After dedicating three decades of his life to football and achieving his goals, Thomas had finally retired from sports. His passion and power had both diminished from what they were in his prime.
But even after living for 35 years, he didn't have any regrets or blame anyone for anything.
A supportive, beautiful—not in looks, but in heart—wife, a 10-year-old son to whom he had to pass down his techniques, and a two-year-old daughter, still wondering what to do in her life.
They had been living a peaceful life so far, looking forward to what the future held for them.
After reaching the crosswalk, they stood there, waiting for the green light.
Thomas was chatting with his family, smiling, when his ear twitched. In the midst of the noisy surroundings, all sounds seemed to have faded away, time seemed to have stopped or slowed down, and the only thing he kept hearing was the sound of a ball dropping on the ground.
Dab dab
“Dude, can you give that ball?" Thomas turned to the call; it was a boy from the other side of the street, waving his hand.
Thomas lifted his daughter and placed her on the ground. "It's been a while," he smiled, staring at the ball.
With his gaze fixed on the ball, he walked, then ran, increasing his pace as he got closer.
He planted his left foot two feet from the ball and swung his right leg forward.
But unlike on the field, his smile faded instead of turning into a grin. “So this is what happens when your passion dies?"
“Mr. Unknown, what are you doing?" It was the same boy again. Thomas looked at him, then looked ahead—he had never kicked the ball properly, and instead, it had rolled into the street.
He ran for the ball again, but the smile never reappeared. This time, instead of kicking it directly, he lifted it into the air.
As he looked up at the ball, making sure no mistakes occurred, the boy looked at his face carefully. "Shit, no way," he said, holding his head before a grin appeared on his face. "That's Thomas!"
He then turned around and shouted, “Hey guys, come here, it's—” He turned back to see his idol but remained speechless, his mouth open. The ball had somehow come into his hands, but he still kept staring.
Another boy came running towards him and looked at his agape face. “What happened? Why did you call us?” Following him, a few more boys arrived.
“I saw Thomas,” he said slowly, his eyes wide.
“Thomas who?”
“The soccer player. I don't know his surname either—it was hard to pronounce, so I forgot.”
“Are you serious?” said the other boy, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “Where is he?”
“He died. A truck driver killed him.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
…
Thomas, whose consciousness had vanished in the blink of an eye, was gradually becoming aware again. He first felt his existence, then he felt his glutes on a soft object. Sofa? Then a surging light forced him to blink multiple times before he covered his eyes.
He looked around for a few seconds before realizing that he was in a cubic room with no doors or windows, lights on the ceiling, walls painted white, two sofas on either side and a dining table in the middle, dividing the whole room.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" Thomas shouted, then murmured while looking around, "What is this place? Where the hell am I?”
He shouted again.
“If this is one of those prank shows where they trap famous people, make them think they’re dead, and throw dumb questions at them—then listen up, I never cheated on my wife!"
"Whoa whoa, calm down."
Thomas spun around at the voice. A man in his 30s, clad in white, a fork in his hand, and an otherworldly energy escaping from both him and his clothing.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Noticing the fork, Thomas looked down. The once-empty table was now filled with countless dishes. Thomas glanced over the table, and as far as it stretched, every dish was made from chicken.
Roast chicken, fried chicken, rotisserie chicken, and more…
"That's… chickens," Thomas said, dumbfounded by the sight before him.
"You want some?" the random guy said, passing a dish whose name was even unknown to Thomas.
“Pu… put that down, stay away from me," Thomas declined, jumping onto the sofa, closer to the wall. "Seriously? What are you? A chicken addict?"
"What are you saying? This isn't what you should say," said the guy. That was weird, wasn't it?
Thomas felt strange, as if the chicken addict wasn’t even a real person. As if someone was forcing him to talk, someone manipulating him. "That's weird," he muttered, as if the man… was a marionette.
Thomas looked up, feeling a greater presence from above. Although he couldn't see anything but the ceiling, he could sense the irritation of someone who was outside the cube—something more than chicken…
"Who is there? Show your face," Thomas shouted, narrowing his eyes.
Someone outside the room—outside the universe, the dimension, existence itself—sat somewhere, maybe on a chair, inside a dark room. The room had nothing special, except it was extremely dark.
An unknown person. Their eyes were covered in darkness, their mouth betraying their expression.
"What the hell is happening? Why isn't he moving according to my will? Am I affected by some kind of mental illness? Am I going to die? But I haven’t even made my parents proud yet," the being muttered, pressing his temples with both hands.
"I can feel you. You're right there. What are you? Where am I?" Thomas turned to look at the chicken addict.
But… there was no one. Not even chickens.
It was only him, in the middle of nowhere.
"What is this place now? Where the fuck am I?" Thomas screamed.
"What the fuck are you?" the outer being screamed.
Thomas, even though he didn’t hear anything normally, felt everything entering his brain directly.
"I should be the one asking all this. Am I having a fucking illusion? But I was always mentally healthy," Thomas said, looking at both of his hands.
"Fuuuuck," the upper being screamed, scratching his face.
The inner being screamed, holding his head, kneeling on the ground.
"Fuuuuuck."
"FUUUUUUCK."
"FUUUUUUUCK."
"WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME?" the outer being screamed.
"Why the fuck are you doing this to me?"
"FUUUUUUUCK."
"FUUUUUUUUCK."
The upper being stopped, facepalmed, and rubbed his face, then calmed himself. "Breathe in… breathe out….." He removed his hands and tried focusing again.
Thomas, from the middle of nowhere, found himself back in the cubic room.
He turned towards the sofa on the other side of the table, not expecting to see the chicken addict.
This time, he was indeed there, with a big, wide mouth, ready to swallow a living chicken.
The chicken’s left eye met Thomas's, and they stared at each other in silence until the chicken crowed.
"FUUUUUUUUU…."
"FUU—"
Someone in the outer being's realm smashed open the door. "Shut the fish up."
The being looked back, ignoring Thomas's scream. "What the heck is wrong with you? Stop cursing, let everyone sleep, or we will kick you out," she slammed the door back before leaving.
Thomas, noticing that the other person had quieted down, stayed silent for a few seconds, then tried sensing the other guy’s presence. "...Fuck?"
The word hung in silence.
After a minute of waiting, a weird smile appeared on his face. "Haha… I won. Yeah, I won the fuck battle! Zuuuuuui!" Thomas celebrated his victory, striking his signature pose.
He kept celebrating, screaming, then put his hand to the back of his ear, hoping to hear the audience—but the silence answered.
Thomas stood in silence, confused. "Hello? Where did you go? Whoever you are?" He waited, but silence answered.
He wandered aimlessly, searching for something. "Come on, there has to be an end somewhere. Where's the exit?" His narrowed eyes widened, and he spun his head, lips parted to speak, but a calm, composed voice cut in.
Thomas didn’t bother screaming either. What was the point? They were both lost. "I don't know, you tell me. From what I remember, I... I was about to kick a ball, then what happened? Where is this place? Is this even Earth?"
Thomas’s eyes widened even further. "Did Earth get destroyed? Are we on Mars?"
No…" The outer sighed, shaking his head. "That would take a long time."
He paused as a thought entered his mind. It took him a moment to process it all before he said, "You said you were kicking a ball? Did you just retire from football a few months ago? Forward player… number 10?"
Thomas frowned. "Yeah, that's me. I'm Thomas, Thomas Szczepanowski. Wait—"
A sudden thought hit him. "Am I being kidnapped by aliens for my performance in the World Cup?"
"No, no, no. That can't be it. I must be dreaming," he muttered before slapping himself. "That hurt…"
"What do you mean? What's happening? Tell me! Who are you? Where am I?" Thomas shouted into the emptiness.
A deep breath followed before the voice finally answered. "I think… I think you died."
"I… What?"
"Died."
Thomas kneeled down to the ground and lowered his head. "What would happen to my son, daughter? What would happen to my wife?"
Thomas lifted his head slowly, looking at the nothingness with a concerned face. He said, "She…. Would?"
"Yes… but…"
"Yes?"
A flower appeared in front of Thomas, drifting downward. His eyes followed it until he noticed the candles surrounding him.
Thomas looked up again as a soft bell chime echoed in the empty space.
Thomas lowered his gaze, sorrow filling the void around him once more.
Thomas looked at the candle silently.
Outer stayed silent, knowing his joke didn’t work. He shouldn't have tried to make a joke, then the insider lifted his head and said, "Wait, so you are the god?"
"Ohh… you are… Jesus…?"
The writer looked at the laptop, not knowing what to say or think.
The person in front of the laptop covered his face, shoulders relaxed and inhaled air. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not, I'm not… I'm not God." He planted his hand on the desk. "You are in a story."
"I know, there would be a story in my name but…"
"That's what I said, didn't I?" he said before placing his finger on his chest. "Someone is writing a novel about me—."
"My bad, I guess I did lose my mind? Can you explain one more time?" Thomas asked, scratching his tilted head.
The boy exhaled sharply and composed himself. Breathe in, breathe out… Then he looked up and said,
Thomas’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. "Wait… is this some kind of transmigration?" His lips curled into a grin.
"Yes..". Outer mumbled. "Imagine it like you transmigrated into a fantasy world." He gestured toward his laptop. And I'm the god... kinda like a god, the writer, he added, pointing at himself.
"Ohh. Now I get it. So I've been transmigrated into a fantasy novel, and you're the author," Thomas said, moving his head back and forth, arms crossed.
"Yes, yes, there's more depth, but let's go with this for now," Outer sighed in relief, nodding slowly with a small smile.
"Then why didn't you just tell me directly?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, no—are you kidding me?" Thomas said, staring into the distance with narrowed eyes. "If you had told me I was sent to another world by a god to save it—all that hero stuff—maybe I'd believe you, but inside a novel? Are you serious?"
"I know it's hard to believe," Outer muttered, staring blankly at the air for a few seconds before speaking again. "I don't know how this is happening either."
Thomas side-eyed him, scratching his head. "I don't know… Maybe I'm just dreaming. I'll probably wake up in a few minutes."
Outer clenched his fist, his teeth grinding behind a forced smile. "Alright, let me help you wake up. If I'm right… then I… should be… able… to…"
Suddenly, the air around him filled with the smell of chicken shit. A lot of cooked chickens surrounded
him and started attacking. A chicken addict with chicken in his mouth. Chickens playing football. Oh no, he was now sitting on a chicken?
The outer, put both of his hand in front, a menace grin streched across his face, “Let me help you wake up,”