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  I fall. Everything goes dark. While I float, suspended in the vast emptiness, it feels peaceful. Calm. Away from the storm outside. A pce that I could call home. Why? There’s someone else here now. In my pce. My home. My heaven

  “Do you remember Heraclitus? He said something iing.”

  The voice is sharp. Cutting through the silence like a bde. It echoes around me. Reverberating against the void. The air feels thick, almost suffog. As if the darkness itself has weight.

  Go away. I don’t know you. Don’t e near me.

  “No maeps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

  I don't care. Don't talk nonsense. You hurt my ears.

  “Iing quote, isn't it?”

  Go away. Don't e here. You are not wele.

  “I 't, because you're here. So am I.”

  Who are you? Why don’t I know you? I ’t see your face. Just shadows shifting faintly at the edge of my awareness. Flickering like dying embers.

  “That's sad. I know who you are. More than you do. A man who gives up. Suicidal person but yet also a coward. You should have died a long time ago.”

  Who are you? How do you know? How? My chest tightens. Panic g its my throat. The darkness seems colder now. Biting into my skin like frost.

  “I’m always here. Bleeding. Wounded. Festering. Rotting. My pus drips thickly with blood. When you fet me. But I always remember. This pain.”

  Tell me who you are? I don’t know. I don’t uand. My voice shakes, weak and trembling. The st of iron fills the air. Sharp. Metallic. Overwhelming. It smells like blood. Fresh and old at the same time.

  “The world is ging. Maybe we will too. For no maeps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

  Don’t go. Expin what you mean? What are you really?

  But it fades. This darkness. It crumbles. The light es—blinding. Searing, burning my eyes. I squint, shielding my face with one hand as warmth spreads over me. A new day. New horizons

  ….

  I think I fall asleep… I’m ting the cracked walls when it happens. A dream? Maybe. A nightmare? ly. It feels more like staring at something uli familiar. Like déjà vu, but wrong. Is this dream trying to tell me something? Give me a clue? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask Poma ter. Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps, tiny prickles rag ay skin as if cold air brushed over me.

  The sun starts to rise, its pale light seeping through broken stone. and hunger pulls me out of my thoughts. The fruits are cool to the touch, their surfaces slightly damp with m dew. Enyeka is still curled up, fast asleep, her thick fur rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. Poma is probably resting too. Or maybe she doesn’t need rest? I don’t uand how beings like her work—are they spirits? Something else entirely? I’m curious, but asking about it feels wrong. Better to leave that question alone for now.

  Maybe someday I’ll learn more about this world. But then again, doesn’t this kind of thing fall under mystical knowledge? If so, maybe it’s better not to think about it. Fet it. Focus on surviving here instead.

  I didn’t get any LitRPG-style system or overpowered abilities after ing here. All I got was the title of “chosen one,” which feels more like a curse than a blessing. Doesn’t that make me the unluckiest person ience?

  In most stories like this, the protagonist gets some kind of cheat. Something like super strength, magic powers, plot armor. Sure, I have my own little plot armor. I met Poma, who’s helping me survive until now. But is that enough? We’re talking about a Lovecraftiaing here. A world of madness and horror. What happens when I run into an indescribable entity? Plot armor won’t save me from that. The thought aloresses me out, making my chest feel tight and heavy.

  In the middle of eating and s fruits, a voice echoes in my head. Soft, yet clear, like a whisper carried by the wind.

  “You woke up so early. Did something happen?”

  It’s Poma. Since she ’t always maintain her physical form, she’s gone “invisible” again. I have to get used to it—it feels like talking to a ghost. My stomach s a bit, and the faint rustle of leaves in the early m wind apanies her disembodied voice.

  “A dream. But I don’t know what it means. you interpret dreams?” I ask aloud. I don’t see where Poma is, and the voice feels like it’s speaking directly into my mind. To make the versation feel more normal, I face the altar, pretending she’s standing right there.

  “No, I ’t do that. But I’m sure you figure it out yourself,” Poma replies. Her tone cool and dismissive.

  I frown and shrug. Didn’t I say earlier that I couldn’t? Fine.

  I drop it. “Fet it then,” I say.

  That’s how I start my day. Eating the remaining fruit oar and then spending time wandering around. Of course, I don’t dare go far. Enyeka stays by my side, her hooves g softly against the dry leaves scattered on the ground. Even though I’m used to living without TV or i, it isn’t by choice—it’s because I don’t have money. If I did, maybe I’d have bought a V and installed WiFi.

  But stu the middle of a forest with no options? I’m going stir-crazy. Staring at tree after tree, ting leaves and bdes of grass, looking for ways to kill time. B. Very b.

  Iernoon, Poma sends Eo gather ingredients for the potion she will make for me. This time, Poma appears in her physical fain. Out of sheer boredom, I ask, “Is this your true form, or you ge into something else?”

  She smiles faintly. As if she’s been waiting for the question. “Sure, I be a man if you want. Would you prefer me as a muscur guy? Or do you like me the way I am now?” Her tone is pyful, and I notice a hint of amusement in the light that dances on her eyes.

  I immediately regret asking. What an idiotic question. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. I prefer you as a beautiful goddess. At least that brightens up my day,” I say quickly, feeling my face heat up as I fumble for the right words.

  Poma is still wearing the white robe that covers almost her entire body—the one I requested. Now it feels like a waste because I ’t see her curves or her pale skin anymore. But hey, it’s my decision. Being a det person isn’t easy.

  “I’m gd you’re fortable with my appearance. You’re the first person to say that in a long time. Most people don’t even remember my name,” Poma replies, a small smile tugging at her lips.

  The atmosphere groard because of my stupid question, so I ge the subject. “Are there humans who study mystical knowledge? And how rare are they?” I ask, trying to steer the versation elsewhere.

  Because previously Poma mentioned people going insane from learning mystical knowledge. Dangerous stuff. So why would audy it? Were they just idiots looking for trouble? But sidering the Lovecraftian theme, occultism must be fairly ht? That means many might secretly dabble in it. I hadn’t thought about it before.

  “Of course, there are—or at least there were. In the past, humans relied heavily on this knowledge. But over time, it was slowly fotten. Now, only a few people might know anything about it. That’s all I say.” Poma expins.

  So, my guess is right. If some still study mystical knowledge, then occultism likely exists in society, even if it’s hidden. Assuming this world’s teology is around medieval levels—the usual isekai standard. Then that makes sense.

  But Poma’s expnation leaves gaps. If humans once depended on mystical knowledge, then this is very strange. Let’s say if there’s a world that has magic, shouldn’t the magic there develop more and more over time? Of course, the dire of development would depend greatly on what happens there. But in the case on this world. The impression I get. It seems like the mystical knowledge in this world was fotten on purpose? There must have been an era where mystical entities were more active than the current era. Is there something blog them? Or are they doing it on purpose? This makes me a little curious.

  Then I shake my head. No point overthinking it. I don’t want to lose my mind chasing answers I’m not ready for.

  At times like this, I regret not reading more horror stories. Especially Lovecraftian ones. My knowledge of the genre is limited. Why? Because reading Lovecraftian horror is depressing. My life is already hard enough without adding that kind of bleako it.

  How could it not be? Reading those stories at night just amplifies the hopelessness and helplessness I already feel. It’s like staring into a mirror that reflects everything wrong with existence. Just thinking about it makes me irritated. My jaw tightening as I ch my teeth.

  At the same time, Enyeka returns. Before heading out to gather ingredients, Poma had strapped a small bag onto her back. At first, I doubted she could ma on her own—she’s just an animal, after all. How could she collect items and stuff them into that tiny bag? But she did it. Ihe bag, I spot leaves... and twigs? Then there are mushrooms and also some kind of small red berries. The berries smell faintly sweet, almost floral, while the mushrooms have a damp, earthy st, like wet soil after rain.

  With the ingredients gathered, Poma leads me to one of the temple’s intas. The space is sparse but funal. A mortar ale sit on a stoable o the pot of water I filled the day before. I recall that Enyeka mao carry both the water and me while I was unscious, and now Poma finally make the potion.

  “I’ll do this onext time you have to do it yourself,” Poma says, her voice steady as she starts her work. I nod silently and watch as she pces fresh leaves and twigs into the mortar. The coarse textures of the pnt matter mix with the faint aroma of crushed green leaves. She pours in water from the pot, its ess barely audible as it spshes, then closes her eyes and begins ting in a low, rhythmie. Either a spell or a mantra. I’m not sure.

  After a few moments, she adds the small red berries and crushes them again, stirring the mixture slowly. From where I stand, it looks as if she’s throwing random ingredients together. So simple that it almost seems insulting. But theer begins steaming, even boiling, and I blink in surprise. How is this happening? Is the mortar secretly a portable stove?

  Did she order this thing off some mystical Amazon Prime delivery? For the first time, I witness something that could be called “magic.” Sure, it isn’t fshy like fireballs or wind bdes, but it still feels… magical. Even though it feels like a 'low budget' kind of magic.

  “This process should use fire, but I figured you wouldn’t know how to make it, so I had to use my powers. Also, there’s a special ritual that requires intations using my name,” Poma expins with a hint of sarcasm ione. Her words cut through my thoughts; I accept the truth. After all, I’m just an ordinary person from the 21st tury. Survival skills like making fire or building a bed were never my strong suit—unless you t takeout and assembling IKEA furniture as survival skills. I ’t help but find it ironic that what was once sidered basic was rendered nearly obsolete by modern teology.

  Then I notiushrooms left unused on the ter. “So, what are the mushrooms for?” I ask, pointing at them.

  “They’re for you to eat. After drinking this potion, you o eat these mushrooms at least twice a day. The potion’s effect sts three days,” Poma replies.

  Three days is long enough, but why do I have to eat the mushrooms separately? Why not just mix them into the potion from the start? I don’t get it. But since I don’t know aer, I just nod.

  After Poma finishes her detailed expnation about the ritual and walks me through the potion-making process, I decide to try the potiht away. With no gss avaible, I drink straight from the mortar. I lift it slowly—the tainer feels heavier than expected—and take a cautious sip. The taste is bitter, tinged with mint leaves. And there’s a subtle grittihat I suspees from bits of twigs that haven’t been fully crushed. By the time I finish, my head begins to throb slightly.

  Remembering Poma’s instrus, I immediately grab one of the mushrooms a it raw. To my surprise, the texture is soft, almost like marshmallows. It feels spongy, but the edges are tough and chewy, which is… ued, to say the least. The fvor is mild, slightly nutty, with a faint tang that lingers on my tongue.

  “Are there any side effects? My head feels dizzy. Then my legs feel a bit weak,” I ask. My voice slightly unsteady as I try to gauge my dition.

  Poma simply stares at me, her eyes sing my fad body as if measuring my rea to the potion and the mushrooms. “It’s normal, you’ll get used to it. Don’t fet to eat the mushrooms tonight—at least twice a day, remember that.” she replies. Her tone ical and firm, like a doctor lecturing his patient.

  After I finish the potion, a sense of calm slowly repces the stress that had been weighing me down. I’m irely sure why, but this soothing effect is exactly what I need. As the potion takes hold, Poma disappears again, leaving me aloh a newfound peace. At least for now, I don’t have to worry about my nightmares returning—they should. Acc to Poma, lessen in severity. I hope she’s right.

  Later, I gaze up at the sky. The moon and stars are breathtaking—so clear and brilliant that I ’t imagine ever getting tired of them. Their steady light feels reassuring, a stant amid the uainty of my new life. I hope they stay like that, because the days ahead will likely be just as uful. For the first time, I realize that even boredom be stressful. Yet, staring at those stars makes me feel just a bit better.

  pared to a day full of nightmares, these b days are safer. More fortable. Sure, it feels like a bad isekai story where the main character does nothing meaningful and just pys it safe. But holy? If I were the protagonist, I’d probably do the same. I wouldn’t be a hero or a savior—I’m too selfish for that. Or maybe… it’s because this world doesn’t feel real to me yet. Maybe, deep down, I’m still waiting to wake up.

  Yeah. That’s me. A b character. Stu a world full of Lovecraftian horror. Trapped in a stupid story. Written by a madman.

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