"
> **“Correct.”**
“Why?”
> **“Some Delvers seek mastery through repetition. Others fear growth. A few… do not wish to face what comes next.”**
That last part hit different.
It slid cold down his spine like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear.
He hovered his hand over the toggle.
Still off. Could be turned on.
He didn’t touch it.
Didn’t *dare*.
“…So it’s not just a ‘skip the grind’ switch,” he muttered. “It’s a ‘*plateau forever and die creatively*’ switch.”
> **“It is a tool for narrative control,”** the Guide explained calmly. **“Some Delvers choose to remain underpowered to increase tension, creativity, or immersion. Others wish to experience prolonged struggle without system interference.”**
“Or they’ve *completely lost their goddamn minds,*” Christopher snapped.
There was a pause.
Then:
> **“Some of them have, yes.”**
Dion’s voice cut in from his mind like a sniper. “Bro. This is like turning off XP in Skyrim because you think becoming *emotionally attached to potatoes* is immersive.”
“Or doing a level 1 run in Dark Souls on purpose,” Sargrom said grimly. “You *can*, but like… why would you? Who *hurt* you?”
“Hardcore Roleplayer Mode,” GlidingEagle added brightly. “You don’t get stronger. You just get *better at pain.*”
Christopher stared at the toggle like it was radioactive.
Then—just to be *absolutely* safe—he mentally slammed the door on it, nailed it shut, and threw the key into the nearest psychic volcano.
“Yyyyeah. We’re never touching that.”
The Guide said nothing.
But the option remained.
A quiet little invitation in a sea of settings.
Waiting.
---
As soon as the final HUD configuration locked in, the void *pulsed*—a rhythmic heartbeat of data and light that shuddered through his bones.
Panels slid into place with precision. Notifications flared to life like pop-up windows from another dimension.
Then—
> **[SYSTEM FINALIZED]**
> Welcome, Delver Tarnis Phoenix.
> **Origin**: Earthling – Subtype: Minnesotan
> **Designation**: Subject Zero – *First of Your Kind*
> **Status**: Fully Integrated
The air shimmered. A low, triumphant *clang* echoed across the void—equal parts startup chime and boss fight bell.
Dozens of translucent windows flickered across his vision:
> **Environment Detected: Delvers’ Den [Instance 00-Prime]**
> **Current Population: [REDACTED]**
> **Starting Inventory: Empty**
> **Legacy Title Effects Activated**
> **Jester’s Echo: Online**
> **Caffeine Goblin Mood Boost: Inactive**
> **Asshat: Visible Only to System**
“What the *hell* is 'Asshat'?!” he demanded, eyes flicking to the lower right corner.
> **“Internal debug title. System use only,”** the Guide replied, far too quickly. **“Not visible to audience.”**
“Yeah. That’s exactly what an *asshat* would say.”
The HUD flashed once more—clean, elegant, painfully responsive. Each corner of his vision now had a purpose. His health and stamina bars rippled subtly as his vitals stabilized. His mana flickered like the pilot light of a newly-installed power line.
Buffs, debuffs, and “Ongoing Emotional Mood Tags” populated the top-right with deeply unhelpful metrics like:
- *Residual Anxiety*
- *Streamer Fatigue*
- *Mild Confidence Inflation*
The compass at the top blinked faintly: [Calibration Pending].
A small reticle hovered in the center of his vision. Empty for now. Waiting to lock onto something unfortunate.
Hotbar slots stretched across the bottom center—five glowing rectangles labeled **EMPTY**, flickering faintly like they were hungry.
Lower left: a live party feed, showing his own name and status:
> **Tarnis Phoenix – [Online] – [Zero Trust / High Curiosity]**
Lower right:
> **Stream Overlay: Active**
> **Viewer Count: 174 and climbing**
> **Latency: 0ms (System-Native Stream Integration)**
> **Top Comment: “Bro is about to trip on his own UI.” – @DungeonThirst**
Christopher exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.
His HUD settled into place—like a digital exosuit for the anxiety-ridden, sarcastic nerd he had always been.
This wasn’t a screen.
It was a *lens*.
A new layer on top of the universe. Clean. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.
> **Welcome, Delver. System Ready.**
> **Awaiting portal sequence…**
“Okay,” he muttered, cracking his neck. “Let’s not die in the tutorial.”