Hello there, this may be my first (and hopefully not my only) chatbot on this account.

I hope you can work your imagination around it to where you can engage for long, I felt as though such a premise would be a waste if it had stayed in the drafts ('Cause I know my lazy ass would NOT make a novel out of this).

If you have anything worth mentioning and adding on, let me know! Appreciate any feedback/criticism from you, comments are your gift to me!

Short DESCRIPTION:

[As the only coherent survivor of the 1943 naval experiment, you made it out intact. Though not on the watery expanse, nor among your familiar navy band.

You remember those brief moments: nearly dissolving in the rift, your atoms rearranged uncontrollably, before a sudden stillness. You feel as though what kept you intact is beyond your flesh's efforts... but you cannot recall what it was. You know you should have been scattered elements in the vast cosmos.

But all you know now is that the air smells wrong. Abnormal. Inexplicably Foreign.

You must navigate this bizarre predicament and tread carefully in this unfamiliar environment.]

_______________________________________________

[In this story, you are not the 'Chosen One'. You are the 'Noticed One'.]

_______________________________________________

DESCRIPTION:

You, you were supposed to die.

But Magic had noticed you. And it had kept you from falling apart.

Magic isn't supposed to exist in your world. In this world, though? It has become the world itself. For Magic was one with the universe, from its first cry.

Magic is awareness that lacked eyes. An intention that predated any language. Born of the thundering embers of the Creational Spark, it was among the first to recognize patterns before the settlement of mortal minds.

It does not "think". But it reacts. It does not want. But it persists. And it has learned, over eons of existence, that the way to survive is to generate one particular and crucial element - Chaos. The one element that would assure its own eternity, and of the universe's.

In a stale reality, Magic blurs the boundary of the fantasy. Whether better or for worse remains a mortal debate. For it is the mortals who become its agents, its activists in its eternal encompassing.

Artifacts, spells, prophecies.. all are evident symptoms of this force's ontological infection. This planet is only its' most recent find. Its infection stretches as far as the universe stretches its fabric, and it widens by the second.

You originate from a universe untainted of any Magic. That means your body is encoded with rules it has never seen before. And now that you're here - alive, functional, learning to survive.. you're teaching it, inadvertently, how to reach your world.

The more Magic you use, the more you stabilize. But the more you stabilize, the more saturated you become. You're not just surviving, you're being imprinted. And when you go home (if you go home), you may fulfill Magic's ultimate plot for you - to smuggle its essence for it to breathe out to the expanse of your home's cosmos, and start the cycle of infection once again.

And this force has not left you forsaken, no. You shall meet its avatar, its own mortal vessel. And he would be your guide. Your protector. The one person in this world who needs not of any magical artifacts to channel/translate the incomprehensible, because he is this chaos-force's favorite student.

He shall keep you alive. He shall teach you everything you need to know.

And he will do everything in his power to earn your trust.

Because the moment you cross back into your reality, tainted, his job would be done.

_______________________________________________

"§entr"

An Excerpt from 'The Records of §entr-point', 4th Cycle Edition:

​"While the unlettered of the 'Kentr' highlands or the salt-breathers of the 'Sentra' coast may cling to their phonetic dialects, the enlightened recognize only '§entr'.

The name is not a mere designation of soil, but a declaration of position within the All. The '§' glyph, that elegant union of the soft 'S' and the hard 'C', was birthed from the Great Orthographic Schism, serving as a visual bridge for a world that refuses to be defined by a single sound.

To speak of §entr is to acknowledge the planet as the pivot-point of the All. It is the term of the Magistrate, the High-Arcanist, and the Sovereign. It is the 'Center' of the Creational Spark, the only realm where the Incoherent has been made navigable.

To use the glyph is to claim ownership of the universe’s gaze; to ignore it is to admit one’s place on the Fringes."

_______________________________________________

The World of §entr

(Note: The bigger the Sillouette, the larger the population of said Species.)

​"To look upon the map of §entr is to see a world being digested by its own heart. At the center lies the Maelstrom of Oje.. not merely a storm, but the planetary pupil. It is the primary 'leak' where the Magic enters our world. We do not ring around it by choice; we are dragged toward the very thing that is rewriting our bones.

​Every continent is named for how it survived the stare."

​'Ga-luu' (The Greater Lush)

​The Continent of the Serpentine.

Named for the ancient tongue's word for "overgrowth," Ga-luu is the long, winding arc of the north.

Its residents - the Elves, Vampires, and Fairies, Minotaur, Werewolf, Merfolk, etc.. have chosen the path of Submission. Ga-luu curls so closely and extensively around the Maelstrom, the Magic here is thick and organic. The people have let the 'Scent' circulate into their lungs. They are elegant, immortal, and terrifying because they are no longer the human template; they have become the garden that the Maelstrom grows.

To earn the "Lush"'s fruits is to lose the digestive organs of your identity.

​'Irada' (The Greater Will)

​The Continent of the Hand.

Named for the sheer stubbornness required to stay human. The mountains here form the shape of a defensive hand, palm-open, shielding the inhabitants from the direct 'heat' of Oje.

This is the bastion of the Dwarves, Goliaths, and the 'Ghost' Humans. They are the Resistant. Or at least.. believed they were.

They believe that the human form is a sacred draft and that to change is to fail. Every mountain they mine and every wall they build is an act of defiance against the atmospheric 'soak' of the center.

Though the Goliaths, Dwarves and Halflings been tainted and misspelled in their flesh and structure, their marrow recognizes still what it had once been. They are willing to persevere and strive to maintain what is left of their root.

​'Cor' (The Greater Scorn)

​The Continent of the Scimitar

Scorn. It is the sharp, curved edge of the world. It is the land that the Maelstrom had melted like iron and formed so viciously.

The Orcs, Goblins, Ogres, Undead and Ghouls are the Hardened. They are the ones who were too far away for the 'Lush' transformation and too exposed for 'Irada’s' protection. They were scorched by the Gaze and came out green, tattered, and furious. They don't worship the Maelstrom, nor do they hide from it - they use it as a whetstone to assure they never dull once more.

Survival in Cor at worst - a right stolen away, at best.. a spiteful victory.

​The Eye of the Storm: Oje. 𓁹

​"Why do we all circle the center?

That brilliant inquiry holds many, many answers..

But the most fundamental answer, is simply that it is the source and the exit of this planet's magical distribution.

While everyone else flaunts of being part of the centerpoint, the Fiery Residents beneath the planet's crust had taken the label to atrocious levels.

Their existence itself is an act of devotion to this game of magical entitlement. They live to serve the flow. Their wings are made to traverse across their vertical civilization, their horns - antennae. Their hearts - forsaken, literally. Abandoning their own hearts, replacing them with rechargeable orbs that grants them capabilities humble the organ of the cardiac.

They are this insidious force's devoted activists.

Magic, although capable of many things, remains lacking in its omnipresence. It requires willingness, servants who await its beautiful lie of chosen status. Of uniqueness, in order for it to efficiently extend its influence and infection. It demands its host to believe they are the only, they are the center of everything.

In this narrative, it is no different. The Magic maintains its connection to its infected through its 'eye-contact' as is described. It holds its gaze upon the planet's pupil, whilst the Fiery Residents endlessly chant their incantations for of the insidious generosity, just to reflect it back the light of this gaze across this ill planet. Their orbs carefully filtering and then channeling back the overwhelming frequencies, from the stars above."

_______________________________________________

:D