It didn't even take an hour.
I'd love to say I sat down in quiet reflection, weighed the fate of the world on my trembling mortal shoulders, maybe lit a candle and journaled my inner turmoil like a protagonist in a prestige drama. But no. That would require emotional maturity, a support system, and possibly a therapist.
Instead, I stared blankly at my wall for fifteen minutes, lying on the floor like roadkill. At some point, I think I muttered, "Nope," out loud to the ceiling. Then again, louder. "Nope." Like if I rejected reality hard enough, it'd pack up and go home.
Spoiler: it didn't.
Eventually, I rolled onto my stomach and crawled—crawled—to my desk like a man at the end of a war film. My hand found an unopened granola bar from orientation week. I ripped it open like it was a life raft. It was the kind with tiny seeds that stick to your teeth and taste like regret.
Still, I ate half. Chewed like I was gnawing through my last shred of sanity.
"Okay," I said to nobody. "Pros and cons."
Pro: I don't immediately die.
Con: Everything else.
I sat there, cross-legged on the floor, granola bar in hand, debating whether I should call someone—Mom, Dad, 911, a priest. But what would I even say?
"Hey, so, funny story. I think my phone made me a god."
Yeah, no.
I got up. Or more accurately, I flopped upward in stages until I was standing. Then I walked over to my closet, yanked out the biggest backpack I had—one of those huge camping ones I'd never used because, let's face it, I'm an indoor cat—and started packing like someone escaping both reality and a deeply toxic relationship.
"I'm not doing this because I want to," I muttered, shoving socks into the largest backpack I could find. "I'm doing this because I like breathing. And because you threatened my entire planet."
Tip: A wise decision, Divine.
"Don't call me that. I still don't feel qualified to hold a library card without adult supervision."
Tip: You are authorized for divine access.
"Awesome. Let me just grab my toothbrush and existential dread."
I started chucking essentials into the bag. Toothpaste. A towel. That one hoodie I always wear. I paused and stared at my math notes.
"Think I'll need calculus?"
Tip: Elysia is a medieval-era world. Knowledge of feudal economics, swordsmanship, and monster behavior will be more useful.
"Cool. So definitely not calculus."
Tip: Correct.
"Tell me about Elysia again," I said as I folded a clean shirt like it mattered.
Tip: Elysia functions under feudal law. Kingdoms, nobles, clergy, mercenary guilds, monster populations. Currency: gold. Common languages: High Elysian, Trade Tongue. Dominant political systems: monarchy and divine rite.
"That's so many words. Can I get subtitles when I get there?"
Tip: You will be granted passive translation abilities.
"Finally. Something useful."
I zipped the bag halfway and froze in front of my bookshelf.
"Wait—should I bring a book?" I picked one up and stared at the cover. Intro to Psychology. "Maybe if I need to psychoanalyze a dragon."
Tip: Monsters in Elysia do not possess human cognitive structures.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Alright, Freud, back on the shelf."
I turned to my desk and scanned the chaos. Headphones. Laptop. My beloved mug with 'Not a Morning Person' on it.
I touched the mug like it was a treasured relic.
"I'll miss you the most."
I hoisted the bag onto my back with a grunt. "Alright. I think I've got everything. Clothes, soap, my last shred of sanity—check."
Tip: You may return to Earth at will between assignments. Packing is unnecessary.
I froze.
Stared at the phone.
"...Excuse me?"
Tip: Spatial transition is reversible. Physical items brought are optional.
I slowly lowered the bag back to the ground like it had personally betrayed me. "You're telling me... I just risked a hernia shoving five pairs of jeans into this bag—and my backup deodorant—and my backup-backup deodorant—and I didn't need any of it?"
Tip: Correct.
"I brought three notebooks! Three! One of them was a dream journal! Why do I even have a dream journal?!"
Tip: Your preparedness is noted. Commendable.
"Oh no. You don't get to commend me. You had one job. One. You could've just said, 'Hey, no need to pack. You can come back.' But no, you waited until my arms went numb from lifting this apocalypse bag."
Tip: Emotional distress detected. Recalibrating support tone…
"Oh please don't 'support tone' me. I'm not mad because of the bag. Okay, I am. But I'm also mad because—what if I get stuck there, huh? You say I can come back, but what if that's a lie? What if I step through and suddenly the return button's grayed out like a scummy mobile game?"
Tip: Return access is guaranteed through divine link.
"Yeah, and I'm supposed to trust that? You think any of this feels normal to me? One second I'm a human soon-to-be- freshman with poor sleep habits and zero upper body strength, and the next I'm being recruited by a phone with trust issues and a tip addiction."
Tip: Your skepticism is statistically common.
"Wow. That's comforting. Really. Let me just throw myself into a medieval monster-infested world on the promise of a being who can't even use contractions."
Tip: Do not be afraid. You are never alone.
I gave the phone a side-eye. "You really going for the 'inspirational anime mentor' line now?"
Tip: Affirmative.
I sighed and dropped the bag entirely. "Fine. I'll leave the suitcase. But I'm keeping the granola bar. If I die hungry, that's on you."
Tip: Understood.
"Seriously though," I said, voice lower now, "you better be right about being able to come back."
Tip: I am never wrong.
"Hey. Quick question before I'm flung into Mordor or whatever. Skills. Powers. Are those a thing?"
Tip: Divine Authority grants you abilities. You will receive three initial domains. Choose wisely.
"Wait, seriously?"
Before I could even react, my phone lit up like I hit a gacha jackpot. Cards—dozens of them—burst out from the screen, glowing with ethereal light and spinning midair in perfect, smug harmony.
"…You had magic cards this whole time and waited until now?"
Tip: You did not ask.
I facepalmed. "I swear you're doing this on purpose."
Each card hovered before me, blank on the back. All identical. No hints. No categories. No 'newbie recommended' stickers.
"This is gambling."
Tip: This is divine selection.
"This is loot boxes." I circled them like a nervous game show contestant. "My survival depends on drawing three cards from a celestial Uno deck?"
Tip: Correct. Please choose three.
I stared at them.
"I've never even won a coin toss. I once lost at rock-paper-scissors ten times in a row. You're basing my godhood on luck?"
Tip: Intuition is part of your gift.
"No, anxiety is part of my gift. That's not the same thing."
But I didn't have time to argue. I had a heavy bag, a vibrating phone, and a countdown breathing down my neck. And apparently, a fate.
"Okay," I muttered. "Eenie, meenie, miney—screw it. That one."
I tapped one card. It glowed.
"And that. And that."
The other two pulsed with light as well.
Then the cards flipped.