You’re Elemental Typo
You get /one/.
Coronal Mass Injection
In place of human blood, your veins are filled with the blood of stars- billions of tons of million-degree plasma, the entirety of some alien sun’s corona. It would be unseemly for one’s blood to kill or debilitate oneself by its basic nature alone, and so you necessarily acquire perfected astral might sufficient to live normally under these conditions. This is the resilience necessary for even your most delicate arteries to comfortably endure the absurd weight and heat and pressure of your internal corona, and the strength to carry all your mass and utterly deny the normal gravitational consequences of packing it so densely. Against such physical primacy, all the arsenals of humanity are but useless.
Your new blood enriches your constitution. Obviously, no normal disease or poison could withstand the internal conditions of your body, and cancers and other mortal flaws do not retain your natural protections, leaving them to be burnt to less than ash. Your new metabolism unites the greatest benefits of man and star, the twinned capacity to sustain yourself on your plasmatic blood alone and to naturally recover as much as a tenth of your blood- close to a billion tons of starstuff- each month only the most obvious synergies. Aging will not be any concern for some billions of years yet.
Any cum, milk, or other bodily fluid you produce is subtly tinged by stellar incandescense at no cost, and you may actively discharge any quantity of your blood through these vectors. Just as it would be unseemly for your blood to harm you, these plasmatic releases will never harm a sexual partner, damage a vessel meant to store them, or otherwise damage something you would wish protected, though their full fury remains otherwise available to power mechanisms or sear away filth. Filling an olympic swimming pool to capacity with cum as bright and warm as the noonday sun, that will remain so for decades to come, would be an utterly trivial expenditure. Any person who takes in your starblood-enriched sexual fluids is empowered in direct proportion to the quantity they consume, their blood permanently enriched in an echo of your own elemental ascension. Though giving blood does not cause any lasting diminishment, starblood based augmentation can never on its own grant someone more than a twentieth of the donor’s might.
With decades to centuries of diligent experimentation and vast expenditures of your blood, you may learn to precipitate from it tiny quantities of the seventeen Solar Derivatives. Ten million tons of starblood might barely be enough to transmute a single droplet of the incomparable medicine that is Plasmatic Amber, an endless wellspring of all-encompassing health and life-affirming fortune that is to the fountain of youth what the fountain of youth is to a nutritious diet. Tenfold that to etch a small object with traces of Pearlescent Iridium, causing its effectiveness to trend endlessly upwards with the passage of time, a new iteration of itself layered atop the whole year after solar year until it is a hundredfold, a thousandfold, a trillionfold greater. Aurumite, whose density increases inexorably, that creates value equivalent to its weight in gold each dawn, dispersing it through and into economic systems in order to conjure a commensurate amount of new but indisputably real and valid currency. Sunstone, the ever-growing crystal that shines with and only with its own inner radiance, that comes in as many unique emission spectras as there are stars in the night sky, that may be used by the inhumanly ingenious to construct Reality Matrices that impose novel sets of fundamental physics within their confines.
All ice and snow is transmuted into the decadent Whorefrost, an emanation of your desires expressed through elemental Frost and Whore. The power you hold over this substance is near absolute, but the manners in which it can be exerted are rigidly constrained. You have no capacity for brute cryokinesis, cannot command water to freeze or conjure your Frost from thin air, will never be able to extend it beyond its conceptual domain. The most profound of heavenly ices turns to Whorefrost just as easily as filthy slush by the side of a road, but no amount of development will allow you to argue that stone is a frozen form of magma, and thereby suborn all rock. What you can do is command your Frost, as a god-king would their unquestioning subjects, and lend it strength from an inexhaustibly cold and slutty well so that it may fulfill those commands. Were you to tell an iceberg to stop melting, mere molten rock would be insufficient to free a single drop of liquid water; a snowball could last for long ages in hell. At your order, ice will refuse to harm a human, snow will act as warm and comfortable bedding, roving hailstorms will quash hurricanes before they can form, glaciers melt into the shapes of grandiose palaces, a billion billion drifting flakes of Frost gather and sort all the secrets of the world for you to peruse.
It is a simple matter to rouse your element, transitioning it from a thing primarily of Frost to a thing primarily of Whore, no more or less powerful but better suited for dynamic action. Creating beautiful and sexually talented Whorefrost golems is, for you, as easy as reaching into any sufficiently large accumulation of Whorefrost and pulling them free. Were this the only way to produce them, their numbers would be painfully limited, but they can instigate the formation of new golems anywhere there is Whorefrost via any act that evokes elemental Whore. Fucking whoever is willing is the fastest way to increase their numbers, but even having them act as models and actors and street art that only ever fucks you will allow them to multiply exponentially. This is not limited by the local population- countless alien worlds and distant dimensions are within the reach of your Whorefrost, allowing you to eventually transform entire polar icecaps into billions of beautiful servants to your will.
Any creature coated in an obscuring layer of Whorefrost may be transformed by it. A woman might try to brush off a mound of snow clinging mysteriously to her body, only to find it has become but a thin icy glaze over her now very nude and unrealistically voluptuous figure. Sharp senses and a focused mind may hold such changes at bay, but a moment’s distraction and a coating of Whorefrost are all you need to inflict any manner of cosmetic alteration, barriers of sex or species or physical plausibility irrelevant. Such sudden transformations do not meaningfully effect functionality, allowing a twelve-foot dick to not immobilize you and to fit safely and pleasurably in an ordinary woman, but useful augmentation is possible with greater investments of time and Whorefrost. Through the interface of direct physical contact, frost can be forced into the space between body and spirit, where it dissolves into controllable emanations of elemental Frost and Whore. Emanations of Frost directly, permanently augment their bearer’s basic parameters in simple but supernaturally-efficacious ways, sheer potency scaling linearly with the quantity present with no upper bound. Emanations of Whore amplify sexual vulnerabilities and enforce ‘whorish’ behaviour, in a similarly permanent and scaling manner. However, emanations of Frost and Whore are generated in equivalent quantity, and the Whorefrost offers no means of purging either. In the process of attaining perfected superspeed to outrace sound, you might develop a need to orgasm ten times per day and become incapable of speaking in a non sexually-provocative manner without expending quite a bit of willpower.
With exponentially greater extremes of cold and pressure, you may condense Whorefrost into an endless procession of metastable allotropes, the Frozen Sequence. The effectiveness of the Frozen Sequence scales quadratically as you push deeper, each allotrope superior to the last. Though set in stone once the first sample is produced, the properties of the materials of the Frozen Sequence are ultimately derived from your own identity. You will never discover an allotrope whose magic you, at the time of discovery, find wholly useless or detestable. However, you are effectively guaranteed to never come across a number of highly desirable effects, barring some repeated drastic personality changes on your part. Even as it provides exotic ices that directly bolster the pyromancy you picked up elsewhere, the Sequence might never give you a decent means of long-distance communication.
The Divine Breathe
With each breath, you exhale immeasurable quantities of the blessed atmosphere of a heavenly realm.
In one quick puff, you can produce enough of this undying air to envelop all of Earth. Extrapolating from this datapoint is a waste of time; mundane limitations of volume and seperation are all but irrelevant to even this gossamer-thin veil of divine freedom. Wherever you or your people go, this holy wind will be with them. Beyond the most obvious utility of your breath as a timelessly pure and healthy atmosphere, it loosens the harsh shackles of past and future. Even where they manage to retain absolute accuracy, methods of pre and post -cognition are blurred, cracks opened for free will to fill. And, from the fog of history, beings that never were may be reborn.
Shortly after you release your first breath, beautiful goddesses in breathtaking variety will begin to emerge. They are not created by your power, yet it is only within the boundaries of your wind that they can act or exist, that their irreconcilable histories are more than myth. Though no force twists their minds or constrains their actions, their natures are such that they will never commit any act you would categorically refuse to either perform yourself or demand from another. Each and every one of them happens to be a perfect romantic and sexual counterpart for you, any incompatibilities merely superficial deception. Their unending devotion to you, in whatever form that takes, is an inevitability. The divine now breathe once more, and as the prophecy foretold, if she breathes, she’s a thot.
Your wind is only sufficient to maintain a single complete godhood. To do much more for her worshippers than serve as a glorified phone line, a goddess must claim some portion of that godhood’s conceptual territory, be it by battle or bargain. There can be any number of goddesses of love, but at any given time only one can rule over love, and thereby grant miracles that fall within love’s remit. So long as a situation invokes a goddess, by worship or icon or narrative resonance, miracles relevant to the situation may be granted. What is happening elsewhere, the number of miracles being granted, has zero impact: a goddess’ power and attention cannot be reduced to measurable quantities. Only the magnitude of the invocation constrains the significance of the miracle, only the ephemeral nature of wind its depth and permanence. Advanced theotech can push the limits of technology far forwards, miracles can be invoked like spells by learned theurgists, the layout of cities or geography of nations painstakingly changed to invoke blessings upon their entirety. Of course, should a goddess lose her conceptual territory, the work of civilizations could become useless in an instant. Or, should a goddess turn against those who relied so much on her…
The site of a goddess’ emergence is the point of entry for a debatably real alien timeline. Structured reality is harmed by this intrusion, in a way that cannot be remedied while the goddess that caused it continues to exist. This wound manifests as cracks in the sky, bleeding liquid causality into irreal springs below. To drink of the ambrosial substance that pools at each fountain is to claim power over causality itself, as if the endstate entropy brings all things towards could be rewritten in your favor- absurd, of course. Each fountain grants pilgrims to it a permanent blessing, matched to the goddess whose emergence created it. Two thirds reality warping and two thirds sheer skill, this is a highly metaphysically resilient provision of raw talent, inspired genius, supernatural effectiveness and untapped potential, reifying some category of ability no broader than Archery. Without any prior ability, a single blessing can leave you an Olympic contender, but with skill and knowledge comes the potential to ape some limited subset of the relevant goddess’s mythologized abilities. This is deeply exhausting on multiple levels, but allows a master archer to deflect much of a nuclear weapon’s blast with a well-placed arrow.
In a saner universe, damage to reality wouldn’t manifest as cracks in the sky, and causality wouldn’t take on a physical form semi-evolved apes can scoop up and drink. It is personhood, and all its little insanities, that allow any blessings to be claimed at all, but this force is typically finite. As the number of existant blessings approaches the number of people within your atmosphere, the difficulty of claiming new blessings and perceiving fountains asymptotically approaches infinity. An egalitarian society would allow each person one blessing, but the sufficiently ambitious could seize a blessing each from many fountains well before the supply starts to run dry.
The uncertainty your breath introduces is ultimately a positive, or at least ‘creative’, force. Where the exact contents of a container are vague, new objects may randomly fluctuate into existence. Stemming from strange counterfactual realities, devoid of that spark that allows creativity and questioning, all such items are at least somewhat peculiar. It will still be soda that appears in a cooler of drinks, and still be clothing that appears in your wardrobe, but mispelled brand names, bizarre design choices, and blatant fetishization are the least of the oddities. Nothing formed in this way is of any great power or significance, but most will have some flavor of anomalous magic. Used as intended, this will be purely beneficial, but attempts at exploitation inevitably lead to perverse side effects. Eating a tube of magical lipstick might heal a bullet wound, but it will also leave you with the plush lips of a complete bimbo.
You become the newest eyelet of the Font of Cool. Never more than a few steps away is the opening your life maintains, a foreboding chasm deeper than the milky way is wide. A man could spend a quintillion years descending its depths and never come close to reaching the Font of Cool. Even the limited vapors of Cool wafting from it passively allow for new glories- implausibly effective mecha, swordsmen more dangerous than machineguns. Cool is not a resource that you use up, or a material you bind into a creation, but rather a quality like temperature or gravity. With this localized alteration of fundamental logic, a mundane genius might build flight-capable powered armor in a cave, from a box of scraps. Your initial output, confined to a small island, would take scarcely a year to turn Castaway into Rust, to create a place so Cool a half-dozen stranded office workers could raise a stone castle almost overnight.
Serving as one of the Font of Cool’s eyelets confers a powerful ablative conceptual defense. You may freely and reflexively displace ‘harm’- including all types of injury and affliction- between different components of your self. This is sufficiently effective that diving into a black hole is unlikely to cause even momentary pain, spaghettification and worse released to the inordinately vast masses of stone lining your greater form. Similarly, you may freely and reflexively detach non-vital component pieces from your coherent self: abandon a diseased arm, escape a cursed undead body, ensure any part of you a touch-of-death attack reaches is no longer, in fact, a part of you. Even a soul-deep curse might be escaped by relocating it to less critical spiritual organs and excising them. Though the Degenerate Chasm Defense cannot transform harm- a cut is still a cut, and a psychic infection is still a psychic infection- it remains equally effective against even very abstract kinds of harm. If you create a sufficiently robust alternate identity, you can transfer criminal charges or social disapproval to it; if you control multiple units in a computer game, you can trade health and debuffs between them and technically it isn’t cheating, the tournament organizer has to back you on this.
Adventuring downwards through ever higher concentrations of Cool allows the rapid accumulation of power, divergent from simply training in even very Cool locales. The Descending Aspiration Ordeal is reliant on the process of adventure, making it somewhat difficult to render faster or safer without greatly diminishing the benefits. And it is not safe. Your mine, your connection to the Font of Cool itself, is no straight path. It twists and spirals, thickens and narrows, branches fractally into countless misleading deadends, always curving downwards, downwards. Neither is it without obstacle. The Cool Mine increasingly takes on qualities of an Abyss as you descend, hindering most forms of travel, communication, and perception. Cool rises as you approach the Font, allowing the terrain of your hole greater freedom from practical and logical limitations. The illusion of mundane caverns disappears barely fifty kilometers below the surface, overtaken by twilit forests. Within the first ten thousand kilometers, an explorer can find places where slick, quivering flesh replaces cold stone. Your passage, for all its stretches of desolation, contains an incredible quantity of life and people. Slimes and skeletons, orcs and goblins, succubi and elementals, a veritable monster manual of creatures and peoples. Sufficient Cool can render empty mountainside into sprawling necropolises filled with undead, as easily as it grows precious ores or allows a silent silver palace to solidify from moonbeams. Growing through adventure is not the steady development of diligent study and exercise, but advancement in bursts and surges. Killing a monster, eating the strange fare of the depths, or claiming some mysterious artifact can produce an instant increase in capability. Conceptual amplification of basic physical might or sheer intelligence, evolution of the eyes into orbs that erode darkness and invisibility and illusion alike, instant acquisition of honed ability that should have been years in the making, even the development of minor magics- medical theurgy, thunder bloom, dilation, potion crafting, etc. Should they survive, an adventurer can reasonably expect a powerup of this sort every month, growth that approaches the truly exponential.
The most immediately noticeable effect of heightened Cool is a sort of quickening. Construction projects are completed far ahead of schedule, forests stretch back towards their primeval heights, even human acquisition of knowledge and skill is somewhat accelerated. A civilization that adapts well to this could complete a year’s labors in the span of a month; a civilization that adapts poorly could be overtaken by the wild. At higher thresholds of Cool, the world begins to take on a more grandiose form. Landscapes are stretched, plains made vaster and mountains taller; with unreal Coolness, two trees in a backyard could unfold into a sprawling forest. Natural resources and environmental hazards scale upwards in quantity and quality, and adjust to the societies that would make use of them. An industrial society finds veins of unnaturally pure ore, and beasts of living rock; the people of a spacefaring civilization find useful anomalies.
Cool’s influence raises limits and mitigates complications, at first subtly and then very blatantly. What should be body-destroying training pays off in spades, a tool for welding steel plate performs serviceably in microchip assembly, skills that have been mastered are taken even further beyond. A populace inhabiting Cooler lands is inevitably Cooler for it, greater in their creations and personal ability and even lifespans. The product of development under Cool’s influence is not reliant on Cool- superhuman physicality persists, and ridiculous technology continues to outperform its ‘practical’ counterparts.
Scholars of supremely Cool ability may glean a secret understanding from studying the geometries of the Cool Mine, discovering, piece by piece, Edge Magic. Edge Magic is a powerful and versatile magic system, capable at its higher reaches of true resurrection, perfect teleportation, the creation of pocket universes, and the crude manipulation of Cool to heighten or diminish its local presence. Casting an Edge costs only pain proportional to its power, and requires only comprehension and sufficient local Coolness. Permanency is as simple as the tiniest twist, a Scar instead of an Edge, and such enchantments once set are both excruciatingly difficult to remove and unreliant on Cool. You have some advantage in discovering and mastering Edges.
(Optional, mystery box)
Pack your bags.
You’re going to Worm.
This is a Worm CYOA now.
You are isekai’d to a setting of your choice that contains some great catastrophe or primary antagonist thematically opposed to your own chosen element.
As long as you can make an argument towards the validity of your choice, it’s fine.
The three unchosen elements are given over to three horny internet dwellers.
None of them ‘eviller’ than you, but also none more responsible and disposed to considering the consequences of their actions than you.
Your world is moved to a privileged position in its local multiverse.
Natives of your world are heavily resistant to ‘foreign’ powers, and are extremely difficult to kill permanently when visiting other worlds.
Non-natives in your world and all their creations become vulnerable to suppression of their abilities, outright banishment, and numerous forms of binding; none of which requires supernatural backing beyond this multiversal high ground itself.