In the expanse of space, with nothing of note around, float two wisps. The formless wisp faces a more tangible man. It is a form that resembles a human, yet one that is noticeably unfamiliar to the man. His mouth moves, akin to speaking. The words come out, yet disconnected from his movements. His words, when spoken, paint such a vivid story that it surpasses any video or picture. The formless wisp remains silent.
In a land quite unfamiliar to you, the azure skies are tainted with billowing smoke. The beautiful gleam of the moon has been replaced by an eerie red mass, pulsating and growing evermore across the sky.
Beneath the indescribable horror in the sky lie ancient ruins. A petite woman of ghastly beauty sits upon a golem composed of corpses, surrounded by an army of undead so fearsome that light itself seems to cower before it. The ruins erupt with motion as the undead go about with fervor.
Her expression is difficult to see through her black mesh veil; she is still and silent. Surrounding the ruins are three armies that slowly encircle the walls.
To the north, a human kingdom with powerful swordsmen whose will seems to distort space around them. Leading the army sits a king, the most fearsome of them all. He releases no pressure on the world like the others, but they all look to him with reverence. His weathered face bears a deep frown at the ruin before him.
The army to the west is composed of mages, all in robes that fully cover their bodies. Their features cannot be discerned, no matter the angle. Some fly, some ride atop clockwork motorcycles, others run at tremendous speed. There is no discernible leader, but the mages at the forefront wear robes unlike any of the others.
The final army is adorned in white and gold. Unlike the undead army, the world brightens around these people. They are shrouded in a holy radiance that makes them seem otherworldly. A woman of exquisite beauty hovers at the front, supported by four angelic wings.
They are too late. The mass grows. It doesn't stop. Eventually, it enshrouds the whole world. And as quickly as the story is told, it ends. The mass shrinks. The world disappears.
It is a truly bland ending to a story—one I crafted with hard work and love. You see, the world is not in my complete control. I watched in agony. I did everything within my power—reluctant factions forced into peace treaties to fight against the end.
However, I cannot make things happen that are too far outside the realm of believability. I created them to contain conflict for my own entertainment. I was making my story however I wished, and it was my own downfall. I couldn't overcome the hate I created.
What I need is simple: a variable beyond my complete control. One that can be outside the realm of plausibility—with my influence to help, of course. I can fix my story to have a proper ending. So I am sorry. I am sure, when my story ends, I can return you to your original story. But for now, you shall be the main character of mine.
I wish you the best of luck. But remember, while I can influence this world, I do not control it. I cannot prevent death; that is not my realm to control. I bid you the best of luck.
Before any questions are asked by the formless wisp of light, they are hurled through the expanse of space at an unimaginable speed, their journey ending in a dim cell illuminated by trickles of moonlight.
Thomas awoke with a groan. This was quickly followed by incessant cursing. Scanning his surroundings, he realized he was in a beautifully dingy cell. The walls were covered in some form of moss he has never seen, making the gray bricks that composed the room an accent. A small hole adorned the wall above his bed—barely six inches tall and a foot wide—letting in just enough moonlight to call it light. His bed, if you could call it that, was a pile of hay with a thin cloth atop it, providing little insulation. The shrill squeak of a rat came from a tiny hole beside the hay.
Thomas remained still for some time. This was all too much for him to process. Who the hell is ever actually prepared for this transmigration bullshit trope? His limbs weren't his. His sight was clearer than it ever was on Earth, it was weird to see how many hairs he had on his arms once again. His vision was getting worse from long writing sessions into the night. Even his mouth had a different taste.
Trying to think of what the hell he was supposed to do, the first words he ever spoke in this world slipped out:
"How fucking cliché. From the god to the world he created. I wouldn't be too upset if it turned out to be a harem, though..."
He laid down on the hay and did his best to seek comfort under the blanket. There seemed to be no belongings in the cell, but at least he had decent clothes on—a long-sleeved shirt and pants of poor-quality cloth, but at least it was warm.
Y'know, there's nothing wrong with clichés, right?
The booming voice from before returned. Only this time, it was gentle—even playful. Thomas opened his eyes again, searching for the source of the voice. In front of him, the same man as before floated in the air, posing like he wanted to be painted like a French girl. Admittedly, the air did look comfier than the straw he lay upon.
He spoke with noticeable anger."Clichés are good if you want to be some hack of an author." He paused a second, uncertain of what was before him. "Is it fair to call you an author too?"
A playful laugh erupted in his mind. It was akin to a child who knew no worries.No, no, no. I am a mere Narrator. The author of this story is long gone. Thomas don't you remember what you were doing before you came here?
'Oh god. He named himself NotTheNarrator. Ignoring the logistics of how the hell he was reading my story and even commenting for years... what a cliché name. This is going to be a long journey.'