Short answer, no, it wasn’t time quite yet. Long answer…I anxiously raked my grimy fingers through my hair, the sensation of the dirt under my nails oddly grounding, while my right foot tapped furiously against the floor, betraying the chaos inside my mind. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Would there be another notification, some kind of prompt to guide me? Or would it be as cryptic and unhelpful as the last one, leaving me stranded in my own uncertainty?
I couldn’t trust myself, not with important decisions. Nor could I reasonably trust others. I’d been left to my own devices before, and that never ended well. That always led me down a familiar, unproductive path, a dead end. I let out a long yawn, my body protesting the stress I’d been under, and glanced down at myself, half-expecting to see blood. But there wasn’t any. Surprising, but I wasn’t about to question it. Not right now.
Wait... That’s it! My mind snapped to attention. If this "system" could track everything I say, punish me when I try to downplay it, then surely it could answer questions, right? If it had that much control, then maybe it could actually help.
“Oh, great system, may I ask thee a few simple ponderings of mine?” I nervously voiced in a way I’d imagine a gentleman from the 1500’s saying. It was just another step in my awful attempt to be extra formal without knowing a thing about real formalities. The system didn’t seem to care that much.
[You already have. And that is the general point of this effective tutorial. To learn.]
“Thank you for your generosity. What is this path that I am supposed to find?” My voice cracked as I queried this, a fact I would prefer to not reminisce about.
[It is your path to survival, to power, to growth. This will manifest itself as your Class or Profession. To have this manifestation occur, you must first create Echoes from self-learned skills.]
“What are Echoes, may I ask? And how do I learn skills? Still seems a bit vague.”
[Know your place, young one. You, who sees life through such a straightforward and myopic lens, attempting to justify every action falsely. Trying to vilify another of your species who is clearly mentally disabled, unwell and unstable simply for indulging in the thrill of the kill, a common occurrence in the wider multiverse. I must assume you can see how his intelligence is highly subpar your species’ average based on the quality of his speech. Holding incorrect information that you turned into your entire worldview. You needn’t know everything and you will learn nothing if you speak to your betters in such a casual manner.]
“I’m deeply sorry, please forgive this meager servant!” I whimpered, dropping to my knees without hesitation, groveling aimlessly since I had no idea where the system actually resided. My voice wavered with desperation as I pressed my palms into the cushion, my forehead nearly touching the same spot. I’d already experienced the agony for a much smaller offense, and I wasn’t eager to find out what worse would feel like. Death wasn’t exactly on my to-do list. Still, despite my fear, I often found myself selectively ignoring what the system told me—when it suited me, anyway.
[I must commend you, however. Of the other denizens of your planet, you are among the top 1% of immediate subservience even with your minor mistakes. Out of your galaxy, you remain in the top 63.12%, and in your universe, the top 79.84358901%.]
“Wait, so there’s other life out there?”
[Of course! I did not perceive you to be one of such idiocy.]
I just bowed my head and accepted the verbal abuse.
“Am I to attempt to learn skills within this space? However that may be?”
[Only the bare necessities. You have until the completion of stage 2.]
I then wanted to ask, ‘What’s stage 3 then?’ but restrained myself in order to not annoy the same system that could kill me easily at any second and probably was having a similar conversation with billions of others on Earth; and who knows how many others with the revelation of other life in our universe and even our galaxy existing. I shivered, finally noticing just how cold it was in this foggy space. So cold, frigid, smoke enveloping me in chills, and…I’m not okay. Shit, man. Why does life have to fucking be like this? Right now, I noticed the funny little wisp of melancholy wandering around my mind and infiltrating every thought.
I massaged my forehead gently, trying to fend off a headache that I could already see creeping in from miles away, the pressure building behind my eyes. Then, with a quick flick of my middle finger against the center of my forehead, I bounced it off in a playful motion, expanding my hand outward like a tiny explosion. It was a gesture I used to do when I was younger, something I’d fallen into when I felt down, lying on my bed at home, staring up at the ceiling. A brief chuckle escaped me, but it quickly morphed into something louder, harsher—half-sarcastic, half-sadistic. My laughter echoed in the cold, foggy air, growing louder with every breath, the strain in my vocal cords making it feel like they were going to snap under the pressure. I breathed in the cool, crisp air heartily, eyes bulging out of their sockets.
“Can I please just go back to my apartment?!” I whisper shouted, biting my lip until just the same as almost every other part of my body in the past little while, it bled too.
I still kneeled on those bland, worn-out cushions, the perfect place to take out my frustrations. Slamming my unprotected fists into the soft, spongy surface couldn’t hurt, surely. So, I did just that, driving my fists into the cushion’s forgiving material, as I mentioned just a second ago. Assuming you’re paying attention.
“Do you hate me, system dude? Or…system chick? You clearly had some reason to put me and Greg in the same forest by the same teleportation point.”
[I can hardly be described as a being close to some concept of a gender. You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson about formality but I will kindly not press the point further. I do not hate you as I do not hate anyone. Everything is simply a probability and a statistic and you appear to be unlucky. The chance of you ending up at the same relative location was just as lucky as you encountering your dead relatives there. With the advent of your integration, anything is theoretically possible with the correct power, application, and technique. Now then, if I am correct, which I always am, you were in the middle of assaulting the ground?]
“Sure, sure. I think I need a break. Today has been just…too much.”
[Feel free to take it then. In that case you simply forfeit the right to the path search and any rewards that may come along with it.]
No, I wasn’t obsessed with rewards. Did I want them? Obviously. Who wouldn’t want near instant gratification for something they did? But, you know what? I feel like shit right now. What concepts I’d been perceiving still lingered and restlessly tried to invade my psyche. So, to combat it, I punched the ground again. So, to combat it, I punched the ground again. Over and over, I repeated the action, my knuckles stinging with every strike. The bite of my fists hitting the strange, slime-like—no, gelatinous—ground sent jolts of pain through my arms. Wait, had it always felt this way? No, I was sure it had been cushion-like before... and then, as soon as I stopped pounding, it softened again, just as I’d remembered. Not that crazy, I guess. Not worth overthinking. I sighed heavily. I’d been running on fumes just to get this far without completely breaking down, distracting myself with this nonsense about being a "blank slate," trying to dull the edges of my reality. Just like I’d managed to reduce my parents’ deaths into a cold, detached fact of life. Eventually. I would get revenge soon.
The court system really shouldn’t work like that. The world isn’t fair…but it should be. Aren’t I supposed to be one of the people that have the advantage in this sort of thing? Why don’t I? I still couldn’t wrap my head around how he had cleared all traces of his conspiracy to murder them, how he had walked away scot-free. But he did. I tried to testify, just like I’d tried to fit in at school, tried to get some positive attention, tried not to sink too deep into depression. Tried to make friends, tried to succeed in life. My people skills were always lacking, and now, the conversations I have, shown today, felt even more disconnected, as they were more modeled after TV shows instead of reality. Quite abnormal. Is this really who I am? Am I seriously this out of touch with everything?
Maybe this is just another result of being the so-called honors student, the "gifted" kid, constantly expecting life to be easier than it really is. Perfectionism, procrastination, and that deep-seated, violent fear of failure—it all ran through my family’s veins, passed down from generation to generation like some cursed heirloom. And now, here I was, standing on the precipice of an actual chance at success, with the possibility of power. If I could grasp it, I could rule like a king. But first, I had to come to terms with the fact that nothing was going to come easy—not that I didn’t know this consciously, but my subconscious had other ideas.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
And if I couldn’t figure that out, what did that mean about me? Am I likable at all? In any sense? Or maybe... maybe it was inevitable that I’d been bullied so relentlessly since the first grade. Was it normal for someone like me?
“Is it possible to like me?” I whispered to myself, not wanting an answer nor expecting the system to give me one. Yet it did, that all seeing bastard.
[You lack conventional reading skills, so that subtracts from it. But if you were able to actually read and saw my previous message to you, then you would know that everything is possible now. Everything.]
Okay. Cool. I need a fucking nap. I needed it when I brought it up a few minutes ago, and I need it even more now. Maybe I can process all this shit in my dreams, get rid of that existential dread in one go. Let my body rest, let my weary head recover whatever mental faculties I’ve got left. Shouldn’t I be grateful for the ability to sleep without worrying about work or school or whatever? Nah, fuck that, I’m arguing with an imaginary person I made up. So, shut up, brain. And just like that, I drifted off—way faster than I expected.
Blinking open my eyes grudgingly and still tired a few hours later, my thoughts only continued. Why did I feel like I had to be the fixer of all the problems in the world? Such a privileged white guy like me, who never faced systematic oppression, why did I have to be the one to stop it when I didn’t really understand it? Everything just felt so…melancholic. Perhaps that was caused by unleashing a flood of memories I wished to forget forever and thinking about how meaningless continued existence is as a species. Perhaps it was because I was still just the same emotionally as I was at 14. Never growing up aside from physically. Shouldn’t I be training right now? I just didn’t really want to, though.
[It is referred to as a quarter-life crisis among those on your planet. Such a thing is not unheard of in a time like this. Although your reasoning is much different as you care little for the ending of the world compared to what you want to do in it.]
“You can read my thoughts?” I exclaimed, not really caring but also caring at the same time.
[What can’t I do?]
Good point. Touché, system, touché.
“A few questions on that path…Is this real right now? Like, am I dreaming or something? And if it is, is Greg getting stronger by the minute?”
[Of course it is real. You are unable to spend this much time in a dream state unless in a coma, and in such a case, you would be unable to have full control over all your senses. Information on other living organisms does not come free.]
You know what, if I’m gonna save everyone from a miserable existence I’d better get strong enough to actually change them. Or was I just doing this to benefit my own sense of heroism and misplaced justice? To get attention? Benefit my egotism? To forge a new personality for myself? It didn’t matter. Just as I’d thought before, I had to start somewhere. Like doing 20 push ups right before I go to sleep thinking that I’d be fit the next day. I really had been quite lazy after leaving high school; I’d hardly done much in college before dropping out. Could I actually do something? I had done something by getting to the circle. Surviving until now. So I could…is it training time? Yeah. Fuck it.
“Can you get me…a punching bag…a random weapon…a pair of 30 pound weights…and maybe a training dummy?”
[Is that all?]
“Sure, I guess.”
And so, what I asked for materialized directly in front of me, slowly phasing into existence. At first, they appeared as faint, translucent shapes, barely visible, but within moments, the details sharpened, and the objects became solid, their edges crisp and surfaces gleaming with a lifelike sheen. It was as if reality itself was adjusting to their sudden presence. I watched the transformation with a mix of curiosity and hesitation, absently scratching the right side of my neck, my fingers grazing over the familiar, raised texture of a bumpy birthmark. It always stood out, like a small imperfection I’d never quite gotten used to. My mind raced with indecision—should I dive in right away, or wait? Something in me urged caution, but impatience tugged at the edge of my thoughts.
[Stage 2: Find Your Path - Time remaining: 63:27:40]
[The point of this to figure out who you were was before this. I do recommend that you move on. If you wish to think further, wait until later. The next stage may allow for that.]
A tattered black punching bag hung limply in the air, suspended by a steel thread that connected it to a sleek, dark metal plate, which seemed to float ominously in the space above. Its surface, rough and cracked, bore the scars of years of relentless blows. But what really caught my attention was the dilapidated training dummy beside it.
The dummy stood on a circular wooden base, though the wood was so decayed it barely held together, darkened and rotted with age, looking like it could collapse at any moment. Deep, jagged slashes marred its frame, as if it had been hacked at with countless blades, leaving it looking weak and ready to give in to the slightest force. Despite its fragile appearance, it remained upright, an odd feat for something so worn down. Two splintered wooden arms jutted out at awkward angles, sharp and pointed, like they were waiting to impale anyone foolish enough to attack it head-on.
Atop the dummy hung a sagging sack with sketched on, childlike features drawn on it, a face that resembled a dotted stick figure sketched by yours truly in my sixth-grade art class. The eyes were uneven, the mouth was a lazy scribble—it was almost absurdly out of place. Yet, there was something unnerving about it, especially with the thick, glowing aquamarine umbra-like mist that surrounded the dummy, giving it an eerie presence that defied its flimsy structure.
Next to the dummy lay two blocky, black cubes that were probably supposed to be weights, though they looked more like dense, unwieldy chunks of metal than anything practical. Wrapped haphazardly around them was the weapon I had requested, though I hadn’t expected… this. A chain. Just a simple, heavy chain. No sword, no bow, no shield—just a cold, metal length of links. How was I supposed to fight with a chain? Whip it around? Strangle someone? I wasn’t strong enough for that. I keep delaying. Better to just train.
----------------------------------------
I found myself just about 20 minutes later already drenched in a suffocating layer of sweat, pouring off of me in layers. I’d criticized myself enough for one day, so no comment on that. At present, I was lamely slamming my fists into the punching bag, not exactly waiting for it to swing back but just jumping after it and punching it some more. If I wanted to figure out what these skills were and how to obtain them, it just felt correct to test my limits. I’d also tried to flick around the chain with little success except it landing painfully on my foot. Still, believe it or not, this flash forward was pretty damn purposeful.
[Through repetitive action you have learned the skill: Combat Endurance]
[Combat Endurance (Basic) - Proficiency: Novice (1):
While your opponents face exhaustion, you keep going and never stop fighting. Use a minimal amount less stamina when embroiled in combat.]
[Through repetitive action you have learned the skill: Instinctual Combat]
[Instinctual Combat (Crude) - Proficiency: Novice (1):
Untrained in combat by any master of the craft, you have found your own simple, hand to hand combat style purely through your body’s basic capabilities and instincts. Deal an insubstantial amount more damage to opponents you face while in combat and using this basic hand to hand fighting style in exchange for a slightly more painful recoil.]
Oh. Wow. Easier than I thought to get skills.
[Sufficient echoes have been reached. Class selection available. Would you like to select your class now or wait?
Notice: Delaying selection will not be harmful although options may be removed or lowered in quality by echoes created during this period. Any class chosen at this time will not lock you into a set path, although it will form a baseline to build off of. Do not take this lightly. ]
“YES!” I squealed, entranced by the idea of having a class. What would I get? Would I be a berserker? A martial artist maybe? Something interesting to do with stamina manipulation perhaps? This was based on the skills I had ‘learned’ and not exactly what I would like above all else, although it wouldn’t be bad to have one of those.
[Class selection has begun. Available classes:
Improvised Warrior: You need not worry about what weapon you use, just that it will ensure demise upon those you wish to bring it upon. Slightly increased aptitude to learning how to use weapons you have never used before or weapons not traditionally considered effective in exchange for a slightly decreased aptitude to learning Gain 1 free stat point per level in this class.
Brawler: You will put everything into anything in pursuit of a victory, even if that means exhausting yourself quickly just to land a powerful strike. Slightly increased damage dealt to opponents in exchange for a greatly increased stamina drain. Gain 1 stat point to strength per level in this class.
Pugilist: A war isn’t a single battle, but the same as a marathon to a sprint. You take things slowly and wear down your opponent, dragging on the fight as long as possible and using your stamina to your advantage to drag out a victory. Minimally decreased stamina loss in exchange for slightly decreased damage output. Gain 1 stat point to stamina per level in this class.]
So. I want to change. I want to improve myself. I want to stop procrastinating. So, I chose before I could be distraught with indecision.
“Pugilist. Yeah, I wanna be a pugilist. Wait no, fuck, brawler. But the warrior thing could be cool too-”
[Pugilist class has been chosen. Pugilist has reached level 1 - you have gained 1 point to stamina.]