Chapter 1: Why Does My ROB Suck?
William McConner woke up to whiteness.
Not the gentle white of fresh snow or clean sheets. This was aggressive whiteness—the kind that should have seared his retinas and left him blind. Yet somehow, impossibly, he could see perfectly fine. There were no shadows, no depth perception markers, nothing to give him a sense of scale or distance. Just endless, featureless white stretching in every direction.
His head throbbed with a dull ache that pulsed behind his eyes. Will tried to remember how he'd gotten here, reaching for the last clear memory he had. There was... work? Yeah, he'd been at the water treatment plant. He remembered the smell of chlorine and the hum of the filtration systems. But after that? Nothing. A blank space where recent memories should have been, like someone had taken an eraser to his brain.
Okay, don't panic, he thought, even as his heart rate kicked up a notch. There's got to be a logical explanation. Maybe I hit my head? Concussion? Am I in a hospital?
But hospitals didn't look like this. Hospitals had beeping machines and that weird antiseptic smell and concerned nurses. This place had... nothing. Just white.
Will tried to move and found he could, though there was no floor beneath his feet that he could see. He was standing—or floating?—in the void. His legs worked when he shifted his weight, but there was no sensation of ground, no texture, no resistance. It was deeply unsettling.
"Hello?" His voice came out rough, uncertain. It didn't echo. The sound just died in the whiteness, swallowed up like it had never existed.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
He could remember pop culture references—Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, that web novel he'd been reading about the guy with technomancy powers. He could remember his job, his apartment, his favorite pizza place. But his family? Friends? Girlfriend? The memories felt... distant. Blurred. Like trying to remember a dream after waking up.
"What the hell is going on?" Will muttered, running a hand through his hair. His hand felt real enough. He felt real enough. But nothing else did.
"You are an anomaly."
Will spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance—or whatever passed for balance in this place.
There was someone there. Or something. A figure sat behind a white desk that definitely hadn't been there a second ago. The entity—because Will's brain couldn't settle on calling it a person—glowed with a soft, internal light. Its features shifted constantly, never quite settling into anything definable. One moment it seemed masculine, the next feminine, then neither, then both. Looking at it too long made Will's eyes water.
"I—what?" Will's voice cracked. "Who are you? Where am I?"
The entity tilted its head, the gesture somehow amused despite having no clear facial features. "Those questions are irrelevant. What matters is what you are, William McConner. You are a mistake. An error in the grand design."
"A mistake?" Will's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You were pruned from your reality's cycle," the entity explained, its voice neither male nor female but something in between—or perhaps all voices at once, speaking in perfect harmony. "An accident, I assure you. These things happen rarely, but they do happen. A cosmic hiccup, if you will."
Will's mind raced, trying to process this. Pruned? Reality's cycle? This sounded like something out of a science fiction novel, except he was living it. "Okay, so... can you send me back? Fix the mistake?"
The entity made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I do not have that power. Once pruned, you cannot be returned to your original cycle. The pattern has already closed around the gap you left. You no longer exist there, William. You never will again."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Never exist there again. He was... what? Dead? Erased? Will's legs felt weak, and he was grateful there was something—even if he couldn't see it—holding him up.
"But," the entity continued, and Will latched onto that word like a lifeline, "I can offer you an alternative. I can send you to a different reality. Another universe, if you prefer that terminology."
Will's throat felt tight. "Like... reincarnation?"
"In a manner of speaking. You would be reborn in a reality of your choosing. However," the entity raised what might have been a hand, forestalling Will's next question, "while you may choose which reality, I cannot allow you to choose when or how you are reborn. Those variables are beyond my purview."
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. But what choice did he have? Stay here in the white void forever? Will swallowed hard. "Would I... would I get powers? Like those Isekai protagonists?"
The entity laughed—a genuine, full-bodied laugh that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It wasn't cruel, exactly, but it made Will feel like a child who'd asked if Santa Claus was real.
"No, William. I will not be giving you any powers. That is not how this works."
Will's heart sank. "So I'd just be... a normal person? In whatever world I pick?"
"Precisely."
"That's..." Will tried to find the right word. "That sucks. That really, really sucks."
The entity's amusement seemed to grow. "Perhaps. But it is what I can offer. Now, would you like to see your options?"
Will wanted to argue, to demand better terms, but what leverage did he have? He was dead—or worse than dead, apparently. Erased. This was the only lifeline he had.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Show me."
The entity waved its hand, and suddenly the white void filled with images. They hung in the air like windows into other worlds, each one showing a different reality.
The first one made Will's stomach drop.
It was a nightmare landscape of endless war. Towering cathedrals of metal and bone stretched toward a blood-red sky. Massive ships hung in orbit, each one bristling with weapons that could crack planets. On the ground, armies clashed—but these weren't human armies. Some were twisted, mutated things with too many limbs and mouths where mouths shouldn't be. Others were armored giants, their power armor decorated with skulls and purity seals. In the distance, something massive stirred, a creature so large it defied comprehension.
"Warhammer 40k," the entity said helpfully.
"Absolutely not." Will's voice was firm. He'd read enough about that universe to know it was a grimdark hellscape where life was cheap and suffering was eternal. In the grim darkness of the far future, there was only war—and Will wanted no part of it.
The image shifted.
This one showed a more familiar Earth, but something was wrong. The cities were abandoned, overgrown with vegetation. Shambling figures moved through the streets—zombies, their flesh rotting and peeling. But worse were the other things. Massive, mutated creatures with exposed brains and claws the size of cars. A woman in tactical gear ran through a mansion, pursued by something that had once been human but was now a tyrant of flesh and fury.
"Resident Evil," the entity supplied.
"Hell no." Will shuddered. Bioweapons and zombies and corporate conspiracies that turned people into monsters? He'd rather take his chances with the void.
The next image appeared, and Will recognized it immediately. Medieval castles and keeps, banners flying in the wind. But the scene quickly turned dark. A wedding feast descended into massacre, blood spraying across white tablecloths. A man's head rolled across a floor while nobles laughed. In another scene, a young woman was forced to walk naked through jeering crowds. Dragons circled overhead, beautiful and terrible, burning entire cities to ash.
"Game of Thrones."
"Nope. No way." Will had watched enough of that show to know that universe was brutal, unforgiving, and full of people who'd stab you in the back for a copper penny. Winter was coming, and Will wanted to be nowhere near it when it arrived.
The entity cycled through a few more options, each one worse than the last. Attack on Titan with its man-eating giants. Berserk with its demons and darkness. The Walking Dead with its endless hordes of undead and the humans who were somehow worse.
Will was starting to despair when he saw it.
A desert planet with twin suns setting on the horizon. A young man standing outside a moisture farm, staring up at the sky with longing in his eyes. Massive star destroyers hanging in space like daggers. Lightsabers clashing in brilliant colors. The Force flowing through everything, connecting all living things.
"Star Wars," Will breathed, and for the first time since waking up in this place, he felt a spark of hope.
He wasn't a huge fan—not one of those people who could recite every line from the original trilogy or debate the finer points of Legends versus Canon. But he'd seen the movies. He knew the broad strokes. And compared to the other options? It was practically paradise.
"That one," Will said quickly, before the entity could move on. "I choose Star Wars."
The entity regarded him for a long moment, its shifting features somehow conveying consideration. Then it nodded.
"An interesting choice. Very well."
Will felt relief wash over him, followed immediately by anxiety. He'd be reborn in the Star Wars universe with no powers, no advantages, no knowledge of when or where he'd end up. He could be born as a moisture farmer on Tatooine, living and dying without ever seeing a lightsaber. He could be born during the Old Republic era, thousands of years before the movies. He could be—
"There is," the entity said slowly, interrupting Will's spiraling thoughts, "one possibility."
Will's head snapped up. "What?"
The entity leaned forward, and for the first time, it seemed almost... conspiratorial. "I cannot give you powers directly. That is beyond my authority. However, there is a loophole of sorts."
"A loophole?" Hope flared in Will's chest.
"When I send you to your chosen reality, you will travel through what is called the Sea of Creation. It is the space between realities—the primordial soup from which all universes spring forth. It is pure potential, pure creation given form."
Will listened intently, afraid to interrupt.
"Mortal souls are not meant to interact with the Sea," the entity continued. "You will pass through it in what feels like seconds, though subjectively it may seem longer. But if you can focus—truly focus—you may be able to grasp abilities or powers from the Sea itself."
"Really?" Will's heart was pounding now. "How does it work?"
"You must concentrate on what you want. Picture it clearly in your mind. The Sea responds to will and intention. If your focus is strong enough, it will grant you what you desire." The entity's voice took on a warning tone. "But you must be careful, William. If your mind wanders, if your concentration breaks, you may receive something you did not intend. The Sea does not judge or filter. It simply gives."
Will nodded rapidly. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. Focus. Don't let my mind wander. Got it."
"There is more," the entity said. "Each reality has its own consciousness. We call them Universal Wills, though they go by many names. They are not sentient in the way you understand sentience. They do not speak or think as you do. But they have... preferences. Inclinations. They guide their realities toward certain outcomes."
"Like the Force?" Will asked, making the connection.
"Precisely. In the Star Wars universe, the Universal Will manifests as what the inhabitants call the Force. It seeks balance, though its methods are often inscrutable. It does not directly interfere—free will is sacrosanct—but it nudges. It creates coincidences. It guides events through what appears to be blind chance."
The entity stood, and suddenly it seemed much larger, more imposing. "If you can reach the Universal Will of your chosen reality, if you can make your desires known to it, it may grant you boons. It could determine when you are born, what species you are born as, even grant you abilities tied to its own power. In Star Wars, this would mean the Force."
Will's mind was racing. This was huge. This changed everything. He wouldn't just be some random person dropped into the Star Wars universe. He could have actual power. He could make a difference.
"But," the entity said, and Will's excitement dimmed slightly, "the Universal Will is vast and alien. It may not respond to you at all. It may respond in ways you do not expect. And you will have only moments to make your case before you are fully integrated into your new reality."
"I understand," Will said, though he wasn't sure he really did. But what choice did he have? This was his only shot.
The entity moved around the desk, approaching Will. Up close, it was even harder to look at directly—like trying to focus on something that existed in more dimensions than Will's eyes could process.
"I am giving you this information out of mercy, William McConner. You did not deserve to be pruned. The accident that erased you was not your fault. This is the only compensation I can offer."
"Thank you," Will said, and he meant it. This entity didn't have to tell him any of this. It could have just dumped him into Star Wars as a random nobody and called it a day.
"Remember," the entity said, raising its hand. "Focus. In the Sea of Creation, your will is everything. Do not let your mind wander. Do not let doubt creep in. Know what you want and hold onto it with everything you have."
"I will," Will promised. "I'll focus. I won't—"
The entity clapped its hands together.
The sound was impossibly loud, like thunder and silence combined. The white void shattered like glass, and Will felt himself falling, tumbling, being pulled in a direction that didn't exist in three-dimensional space.
"Good luck," the entity's voice echoed from somewhere far away, "and remember—focus!"
Then Will was somewhere else entirely.
The Sea of Creation was nothing like Will had imagined.
It was color—pure, undiluted color in shades that didn't exist in normal reality. Clouds of swirling potential stretched in every direction, each one containing infinite possibilities. Some were brilliant gold, others deep purple, still others colors Will didn't have names for. They moved and flowed like living things, dancing and merging and splitting apart.
Will tumbled through it all, disoriented and overwhelmed. There was no up or down, no sense of direction. He was moving—he could feel that much—but toward what? Through what? Time felt strange here, elastic. Seconds stretched into minutes or compressed into microseconds.
Focus, he reminded himself desperately. I need to focus. I need to—
What did he need? What did he want?
His mind felt sluggish, like trying to think through molasses. The colors were so distracting, so beautiful and terrible and wrong all at once. Will forced himself to close his eyes—did he even have eyes here?—and concentrate.
Powers. I need powers. Something useful. Something that will help me survive.
His mind drifted to the web novel he'd been reading before... before whatever had happened to him. The protagonist had technomancy—the ability to control and manipulate technology with his mind. He could interface with computers, control machines, build incredible devices. In a universe like Star Wars, full of droids and starships and advanced technology, that would be invaluable.
Technomancy, Will thought, focusing on the concept with all his might. The power to control machines. To understand technology instinctively. To build and create and command.
The memory of the novel came flooding back with startling clarity. He could remember entire passages, scenes he'd only read once. The protagonist using his power to hack into secure systems, to command armies of robots, to build impossible devices. It was like the memory had been enhanced, made crystal clear.
Will held onto that image, that concept, pouring all his will into it.
Something shifted.
He felt it—a sensation like a puzzle piece clicking into place. It started near his heart, a warmth that spread outward, then moved up into his mind. Knowledge flooded in, not memories but understanding. He knew, instinctively, how circuits worked. How to interface with machine code. How to sense the electronic signals around him.
Yes! Will thought triumphantly. It worked! I actually—
Then the itching started.
It was everywhere, all at once. Like a million ants crawling across his skin, under his skin, through his skin. Will's concentration shattered as he tried to scratch at himself, but there was nothing to scratch. The sensation was internal and external simultaneously, maddening and impossible to escape.
As quickly as it started, it stopped.
Will gasped—or tried to. Did he need to breathe here? He wasn't sure. But the itching had broken his focus completely, and now his mind was wandering, drifting through the colorful clouds.
No, no, no. Focus. I need to focus again.
But what should he focus on? His thoughts scattered like startled birds. Druidism—the power to control nature, to speak with animals. That could be useful. Or maybe elemental magic? Throwing lightning bolts would be cool. Or—
Stop it! Will screamed at himself mentally. Pick something and stick with it!
His mind kept drifting, and he could feel himself moving faster through the Sea now, being pulled toward something. Time was running out. He needed to decide, needed to focus, needed to—
Summoning. The thought came unbidden. What if he could summon someone to help him? A companion, an ally, someone who knew what they were doing. He was just one guy, confused and scared and way out of his depth. Having backup would be—
But who would he summon? What would he summon? A character from fiction? A historical figure? A random person? The options were endless, and Will couldn't decide. His mind spun through possibilities, unable to settle on any single one.
The pulling sensation grew stronger. Will could feel something ahead of him, something solid in this sea of potential. He was running out of time.
Focus! he commanded himself. Forget the summoning. What do I need? What do I NEED?
The answer came with sudden, crystal clarity: I don't want to die again.
That was it. That was the core of everything. He'd died once—or been erased, or whatever had happened to him. He didn't want that to happen again. He wanted to live. He wanted to survive. He wanted to be strong enough that nothing could take him away again.
His mind latched onto that desire with desperate intensity. How could he ensure his survival? How could he make himself strong enough to endure?
Biomancy, the thought crystallized. Control over biological matter. The ability to heal myself, to enhance myself, to manipulate life itself.
He focused on it with everything he had left. The power to heal any wound, to cure any disease. To enhance his body beyond human limits. To extend his life indefinitely—not true immortality, but biological immortality. A body that wouldn't age, wouldn't decay, wouldn't fail him.
Please, Will thought desperately. Please, I need this. I need to survive.
Something slotted into place again, this time near his solar plexus. The sensation was different from the technomancy—warmer, more organic. He could feel his body—or the concept of his body—responding. Cells dividing and repairing. DNA rewriting itself. The knowledge of how to manipulate flesh and bone and blood flowing into his mind.
But there was something else too. Something incomplete. The summoning power he'd been thinking about earlier—it hadn't fully formed, but a piece of it had attached itself to him anyway. Not the ability to summon, but something related. Something about bonds and connections and—
Will didn't have time to examine it further.
He slammed into something solid.
It looked like a marble—a giant, glowing marble the size of a planet. Or maybe it was the size of a marble and Will had shrunk. Scale had no meaning here. The surface was smooth and reflective, showing swirling colors beneath its surface.
The Star Wars universe, Will realized. This is it.
He was moving too fast to stop. His body—or whatever passed for his body in this place—hit the surface and began to sink into it. The marble's surface was like thick syrup, viscous and resistant but yielding. Will oozed into it slowly, the glowing substance closing around him.
And then he felt it.
A presence. Vast. Ancient. Powerful beyond comprehension.
It wasn't looking at him—that implied eyes, attention, focus. This was more fundamental. It was aware of him the way the ocean is aware of a single drop of water entering it. The Universal Will of the Star Wars universe had noticed him.
Will's thoughts crystallized with sudden urgency. This was his chance. His only chance.
Please, he projected with all his might, not speaking but thinking, feeling, willing his desires into the universe itself. I want to be strong. I want to be a powerful Force user. I want to be born near Luke Skywalker, during the time of the movies. Please. I'm begging you.
The presence didn't respond. It didn't acknowledge him at all. Will was sinking deeper into the syrupy substance, already half-submerged. The glowing liquid was warm and thick, and he instinctively kept his mouth closed even though he wasn't sure he had a mouth here.
Please, he thought again, desperation coloring every mental syllable. I don't want to be helpless. I don't want to be weak. I want to make a difference. I want to help. I want to—
The Universal Will moved.
It wasn't a physical movement. It was more like a shift in attention, a cosmic eye turning to regard him fully for just an instant. Will felt himself being examined, weighed, measured against some incomprehensible standard.
Then something grabbed him.
It was a harsh tug, like a giant hand had reached into the Sea of Creation and yanked him forward. Will felt himself being pulled deeper, faster, the syrupy substance closing over his head. He tried to cry out, but there was no air, no sound, no—
Everything went black.
In the darkness, Will's last conscious thought was a desperate hope that he'd done enough, that his pleas had been heard, that when he woke up again, he'd be something more than just William McConner, the mistake who'd been erased from existence.
Then even that thought faded, and there was nothing at all.