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 The beautiful gleam of the moon has been replaced by an eerie red mass, pulsating and growing evermore across the sky.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— I forced reluctant factions into peace treaties to fight against the end.
However, I cannot make things happen that are too far outside the realm of believability. I influenced the world to contain conflict for my own entertainment. I was making the story into whatever I wished, and it was my own downfall. I couldn't overcome the hate I created over centuries.
What I need from you is simple: a variable beyond my control. One that can go beyond the plausibility of this world. You can fix my story to have a proper ending. So I am sorry I have cut your story short, but for the time being you shall be the main character of mine.
I wish you the best of luck, and be careful. I am not the author, I can not provide you plot armor. I cannot prevent death; that is not my realm to control. The most I can do now is 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. In the corner of the cell was a hole about the size of a toilet, so that's what he assumed it to be.
Thomas remained still for some time. This was all too much for him to process. Who could ever be prepared for this transmigration trope? His limbs weren't his. He was as far as he could tell much taller now, he had much more muscle mass than before. His hands were covered in callouses that spoke of countless hours doing intense work. The most difficult work he did in his life was briefly being apart of a moving company. The lungs he spent years ruining by vaping were no more. His sight was clearer than it ever was on Earth, it was a strange experience to see how many hairs he had on his arms once again. His vision was getting worse from long writing sessions into the night, leading to him wearing glasses after one year of working at the firm. Even his mouth had a different taste. To say it was strange would be an understatement. It was revolting, his mind was unable to process it.
Eventually he lied down on the straw and stared at the ceiling. He had to adjust to this body. The body he had stolen from someone. A life he had stole. He wasn't able to remember the life they had led. How did they end up in this cell? How long would he be here? Was he sentenced to spend forever in this cell? Would they come and try to execute him in the morning just for a dragon to interrupt and save him? He laid there for what he assumed to be hours, just thinking to himself. The entire time there was always another question right behind another.
Trying to think of what the hell he was supposed to do, the first words he ever spoke in this world slipped out:
"Fuck. Me."
Not exactly how I imagined you would spend this time. But take as long as you need Thomas, you have twenty years before the world ends. Granted you accomplished nothing in the 28 years you have lived, so maybe that won't be enough time.
The owner of booming voice from before returned. Only this time, it was gentle—even playful. Thomas finally broke his gaze with the ceiling, searching for the source of the voice. But he found none. The only difference in the cell was the growing brightness from the gap above.
He spoke with an strange calmness for how dysregulated he felt inside. "In my defense I was growing up for 18 of those years." He paused a second, uncertain what to ask first. But there was one question that led the forefront of his thoughts. "Why me?"
A playful laugh erupted in his mind. It was akin to a child who knew no worries. Now Thomas, you should know full and well I can't tell you that. Questions are why you humans move forward, and you my friend have a lot of ground to cover. So the more you question, the more you will accomplish. With every accomplishment you make, I will grow closer to my goal.
"Can you tell me what you are then?"
I am the narrator of this world. My author is long gone. I watch, I intervene when I desire, I watch some more. At least I did intervene beforehand, but since I brought you here I can no longer intervene.
"If you can't tell me why you picked me. Then tell me why you picked him." He said while gesturing towards his body, if you could call it his.
Why now that one is actually quite simple. Like most transmigration plots, that man died in his sleep last night. After a night on the town where he drank too much the guards took him in to cool off, he was getting quite belligerent. They let him take one last drink before he left the tavern though, and that last drink would forever be his last drink. He died in his sleep. He was a nobody, a drunk, he took any odd job that would pay for more liquor. No ties to this world.
"Damn, could have at least made me a rich prodigal son. At least I won't have to worry about being found out as not him. So does he- I have a name?"
He did, but I think it would be more interesting if you picked your own. Anyways kiddo I'll leave you be. You have something else to attend to. Again, good luck.