Chapter 1 Out of the World

  There’s a crack in the ceiling. A long, jagged scar that splits the plaster like something ancient tried to claw its way through. I stare at it, unmoving, as dust floats lazily in a shaft of light cutting through the dirty glass of the window. It smells like old paper and something else… something metallic.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but I know I just woke up.

  The chair beneath me creaks as I shift. Stiff legs. Numb hands. There’s a desk in front of me, wooden and worn down by years of use or neglect. I can’t tell the difference. A fake plant sits to my left, plastic leaves coated with dust thick enough to write in. To the right, a photograph in a cracked frame. A man and a woman sharing an intimate moment, caught in a moment that feels too private for me to be looking at.

  But I can’t look away.

  There’s something in my eye… joy maybe. I blink, and when it doesn’t go away, I reach into my coat pocket. My fingers wrap around something smooth and cold. I pull it out: sunglasses. Round lenses, black as the inside of a cave. I hesitate.

  In their reflection, faint and warped, I catch a glimpse of myself.

  Dark hair. Strong jaw. Eyes that don’t quite blink in sync with how I feel.

  Eyes that belong to the man in the photograph.

  The realization slams into me like a punch. I sit up straighter, suddenly aware of my heartbeat thudding in my chest like a warning bell.

  Who am I?

  The question echoes in my head, weightless and heavy at the same time. I search for an answer, a memory, a name, or just anything. But my mind offers nothing. Just static.

  But there’s something else.

  Something deeper than memory. Instinct.

  I know things. I know what this room smells like. I know that the light is coming from the east, which means it’s morning. I know this is a desk. That this is a chair. That I’m… a person.

  A human being.

  I slide the sunglasses back onto my face. It feels right. Like they belong there. Like they belong to me.

  But that question still lingers.

  Am I a human being?

  No. That’s not the right question.

  I don’t know why, but I feel it in my gut… the question isn’t whether I’m human. It’s something else.

  My eyes drift to the center of the desk. A thin layer of dust has been disturbed: something was moved recently. There’s a folder on top of the desk, thick and slightly yellowed, lying precisely in the middle like it’s been waiting for me.

  I reach for it.

  The first page has a photo. My photo.

  The same face. The same dark eyes. The same blank expression I just saw in the glasses.

  Below it, typed in clean, official font:

  Name: Gavin Goodman

  Status: Volunteer

  Project: G.O.D.

  The paper flutters slightly as I lift it.

  G.O.D.

  The letters hit something deep inside me, like a switch just flipped. I don’t know what the acronym stands for, but it sends a ripple of recognition through my spine.

  Gavin Goodman.

  Is that me? The name doesn’t feel like it fits, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Like putting on a jacket that’s tailored just a little too tight.

  I whisper it under my breath. “Gavin…”

  The sound feels foreign in my mouth. But the name doesn’t argue. It lets me borrow it.

  Outside the cracked window, the wind moves a curtain of dust, and for a moment, the sunlight flares blindingly bright.

  I don’t know who I am. But someone thought I volunteered for something. Something important.

  Project G.O.D.

  Whatever that is… I think it’s why I’m here.

  And I think it’s why I don’t remember anything.

  My fingers hover over the file before I commit. Like touching it might make it more real.

  I flip the page.

  The paper inside is brittle and thin, like it’s been handled too many times. Most of the text is blacked out, censored with thick bars of ink. But enough remains to paint a picture—and it’s not a comforting one.

  I scan the first page.

  [PROJECT G.O.D. – CLASSIFIED]

  SUBJECT FILE: #G-001 “GOODMAN, GAVIN”

  CLEARANCE LEVEL: OMEGA

  Status: ACTIVE

  Designation: PRIMARY HOST CANDIDATE

  "The goal of Project G.O.D. is to create a synthetic, autonomous intelligence with complete sensory projection (ESP-class capabilities) capable of altering its reality matrix through conscious intention alone. The subject, Gavin Goodman, has demonstrated a consistent and replicable threshold beyond acceptable human limits for—"

  [DATA REDACTED]

  "...interfacing with Phase-Level 3 phenomena, and may be the first viable candidate for trans-conscious elevation. Cognitive stability remains within operational parameters despite minor identity dissociation events."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Notes:

  -“Memory lockdown procedures initiated: March 18”

  -“Subject unaware of full scope—recommended to remain unaware until Integration Phase”

  -“Conscious link to field frequency unknown. Potential anomaly?”

  WARNING: DO NOT DISCLOSE FULL SCOPE OF PROJECT TO SUBJECT UNTIL PHASE 4 FINALIZATION

  I exhale slowly. My pulse thumps in my ears like war drums.

  I flip to the next page.

  It’s worse.

  Diagrams I can’t understand. Words like “Neurofracture Threshold” and “Synthetic Ontology Feedback” clutter the margins. There’s a drawing of a human brain, but it's wrapped in something… else. A geometric halo? An aura? Something unnatural.

  The word GOD is printed in bold at the top of one page, but it’s not explained, at least not in any way that makes sense.

  I whisper to no one, “What even is a god?”

  I feel ridiculous asking it aloud, but the silence is heavy. And something about seeing the word in an official government file makes it hit differently.

  “A being with control over the universe?” I say again, quieter. “Over… reality?”

  I don’t know where that comes from, but it feels true.

  But what qualifies someone… or something… as a god? Power? Omniscience? Immortality? If so, then what am I? A candidate? A failed experiment?

  And what is ESP?

  “Extrasensory perception,” my brain offers automatically. “That’s weird…”

  A whisper from somewhere deep.

  “Who’s there?”

  Seeing without seeing. Knowing without being told. Moving without touching. Perceiving… something beyond.

  “Weird… I think I saw something... wispy…”

  I suddenly remember something. A feeling more than a memory. Standing in a room with no walls, no floor, no ceiling… and still feeling the space like it’s alive. Like it’s watching me back.

  I blink it away.

  Am I hallucinating? Or is that what ESP feels like?

  I go back to the file. The last page is just one sentence, unredacted, and typed in a smaller font than the rest.

  "You are not the first. But you may be the last."

  A chill runs down my spine. I close the folder, fingers trembling slightly.

  The folder sits heavy in my hands… too heavy. Not just from the contents, but from what it implies. I'm still sitting with it, still trying to digest what "G.O.D." and "ESP" mean for me, when something shifts in the corner of my eye.

  A soft breeze slips in through the cracked window.

  The curtains twitch.

  Something flutters on the desk.

  I turn my head.

  A piece of paper: thin, cream-colored, and crumpled slightly at the corner, slides across the wood grain like it’s trying to escape. My breath catches.

  Instinct takes over. I slam my palm down onto it.

  The sound echoes too loud in the quiet room. My heart kicks up. My hand trembles just slightly. I stare at the paper beneath it, like it might explode.

  “Relax,” I mutter to myself, half-laughing and half-shaking. “It’s just… paper.”

  I take a breath, lift my hand, and smooth the wrinkles gently. I set the folder aside, my file, my life, now only half of the mystery.

  At the top of the page, scrawled in blue ink, are two words:

  “Hello, Gavin.”

  My lips part. “A letter?”

  The handwriting is familiar.

  Too familiar.

  I begin to read.

  “Hello, Gavin,

  Okay, there’s a lot of things I want to say. You might think I’m crazy and honestly, you’d be right, but hear me out first.

  I am you.

  But from a different universe.

  From where I came from, there’s no such thing as ESPs, no dungeons, no monarchy still running the world. And absolutely no one shoots lightning from their hands because they’re mad at the weather. Honestly… your world is insane. And weirdly beautiful.

  Anyway, deep breath, here’s the thing: for the past two years, I’ve been living your life.

  Yeah. I’d sleep in my world, and I’d wake up here, in your body. I don’t know how it works. Dreamwalking? Body hijacking? Soul-leap quantum spiritual nonsense? Whatever it is, I’ve felt every second of it.

  And I… kind of loved it.

  Even as an experimental subject, we were treated decently. Humanely. I saw the world through your eyes, felt what you felt. I fell in love. I found meaning. I became more than I was back in my version of Earth. You gave me that.

  So... thanks.

  Now. Here’s the crazy part.

  You, Gavin, live in a novel.

  I know, I know. It sounds delusional. But it’s real. The book’s called Ascension of the ESPer God. It’s this weird mix of dungeon-crawling action, pseudo-science, and poorly written romance. The prose is bad, but it’s got a cult following.

  And you—we—are a Gag Character.

  A running joke. Comic relief. One of those background guys who shows up for a punchline or to get blown up mid-battle. According to the plot, you’re supposed to die… somewhere near the end of the second arc. No fanfare. No meaning.

  But...

  I killed the character responsible for your death.

  I wasn’t supposed to. That moment wasn’t written yet. I changed the story. And the consequences were... worse than I imagined.

  I think I broke the timeline. I might’ve triggered something apocalyptic. I wouldn’t know. I left before I could see it fall apart.

  But I left something behind: a journal. My journal. It’s filled with notes, warnings, events, character maps, and all the prophetic breadcrumbs the author planted throughout the series. I wrote it all down, every piece I could remember.

  Find it.

  And when you do… Burn it.

  Burn it before the main story begins.

  With all my fractured love and apologies,

  —Gavin

  I stare at the last line for a long time. Longer than I probably should.

  My throat is dry. My skin is cold.

  "Dreams," I whisper. "He's been dreaming as me."

  A version of me… living my life.

  And now, apparently, I’m inside a novel. A bad one. With a death sentence.

  I slowly lower the letter to the desk and rest my head in my hands.

  “This is insane.”

  But as I sit there in the dusty light of a dying room, surrounded by fake plants and broken windows and folders about creating gods, I realize something far more disturbing than the letter itself:

  It feels true.

  I sit there in stunned silence, the letter trembling slightly between my fingers.

  My breath feels tight. The room has gone too quiet again, like it’s holding its breath with me. I turn the paper around, half-expecting nothing… just blankness.

  But the other side is written on too. The same handwriting. Slanted. A bit rushed. Like the writer didn’t have time to waste.

  Like he knew he might not finish.

  I read.

  P.S. I really am sorry for leaving this mess to you. I’m a super jerk for stealing your life. You didn’t ask for this.

  The thing is… if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.

  See, I have cancer. I’m having an operation today. I’ve had it for a while now: terminal, aggressive, the kind of tumor that laughs at chemo and eats PET scans for breakfast.

  This surgery is my last shot. If I die on the table, I don’t think I’ll come back. And if I don’t come back, that means you’re all that’s left.

  I sincerely wish I’ll just… become you if I die. Seamlessly. That’d be nice, right? Of course, it’s selfish. But I’m a realist. I’m not one of those guys who throws himself in front of a speeding truck hoping to get isekai’d into a better life.

  I’m the guy who writes backup letters for his own body double in another universe.

  So, yeah. Here we are.

  Okay, that’s all.

  Actually… one last thing.

  The main story begins in two months. That’s when all the crazy kicks off. Dungeons. Monsters. Powers. Plot armor. The whole shebang.

  So I suggest you start looking. My journal’s out there somewhere. And it contains information nobody else should have. Character arcs. Death flags. Even the real identity of the final boss.

  As for our ESP? It’s called Aura Farming. Yeah… I know. Dumb name. Not mine. Blame the writers.

  Before all this, we were kind of a loser. A smart-ass, arrogant, sorry-ass... loser. A dropout from the ESPer Academy. Self-sabotaging, bitter, and lonely. But we got better. I got better. You still can. One more thing… check under your leather jacket. There’s a phone. It should still have battery. On it is the contact number of the person I trust most in this world. If anyone can help you, it’s her.

  Good luck, Gavin.

  Make it count.

  —You

  The words bleed into me slowly, like ink soaking into fabric. It doesn’t hit all at once. It just seeps in.

  Cancer. Operation. Death.

  He’s gone.

  Or… I’m gone?

  I don’t even know how to separate him from me anymore.

  “This is bizarre on so many levels.”

  I reach beside the chair and find the leather jacket draped over the back. I hesitate, then pat the inside pocket.

  Cold metal meets my fingers.

  I pull out the phone. It’s old: chunky, black, and a little scratched, but when I press the side button, the screen lights up.

  Two percent battery left.

  And one contact starred at the top.

  No name. Just a number.

  “Who do you trust so much?” I whisper. “And why does this feel like the beginning of something I won’t survive?”

  I don’t know what’s more terrifying: the idea that I live in a novel, or that I might still be just a side character in someone else’s story.

  Either way… I think the story has already started.

  Aura Farming! This story takes place in the same universe as Romance or Ruin, though it’s set earlier in the timeline. While Romance or Ruin was originally written with Honeyfeed in mind, Aura Farming was crafted specifically for Royal Road readers.

  Aura Farming carries a more serious tone and a tighter plot, though I admit, the title doesn’t exactly scream "serious" at first glance. Still, beneath the name is a story I'm proud to share.