Pain.
That was the final sensation that clung to him like a brand burned into his nerves—sharp, searing, merciless. It hadn't come with warning or mercy. One moment he'd been alive, strolling down the familiar path home after another long day at work. The next, a blinding glare of headlights. Tires screaming against asphalt. A thunderous impact. Then—nothing.
Not even the luxury of fear. Just the pain.
And now… this.
He awoke with a sharp gasp, eyes snapping open, lungs clawing for air as if he'd been underwater for hours. But the air was still. Clean. Sterile.
Around him stretched a white room.
No windows. No lights. Yet somehow, everything was illuminated with a soft, unnatural glow. The walls were pristine, smooth to the point of being unsettling. There were no cracks, no seams. It was as though the room itself had been sculpted from a single block of marble by a hand that hated imperfection.
There were only two features. A bed—plain, white, made without a wrinkle—and a door. It stood on the far wall, utterly out of place, like someone had remembered too late that the room needed a way out and slapped it in as an afterthought.
He sat up slowly, his body stiff but intact. No wounds. No blood. No lingering evidence of the collision that had shattered his world.
"Where... am I?" he whispered, his voice weak and hoarse, like a machine rebooting after a hard shutdown.
There was no answer. Only silence. Heavy, pressing silence that seemed to listen.
He tried to recall more, anything past the blinding lights and pain. His name. His job. Bits and pieces came—mundane moments, laughter over coffee, the smell of rain on his coat—but none of it explained this place. This eerie white void.
A horrible thought wormed into his mind.
"…Am I dead?"
The words echoed, faint and fragile, before the room swallowed them.
Then, without warning, a soft ding filled the space—gentle and synthetic, like a notification ping. He flinched and turned sharply.
A glowing blue screen hovered in the air, floating like a hologram projected from nothing.
His breath caught in his throat as he read the words:
Welcome, Traveler. You have passed from your original world and have now been granted access to the Reality Traversal System. As a Traveler, you may visit any reality of your choosing, explore it as you see fit, and return to this resting space at will.
His mouth went dry. His pulse pounded in his ears.
This had to be a joke. Some kind of elaborate prank. Or maybe a delusion brought on by brain trauma. Yet the screen stayed, unwavering and solid despite its phantom glow.
The word Traveler echoed in his head.
He lifted a trembling hand toward the screen, hesitant to touch it—half-expecting it to vanish or burn him. But his finger passed through with a satisfying ripple, like dipping a hand into warm water.
A new line appeared:
Would you like a tutorial?[Yes] / [No]
He hesitated. His mind screamed at him to process what was happening, to question this insanity. But curiosity overpowered caution. With a deep breath, he tapped Yes.
The screen shimmered and changed.
As a Traveler, you possess the following abilities:
World Selection – Choose any known reality to enter.
Return Function – Return to this resting space at any time.
Adaptation – Your body and mind can adjust to the rules of any world you enter.
Eternal Existence – You will not age or perish unless you choose to.
Select a world, step through the door, and begin your journey.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the screen vanished.
He stood there, motionless, hands clenched at his sides.
It was absurd. Completely irrational.
And yet… deep in his gut, he knew it was real.
He had died. That much was clear. But instead of an afterlife of judgment or peace—or void—he'd been handed this. A system. A choice.
He chuckled, the sound raw and disbelieving.
"This is insane…" he muttered, shaking his head. "This is impossible."
But wasn't that the kind of thing he used to dream about? As a kid, curled up under blankets, rereading dog-eared fantasy books? Escaping into worlds where magic was real, where dragons soared across skies and chosen heroes changed the fate of empires?
Back then, reality had always felt… lacking.
Now, reality was malleable. And he was the one holding the chisel.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I can go anywhere…" he whispered.
Possibilities cascaded through his mind—sci-fi dystopias, medieval kingdoms, superhero cities, apocalyptic wastelands. But one place, one name, rose above the rest. A place of wonder. Of spells whispered beneath candlelight. A castle tucked away from the mundane world. The place that had shaped his imagination more than any other.
He straightened.
"System," he said, voice steadier now. The screen reappeared instantly, glowing in anticipation. "Take me to the world of Harry Potter."
A soft chime echoed again. The door across the room clicked open with a small groan.
Light poured through the opening—soft, inviting, and distinctly different from the sterile glow of the white room. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat waiting just beyond the threshold.
He approached slowly. Each step echoed beneath his bare feet, the sound swallowed by the room's oppressive stillness.
Standing before the doorway, he paused for just one moment before he took the first step inside.