We've all made a wish at some point, right? Whether on a shooting star, a broken wishbone, or a whispered plea cast into the night, it's something universal. We wish for something better, something more—something impossible. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't. Who hasn't dreamed of stumbling across a magic lamp, hidden deep in some forgotten bazaar, hoping for a genie to emerge and grant their heart's desire?
Maybe that's why it bled into the CYOA. Maybe, deep down, I wanted it so badly that reality twisted to make it true. But who would have thought that I would become the very thing I created? After a lifetime of chasing the unattainable, I had finally been granted my wish.
I had become Zahiris al-Miraj, the lamp-bound genie.
The first thing I noticed was the sound—muffled, distant voices, blurred as if they were speaking through layers of fabric. My thoughts felt sluggish, my body weightless, yet bound. I'm alive? The words left my lips in a whisper, but they felt foreign, deep and resonant in a way they never had before.
The world around me was dim, bathed in a soft golden glow. The walls shimmered, smooth and metallic, curved like the inside of a sphere. No—like the inside of a lamp. The realization struck like a thunderbolt. The room was small, barely large enough to stand in, and the floor beneath me was layered with rich red silk, as if I had fallen into some extravagant dream.
I looked down at myself, expecting to see the same hands I had known my whole life. Instead, they were blue. A deep, otherworldly shade, smooth yet slightly luminescent. My fingers curled in instinct, and I saw that my nails had grown longer, sharper, like polished obsidian. My breath caught in my throat as I touched my face, running my fingers over a jawline that felt more angular, more refined.
I wasn't me anymore.
My clothes were nothing like the modern fabrics I had worn just hours ago. A deep violet vest, embroidered with intricate golden designs, clung to my form, leaving my arms bare except for ornate golden bands around my upper arms and wrists. A matching sash wrapped around my waist, layered over billowing black silk pants that tapered at the ankles, where more gold adorned me. The cloth felt impossibly soft, yet weightless, like it barely existed except as a statement of my new identity.
I swallowed hard. This isn't real. It can't be real.
Then I heard the voices outside.
"I think it landed here!" one of them shouted, breathless with excitement.
"Is that how a shooting star looks?" another asked, hesitant.
"No, stupid!" snapped a third voice, older and filled with irritation. "The elder said it's supposed to be a circle piece of metal! Did one of you make a wish while it was falling?!"
A beat of silence.
"We're not supposed to wish on them," the older one continued, his voice rising. "Didn't I say not to? We should've let it fall and taken it to the elder first! He could've made a better wish for the camp!"
"I didn't wish on it!" one of the younger ones protested.
"Me neither!"
"Maybe that's how it's supposed to look!" another voice piped up. "It's shiny like metal, and it's rounded!"
The group fell into argument, their voices overlapping, frustration mounting.
Meanwhile, in the center of the crater—where the earth had been violently torn apart by impact—a golden lamp sat untouched, steaming from the heat of its descent.
The oldest of the group let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine. We'll camp nearby and grab it in a few hours. Until then, keep your eyes open. Maybe someone else saw it fall from the sky—who's to say another group isn't coming for it?"
They turned and walked away, their silhouettes fading into the skeletal ruins.
And within the lamp, Zahiris al-Miraj—once an ordinary man—sat trapped, listening, waiting.
The muffled voices faded, their footsteps crunching against debris as they disappeared into the ruins. Silence crept in, pressing against me like a thick, suffocating fog.
I exhaled slowly, my breath steady but my mind anything but calm. A lamp? I'm really inside a lamp?
I pushed myself upright, my movements awkward as I adjusted to my unfamiliar body. The silk beneath me barely rustled as I shifted, its texture luxurious yet oddly insubstantial, as if it were woven from something less than real. My fingers traced the surface of the curved golden wall beside me—it was smooth, almost frictionless, but cool to the touch despite the heat I had felt upon my arrival.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to think. "Okay. Breathe." My chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, but no matter how much air I pulled in, my mind refused to settle.
I'll enhance this scene, refining the atmosphere and descriptions while keeping the dialogue immersive. Here's the polished version:
One side of me desperately wanted to believe this was all just a dream. That I hadn't woken up yet. That everything—finding the CYOA, making my choices, the sharp pain in my chest—hadn't actually happened. Any second now, I'd jolt awake in my chair, groggy but safe, my monitor still glowing in the dark.
But deep down, I knew better.
This wasn't a dream.
The evidence was overwhelming—the deep, resonant timbre of my voice, unfamiliar yet undeniably mine. The smooth, luminescent blue of my skin, alien yet warm to the touch. The way my vest and sash clung to my body, impossibly weightless, as if woven from starlight and silk. The golden bands around my wrists, cool yet never cold, pressing against my skin with the eerie finality of a shackle.
Everything felt too real. Too vivid. There was no dreamlike haze, no fleeting distortion of thought. Just this small, gilded chamber, its curved walls glowing with an eerie golden sheen, its floor smothered in soft crimson silk, and a deep, almost imperceptible hum in the air—like the quiet whisper of magic itself.
I exhaled, letting my head fall back as I stared at the dim golden glow above me.
So this is it.
I've really turned into Zahiris al-Miraj.
A shiver crawled up my spine. Transmigration. I had read countless stories about it, fantasized about the impossible. But now… it had happened to me.
"Have I really... transmigrated?" I murmured, my own voice still sending an unsettling chill down my spine.
Then a thought struck me—the CYOA.
Ii had made him select a curtain feature. While crafted my build. If I did transmigrate into the CYOA as the character I made… then the interface link I selected should exist too.
"But how do I activate it?" I muttered.
I clenched my jaw, considering the possibilities. "Do I just… say it out loud?"
"Menu?"
Silence.
"Character Page?"
Nothing.
Frustration tightened in my chest. There had to be a way.
Then, on instinct, I tried again—this time reaching for something deeper.
"Interface."
The word rolled off my tongue in a strange, unfamiliar language—something almost ancient, yet eerily natural as if it had been waiting to be spoken.
A sudden flash erupted before me, the golden chamber flooding with blinding white light. My breath caught as the brilliance solidified, forming transparent crystalline panels, their edges glowing with faint spectral energy.
The panels shimmered, then folded—twisting, merging, collapsing into something far larger. The shifting fragments coalesced into the shape of a massive, crystalline skull, at least five or six times the size of my own.
Its hollow sockets flared to life with two bluish-white flames, flickering eerily as it hovered mid-air, its polished surface reflecting the golden walls of the chamber.
Then, in a voice both dark and oddly feminine, the skull spoke:
"What is it you require, enslavor, Zahiris al-Miraj?"
I stiffened.
The way it addressed me sent a chill through my veins. Enslavor?
I swallowed, my emotions tangled in a mess of shock, confusion, and reluctant curiosity. Yet, despite the unease gnawing at my mind, I already knew what I needed to ask.
"I want to go home."
The skull's burning gaze remained locked onto me as a faint hum pulsed through the chamber.
"Very well."
A single panel materialized between us, its surface etched with elegant script. Unlike before, the text was something I could read.
[Points: 12] [Tickets: 0] [Crystal Rank Valuation: F5(D8)] [CP: 0]
[Build] [[App°]] [Captives] [Drawbacks]
[Slave Trade] [Magic Trade] [Ritual Circles] [Weapon Trade] [World Travel (Locked)]
[Trading (NEW°)] [Buying (NEW°)] [Selling (NEW°)]
My gaze flickered over the options, my breath hitching slightly at the last one.
"Why is 'World Travel' locked?"
The crystal skull's flames flickered. "You do not possess a world travel ticket. Until then, that function remains inaccessible."
A ticket. That meant I could use it… if I had one.
"Then how do I get a ticket?"
The skull gave no answer. Instead, the panel before me shifted, revealing new options.
[Points: 12] [Tickets: 0] [Crystal Rank Valuation: F5(D8)] [CP: 0]
[Build] [[App°]] [Captives] [Drawbacks]
[Slave Trade] [Magic Trade] [Ritual Circles] [Weapon Trade] [World Travel (Locked)]
[Trading (NEW°)] [[Buying (NEW°)]] [Selling (NEW°)]
[Potions] [Materials] [Slave Crests] [World Travel Tickets]
My eyes narrowed as I scanned the list.
[World Travel Ticket (High-tier magic tool): 10,000P]
[Home World Return Ticket (High-tier magic tool): 5,000P]
[Temporary World Travel Ticket (Mid-tier magic tool): 3,000P]
[Home World Return Ticket (Quest Ticket): 10P] (00:00:46)
My stomach dropped.
Five thousand points…? Ten thousand?! I barely had twelve!
But then, my eyes locked onto the last option. A quest ticket.
There was a timer.
Forty-six seconds.
My pulse quickened.
What would happen when the timer hit zero?
"I'll... I'll take the Home World Return Ticket for ten points," I muttered, my eyes glued to the timer as the pressure built.
"Very well. It has been done," the crystal skull replied, its voice flat and indifferent, as the panel shifted once more. My ticket slot was still empty, but my point balance had dropped to a dismal single digit.
And, as if mocking me further, the World Travel option was still locked.
"What is—" I started to shout, my frustration boiling over, but I stopped myself mid-sentence as something below caught my eye.
The message flashed on the panel:
[Congratulations for Purchasing The One-Time Special World Return Quest Ticket]
[To Use The Return Ticket, You Must First Complete the Main Quest]
[Main Quest: Beginner]
[Difficulty: Low]
[Time Limit: None]
[Enslave fifty natives and prove Mother right for birthing you] (0/50)
[Quest Reward: Capture Points (x100), Home World Return Ticket (x1), World Return Tickets (x10)]
[Side Quest: Hope of the Lost]
[Difficulty: Low]
[Time Limit: 1 Week]
[A group of wanderers has stumbled upon your lamp, witnessing a shooting star firsthand. Instead of keeping the wish for themselves, they wish to bring it to their elder in hopes of making a wish to change their small community's fate.]
[Reward their actions by blessing them with three wishes each on the next full moon night] (0/4)
[Quest Reward: Bloodline Enhancement Ticket (x1), Capture Points (x10)]
I blinked rapidly, my confusion mingling with a sense of both dread and anticipation. The sheer absurdity of the tasks was almost laughable. But the rewards...
This was it. The only way forward, and yet, it felt like I'd been thrown into a game far bigger and darker than I had ever imagined.