I ate Shonen for breakfast my whole life. I devoured entire libraries of Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, and even Romantasy (don’t judge me). Those stories were my fuel.
But if you’re looking for that kind of hero here, you’re in the wrong aisle. This is the story of a guy who stopped believing.
Name’s Ben. I’m forty, my liver is filing for divorce, and my tolerance for human stupidity has flatlined at absolute zero.
Five years ago, I was normal. Or close enough that nobody called the cops. I was top of the food chain. I’ve been deconstructing code since I was eight years old. I saw the matrix behind the pixels. By twenty, I was running my own empire. I founded a studio and shipped over 250 games on sheer grit and caffeine-fueled all-nighters. My progression mechanics? Ripped straight from the power-ups of my favorite manga. My storylines? A tribute to all those nights spent reading. RPGs, FPSs, ant farm simulators… I did it all. I built entire worlds, optimized lighting renders that’d make you weep, and hid enough Easter eggs to keep a Reddit thread busy for a century.
I understood game logic better than people. Then life handed me a “Game Over” with no save file. A tragedy—the kind that chews you up, spits you out, and leaves you bleeding on the pavement while the credits roll. I’m not gonna bore you with the sob story. Let’s just say when you hit rock bottom, you discover the bottom has a basement. And that basement has a bar.
I’ve been spiraling since I hit thirty-five. My “friends”? They respawned on a different server, tired of my attitude and the empty bottles. My dog? Gone. Even he judged me. All I’ve got left is my little sister and her kid. The only NPCs in this garbage world who haven’t abandoned my quest line. They’re the reason I ended up babysitting at the worst place on Earth: Paris Games Week. Think E3, but with more body odor and expensive baguettes.
So, let’s get one thing straight.
Buckle up, because what you’re about to read is messy. It’s unfair. It’s spaghetti code. I’m gonna swear. I’m gonna drink. I’ll probably insult deities, piss on sacred artifacts, and treat Kings like incompetent DMV clerks.
My vibe is a cross between Deadpool on antidepressants and Rick Sanchez without a portal gun. There’s gonna be trash talk. Senseless violence. And humor darker than my liver.
But don’t get it twisted. Under the grime and cheap whiskey, I’m the most serious player you’ll ever meet.
Why? Because this System that’s about to drop, this “God” who wants to gamify our reality… he thinks we’re gonna play by his rules. He thinks we’re gonna grind quietly, respect his levels, and follow his bullshit script.
He’s wrong.
I’m not gonna save the world. I’m not gonna play hero. I’m gonna find every glitch, every exploit, every line of lazy coding, and I’m gonna break this System until it bleeds digital data. I’m gonna deny its logic. I’m gonna shatter its immersion.
Welcome to the GodRun. Strap in (and hide your kids). The run starts now.
***
Hell is this convention center.
I’m not built for this. The crowds, the noise, the mosh pit just to move three feet—it’s exhausting. I’m the Miss Universe of introverts—male division—a competitive homebody who only thrives in the silence of a locked living room.
So naturally, being drowned in this sweaty nightmare, surrounded by 30,000 overexcited teens who haven’t seen a shower since the last World of Warcraft expansion… let’s just say it drains my social battery faster than a crypto-miner on a laptop.
After an hour of shuffling in line with my flask hidden under my jacket like contraband, we decide to hunt for food.
I glance at the price board and I’m pretty sure I’m having a stroke. “Twenty-five bucks? Twenty-five? For a hot dog? Is it stuffed with gold leaf or did the pig get a PhD?” I stare at the vendor, waiting for the punchline.
The vendor looks at me with the blank stare of a glitched NPC. “Convention prices, Sir. Gourmet sausage.”
I look at the thing. The meat is the color of infected gums and the sauce is oozing through the paper. This is gourmet? From the looks of it, I suspect the pig wasn’t slaughtered; it just died of depression. It’s been exactly twelve minutes since I entered Paris Games Week, and I’m already getting scammed by a guy hawking snacks at the price of a KFC family bucket.
I snatch the thing from the vendor’s hands and pass it to the kid with a loud sigh.
“Come on, Uncle Ben!” yells a muffled voice from under a plastic helmet.
“Don’t be such a buzzkill! The vibe is incredible!”
My nephew. My little sister’s son. The kid is wearing “Paladin of Light” armor made entirely of cut-up yoga mats spray-painted silver. His pauldrons are so wide he has to turn sideways to fit between the booths. On his breastplate, he’s glued fake gems that probably came from a princess kit.
“Lucky for you I promised your mom I’d look after you,” I reply with a grimace. “Go on, enjoy your ‘vibe.’ I’m just going to try to survive the decibels without permanent hearing damage.”
I watch him wiggle to the techno music shaking the walls. He’s clearly trying to bust a “cool” dance move, but with the rigidity of his yoga mats, he looks like a constipated robot. Then again, he’s definitely my nephew. Considering my own dancing skills are on par with a cinder block, I can’t judge him. Having two left feet runs in the family.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
“By the way, your armor makes a weird squeaking sound when you breathe. Who made it? If you’d asked me, I could’ve built you a pro cosplay.”
“I made it with my stepdad!” Chris shoots back. “We spent three weekends on it!”
“Oh yeah?” I sneer, tapping the breastplate which sounds hollow. “Well, shows how much he loves you deep down, judging by the craftsmanship, kid.”
I have to admit, I can’t stand the guy. I’ve always had an eye for spotting bugs, and he’s a walking scam. He isn’t after my sister’s heart. He doesn’t give a damn. What he wants is her cash. As for his model stepdad act? It’s all theater. I’ve caught those dark looks he gives my nephew as soon as no one is looking. I’ve heard his cruel remarks when he thinks he’s alone. Under his perfect golden-boy smile, he’s a phony of the worst kind. And now, he’s making my nephew wear this cheap costume? It is a total disgrace.
My nephew deserves better.
Much better.
I look away, letting out a heavy sigh as that plastic squeaking assaults my ears again. If it were anyone else, I’d be long gone, probably nursing a cold beer in a quiet bar. But the kid is the exception. I tolerate this hellhole because I know how close that silence came to being permanent.
Three years ago, he survived a plane crash on the way to French Guiana. He went missing for four days in the Amazonian hell. Four endless days where everyone, including me, thought he was dead along with his father in the wreckage. For me, that was almost the killing blow. My own life had already imploded two years earlier, but losing my nephew this time… that was the breaking point. I spent those nights screaming in agony, alone in the dark. Honestly? If I didn’t have to keep my sister together, I think I would have stared into the abyss a little too long.When the rescue teams finally brought him back, it was like seeing a ghost respawn. You can see why my little sister turned into a helicopter mom after that. She already thought she lost him once; she’s not about to let the universe take a second shot. And given the wreck I was, I’m the last person who can judge her.
“Stop calling me ‘kid’!” he protests. “I’m thirteen!”
“Right, right. I know you’re a teenager, but it’s just easier. Your name’s too complicated.”
“It’s just ‘Chris’! It’s one syllable!”
While Chris demolishes his gourmet sausage and keeps up his ridiculous dancing, I turn toward the vendor waiting for his cash. I pull out my credit card with a sigh to pay the ransom.
That’s the exact moment the server crashes.
First, the sound cuts out. No more background noise, no more deafening techno from the Nintendo booths, no more screaming teens. Absolute silence. Like someone hit the mute button on reality. Then, the lighting changes. The glaring neon of Hall 1 turns blood red.
“Uncle Ben?” Chris asks, his voice echoing weirdly in the void. “Is this a trailer for the new Diablo? The graphics are insane!”
I look up. The metallic ceiling, thirty meters high, isn’t collapsing. It’s pixelating. Metal blocks are evaporating into the void. In place of the Parisian sky, nothingness sets in—an artificial night streaked with golden lines of code.
“It’s not 4K, kid,” I mutter, unscrewing my flask.
BOOM.
A shockwave slams us to the ground. The hot dog vendor explodes. Like, literally. A spray of red pixels and digital guts splatters across the concrete, leaving a stain that smells like hot iron and burnt plastic. His glasses hit the floor with a dull thud.
In the center of the hall, floating ten meters up, a creature appears. She’s not bad, in a “default Windows wallpaper” kind of way. Bright white wings, a dress that defies gravity, and a featureless face smooth as an egg, topped with a neon halo.
An Angel. Or rather, a Server Admin with a superiority complex. Her voice echoes directly inside our skulls, bypassing our ears.
[SYSTEM BROADCAST: Zone #FR-202502]
[The Main Scenario has been initialized.]
[Please wait while textures load…]
I stay seated on the floor. I look at my hand. A translucent blue window pops up before my eyes.
[PLAYER STATUS]
Identity: Beno?t de Balzac | Race: Human | Age: 40
Class: None | Rank: None
[Attributes]
HP: 100/100
MP: 0/0
Attack: 6
Magic: 0
Defense: 8
Magic Defense: 0
Speed: 6 (25 km/h)
[Skills] None
The Angel spreads her arms.
[Angel - Ariel]: Silence, inferior creatures! I am but the Messenger. I bear the will of “The One Above All.” Your Civilization has been judged worthy of annexation to the Main Scenario.
Leave your fears behind. Today, you enter the GodRun. The rules are simple: survive the trials, climb the ranks, and reach the end.
The reward? It is greater than anything your world has ever known. Whoever reaches the Summit, whoever surpasses all other civilizations… shall inherit the Celestial Throne. He will become the new God. The One Above All.
I’m mid-swig when the words hit me, and I end up spraying cheap whiskey all over my chin. I let out a dry, hacking snicker that makes a few panicked heads turn my way.
“‘The One Above All’? Seriously?” I shout, loud enough to drown out the sobbing crowd.
The Angel turns her featureless face toward me. A crushing atmospheric pressure slams onto my shoulders like a hydraulic press.
[Angel - Ariel]: You dare interrupt the Divine Proclamation, Human?
“I’m just saying, your big boss is fresh out of ideas.”
I raise my flask high toward the ceiling, raising a mock toast to the crowd, and I yell:
“THE ONE ABOVE AAAALL! That’s the name of the supreme God in Marvel comics! Seriously?! That’s your divine tier? Wikipedia plagiarism? You were too lazy to write your own lore, admit it! Even an unpaid intern could’ve done better!”
A high-pitched static screech rings in my ears. The Angel freezes, glitching like her code just hung.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
[Angel - Ariel]: INSOLENCE. The Scenario does not tolerate meta-criticism. I bear the will of “The One.”
I let out a dark chuckle. “He got scared of a lawsuit from the Mouse and patched the name instantly,” I mutter toward the sky. “Fastest hotfix in history. Seriously, you should apply at Rockstar Games; they desperately need you to finally ship GTA VI.”
[Angel - Ariel]: You require education.
The Angel raises her hand. The ground beneath our feet lights up with an intricate runic circle.
[System]: Candidate detection.
[Emergency protocol activated: Teleporting to Class Tutorial Room.]
“Wait, hold on!” Chris screams, trying to grab his foam sword as it floats away. “Where are we going?!”
“To school, kid.”
In a blinding flash, Paris Games Week vanishes.
The teleportation smells like ozone and burnt plastic. When my vision clears, I’m no longer surrounded by booths and sweaty crowds. The air is heavy, damp, and smells like mold, rust, and monster piss. We’re in some kind of underground corridor, poorly lit by torches crackling with low-resolution pixels. The floor is made of massive stone slabs, and the misaligned seams are already triggering my OCD. The ceiling is low and filthy, barely ten feet high.
Chris is already on his knees, still trapped in his cosplay armor. “Uncle Ben, I can’t feel my legs. Where are we?!”
[System]: Welcome to the Initialization Tutorial.
A pile of top-tier loot sits in the center of the room, hovering in pillars of milky light. Hundreds of weapons. You’ve got every flavor of sharp object imaginable: longswords, scimitars, rapiers, plus round shields, heaters, carved magic staffs, bows, spiked maces, and daggers. Right next to them, there’s a staggering amount of crafting tools. Pickaxes, shovels, hammers, squares, shears, and even a blowtorch, all thrown together. It looks like a fantasy yard sale exploded in here. I even spot an old wooden wheelbarrow with a rusty metal wheel held on by a single screw.
The Angel reappears above us, wings spread wide, looking slightly annoyed—like a sysadmin forced to work through lunch.
[Angel - Ariel]: Candidates, this is the Dungeon Tutorial. The goal is simple: reach the Finish Line, located ten kilometers from here. Your personal timer starts the moment you cross the starting line. Your time determines the rarity of your Class, ranging from Common to Mythic, while the nature of your Class will be determined by the weapons, armor, and tools you use during the trial.
Chris looks up, face draining of color. “Ten kilometers? But… the line is right there! It’s a hundred meters away!”
The Angel’s face ripples into something resembling a smug grin. The System interface flashes red.
[Angel - Ariel]: Unfortunately, your insolence, Human Ben, has triggered a Scenario Shift. By decree of “The One,” the difficulty has been adjusted. Your Tutorial is now a ten-kilometer obstacle course filled with the deadliest traps in the database. Enjoy your Tutorial from Hell.
Chris turns to me, pure panic in his eyes. “Uncle Ben! Did you hear that? Ten kilometers! This is your fault! Because you trash-talked their ‘big boss,’ we’re dead! I don’t even know how to fight!”
I take a long, deliberate pull from my flask. I put it away. I look at the starting line—a thick white stripe painted across eight stone slabs spanning the width of the room. Finally, I look at the pile of weapons.
“Calm down, kid. Just breathe,” I say. “We’re not dead. We’re just not going to play their game.”
Chris looks at me, tears welling up. He rushes toward the loot pile, his foam armor squeaking with every step, and comes back dragging a longsword and a round steel shield. He slides the sword into a basic scabbard that materialized on his belt and straps the shield to his back.
“I’m taking these! I… I really hope I roll a Paladin! What are you grabbing, Uncle Ben?”
“The System screws me when I play by its rules. So this time, I’m using the rules of Physics and Laziness.”
I walk past the swords, the shields, and the bows. I head straight for the tools. I pick up a flat metal shovel—heavy, worn, solid steel. I weigh it in my hand. Balanced. Then, I grab the handles of the old rusty wheelbarrow.
“A… a shovel?” Chris asks, horrified. “But Uncle Ben, you have to pick a weapon to unlock a class!”
“A shovel is a weapon if you swing it hard enough,” I reply, spinning it in my hand. “Watch and learn.”
“But… a wheelbarrow?” Chris looks devastated. “We’re in a dungeon from hell! Isn’t an adventure supposed to be epic?”
“It’s so I don’t break my back.”
I walk up to the white starting line. I stand right on the edge, careful not to cross it. I jam the flat blade of my shovel into the mortar joint between the first two slabs. I’m careful not to scratch the white paint. I give it a little leverage.
Creeeeeak.
The starting slab lifts up. I grab it with both hands and heave. The entire heavy stone block, with the white line painted on it, pops out of the floor. I set it down calmly behind us.
“That’s one,” I mutter. “Seven to go.”
I repeat the process, digging my shovel into every joint to pry them up one by one. After a few minutes of heavy lifting, the eight slabs composing the starting line are neatly stacked, silent and inert, in a pile behind us.
“There,” I say with a smirk, wiping sweat from my forehead. “The starting line is now behind us.”
“What?” Chris stands there, mouth agape.
“The timer only starts when you cross the starting line. But if the line isn’t there, you can’t cross it. And if the timer hasn’t started…”
I turn toward the dark corridor, ten kilometers long. The traps are silent. The darkness is still. “Mission accomplished. The tutorial is over. Now we just have to take a walk. Except we can’t leave the evidence here. We’re taking the level with us. Load the slabs into the wheelbarrow. You’re pushing the rig. We’ve got a bit of a trek ahead.”
Chris looks at me, then at the massive pile of stone, then at the rusty wheelbarrow. “But… we’re supposed to race!”
“We’re going for a hike with a weight penalty. You’re gonna bulk up that cardboard Paladin build, kid.”
Chris sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulders, loads the slabs into the wheelbarrow, and grabs the wooden handles.
We head into the dark corridor.
Our little hike quickly turns into a guided tour of a broken haunted house. The soundscape is provided by the constant squeaking of Chris’s armor and the groaning of the wheelbarrow axle—a racket that should have woken every corpse in the dungeon. But here? Nothing. Dead silence.
I see Chris freeze, eyes wide, in front of a dark alcove. The kid is terrified. He thinks he’s staring Death in the face. Me? I walk up and burst out laughing.
What was supposed to be a terrifying Spectral Assassin mostly looks like a mime on strike. The monster’s texture is blurry, low-res. Its arm is raised mid-strike, frozen in the air, and its jaw is glitching and vibrating. The poor bastard never got the execution script because the global timer is still at zero.
“Unpaid intern level design,” I comment, poking the frozen ghost. “Looks like an NPC waiting for a bus in the rain.”
Further down, I entertain myself by testing the quality of the facilities. I give nonchalant little kicks to suspicious piles of dust. Click. Nothing. Clack. Still nothing. These are supposed to be deadly pressure plates triggering poison arrows or spikes. It’s almost insulting. We’re walking through the Hallway of Death like we’re browsing a supermarket aisle on a Sunday morning.
Two and a half hours later, exhaustion clings to me. I’ve emptied half my flask. The alcohol didn’t bring any pleasure; it just served to scrub the dungeon dust from my throat.
“Uncle Ben,” Chris whispers, his voice strained from the effort. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to run? It would’ve been over fast!”
“We’re not in Temple Run, kid. If we sprint, we’re gassed in twenty minutes. The goal is to reach the end with enough energy to carry the loot, not to have a heart attack halfway there. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
We pass a wall that should have been an acid trap. A jet of murky, static water is frozen in mid-air, like a bad 3D render.
“That’s a column of corrosive bile,” I say, touching the frozen stream with the tip of my shovel. “It’s supposed to melt your gear in two seconds. The Creator never imagined a mortal messing with the map geometry. It’s divine negligence.”
Chris nods, his arms shaking like jelly from pushing that pile of junk for miles. “But how did they not see this coming?”
“Because fantasy creators think their players are epic heroes who charge straight ahead. They don’t account for the asshole who just wants to skip the cutscene.”
We finally arrive in front of a massive wooden door. It’s sealed by a green light, and a finish line is painted across the eight slabs on the floor in front of it.
“Uncle Ben, looks like we’re here,” Chris says, his voice trembling with relief.
“I’ll admit,” I spit, huffing. “That was a grind. Ten clicks, dammit. I haven’t done this much cardio in twenty years. I think I sprained my wrist just holding this damn flask.”
“Alright, kid. Final phase of the glitch.”
I grab the shovel. I quickly unload the eight stacked slabs from the wheelbarrow, lining them up carefully right next to the finish line. They’re heavy, but the adrenaline—or maybe the whiskey—helps.
“Ready?”
Chris looks at me, confused. “Ready for what? We’re at the finish!”
“We aren’t until the timer stops.”
I grab the starting slab. I set it on the ground, literally pressing it against the finish line. I adjust them so they touch perfectly. There aren’t ten kilometers between the start and the end anymore. There’s zero millimeters.
I just clipped the level.
“Look. The starting line triggers the timer ON. The finish line triggers it OFF. The System is dumb; it attached the trigger to these specific physical objects, not the coordinates of the room. I literally carried the ‘Start’ event all the way here. Now that they’re touching, one step is enough to start and stop the run simultaneously. You follow me?”
Chris, finally catching on to the mechanics, widens his eyes. “But that’s… that’s cheating!”
“That’s optimization. On the leaderboard, it’ll clock in at 0.001 seconds.”
I crouch down in a sprinter’s stance.
“Go.”
I step over the line. Chris follows, sword in hand.
[Congratulations!]: Initialization Tutorial complete!
[Exploit Unlocked]: The Timer is an Illusion (Mythic Rank)
[Special Reward]: Mythic Chest (Contains 100,000 Cosmic Gold Coins, a Legendary Blade, and 5 Resurrection Potions)
[Title Unlocked][Mythic]: Master of Speed (Allows movement at Mach 2 speed for 5 seconds)
A shower of golden light washes over us. The System paid up, forced by its own logic.
Chris is dazzled, his foam armor now covered in a glow of genuine gold particles.
“Uncle Ben! A… a Mythic Title! And 100,000 Cosmic Gold Coins!”
A new window, larger and more solemn, pops up before us.
[Class Selection]: Choose your path.
Chris raises his shield and sword, trembling with excitement. A list of classes displays in front of him:
- Celestial Knight (Mythic)
- Immortal Dawn Justiciar (Mythic)
- Abyssal Scourge Paladin (Mythic)
- Sacred Death Avenger (Mythic)
- Divine Champion of Transcendence (Divine, Unique)
Chris is in shock. His hero dream is within arm’s reach. “Uncle Ben, look! Look! I have a DIVINE class! Divine!” he yells, pointing at the list, eyes wide.
“Calm down, kid. You’re gonna pop a vein. Just pick the most roleplay option.”
I open my own list. It’s a damn cheat menu. Nothing but Mythic and Divine ranks. No trash classes. Just titles that scream “IMMEDIATE BAN” to the rest of the server.
[Class Selection]: Choose your path.
- Source Code Scourge (Mythic, Unique)
- World Destroyer (Divine, Unique)
- Shadow Monarch (Divine, Unique)
I freeze in front of my screen. The exhaustion from the walk and the whiskey fumes evaporate instantly. There’s a name on this list I never thought I’d see.
“Shadow Monarch. Oh, holy shit,” I say, breathless, my voice barely a whisper.
Chris nearly chokes on his own spit. He points at my screen, shaking like a leaf. “Wait… That’s the class from Solo Leveling! That’s impossible! It’s a manhwa! How could the System copy that? This is insane!”
“I don’t give a damn about copyright infringement, kid! It’s the Holy Grail of laziness! Do you see it? I’d never have to lift a finger again. I could clear entire dungeons while lying on a lawn chair, sipping my flask in peace, while my shadow army does the grinding for me. It’s the absolute dream.”
I reach out, hand trembling, toward the Shadow Monarch (Divine, Unique) option.
“Arise,” I growl, trying to imitate Jin-Woo’s edgy voice, even if it comes out more like an asthmatic wheeze. I click the name with a flourish I definitely haven’t earned.
[System]: Class extraction failed. (2 attempts remaining)
I stay frozen, finger in the air. A vein pulses violently on my temple.
“What the hell is this? Are you screwing with me with your meta references? I’m not trying to extract Igris, I’m clicking a damn menu, you binary asshole! Give me my shadow army!”
I click Shadow Monarch again, slamming the holographic screen with rage.
[System]: Class extraction failed. (1 attempt remaining)
I hold my breath. My hands are shaking. This is terror, the real kind. The mere thought of having to actually put in physical effort in this world makes me shudder. I focus. I visualize the army, the power, the absolute, unadulterated laziness. I place my finger on the screen with fake delicacy, like I’m defusing a nuke.
“Come on… be cool… Just this once…”
I click.
The loading screen from hell. A little wheel spins. My heart is pounding. Then, the message appears:
[System]: Did you really think you’d get that class? Seriously? Really?
I stand there, mouth agape, finger still glued to the screen that just literally mocked me. I scream, the vein on my forehead ready to burst. “Screw you! You think you’re funny?!”
As if to answer me, the Shadow Monarch line flickers and vanishes from the list, leaving an insulting white void.
“Fine. You want to play games? Let’s play.” I click another line. World Destroyer (Divine, Unique). “If I can’t have an army, I’ll just blow everything up.”
A new window appears, but the vibe has changed. The screen glows an insulting blue, with text dripping with sarcasm.
[System]: Oh yes, obviously. What a brilliant idea. Let’s entrust the ability to annihilate the very fabric of reality to an unstable alcoholic who just dismantled my tutorial level with a garden shovel.
[System]: Do you want the nuclear codes and the keys to Heaven while we’re at it?
I punch the screen. “Shut the hell up and validate the build, you shitty Paperclip! Give me the red button!”
[System]: Request denied. Reason: “Too dangerous for the mental health of the Universe”.
The class vanishes in its turn.
I snort through my nose, sounding like a pissed-off bull. I’m resigned. Only one “interesting” option remains. Source Code Scourge (Mythic, Unique).
“Fine. It’s less of a blunt instrument, more technical. I can live with that.” I click it.
The System pauses. A green notification, pure and beautiful, pops up.
[Confirmation]: Class “Source Code Scourge (Mythic, Unique)” has been selected.
[Processing]: Allocation in progress…
[Confirmation]: Class “Source Code Scourge (Mythic, Unique)” has been confirmed.
I turn to Chris, triumphant. “You see that? They finally cracked. Source Code Scourge. At least I’ve got a Mythic class. I’ll be able to rewrite their rules on the fly. We won.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before a new window snaps open.
[Notice]: This class is an evaluation version.
[Trial period duration]: 0.001 seconds.
I blink.
[System]: The trial period has ended. We hope you enjoyed the experience.
[Status]: License expired.
[Update]: You no longer have a class.
It’s an absolute gut punch. I stand there, arms hanging limp, staring at the message “The trial period has ended. We hope you enjoyed the experience.” It’s the kind of silence that precedes a murder. I had the power of a god for less than a frame. I didn’t even have time to feel the power before it was back to zero.
I kick the air, my foot passing through the holographic interface as it dissipates like smoke.
Beside me, Chris lets out a tiny squeak of pure terror. I turn toward him. He’s pointing at his own screen, his finger trembling.
“Uncle Ben… that’s not the worst part. Look.” “I tried to click on Divine Champion, but…”
Before our eyes, the list of Chris’s classes—Celestial Knight, Sacred Death Avenger, and even Abyssal Scourge Paladin—starts to flicker. The names vanish one by one, like ink on burning paper.
“They’re disappearing!” Chris screams. “My classes! They’re bailing!”
In a few seconds, his screen is as empty as my flask. No more Divine Champion. No more Mythic. Nothing. Just an empty, cold blue screen.
“I can’t choose anything, Uncle Ben! It’s all gone! I don’t have a class anymore!”
Static electricity snaps through the air. The Angel reappears above us. Her white wings look a bit rumpled now, like she just ran a marathon in the server room to fix our mess. Her face is still a smooth, featureless void, yet she’s practically dripping with smugness. You can tell she’s smiling—a smile that echoes inside our skulls like a silent, triumphant laugh.
[Angel - Ariel]: Finally. I have updated the firewall. My Lord, “The One,” has authorized me to deliver a personal message to you, Humans. Congratulations on your technical exploit.
“You again? And what’s the message this time?” I growl, flask gripped in my fist, ready to hurl it at her.
[Angel - Ariel]: Given that you bypassed the Tutorial—an undeniable, if pathetic, technical exploit—while repeatedly insulting the System and my Lord, the karmic balance has been adjusted. Consequently, you will receive no class, no title, and no reward from your Mythic timer.
The Mythic Chest, which was glowing with a golden aura beside us, instantly dissolves into worthless gray dust.
Chris turns white. His knees give out.
“No!” he cries, his voice breaking. “My 100,000 gold coins! My legendary gear!”
[Angel - Ariel]: However, the Primary Scenario Protocol is inflexible: every participant must possess a class to proceed. You will therefore receive a default class based on your overall behavior. Consider it minimum wage.
The class selection windows vanish, replaced by a new, bitter individual notification.
[Confirmation]: Chris is now a Porter (Rank: Trash).
Chris stares at the screen. He goes from horror to fury. “Porter? Porter? What kind of class is that? It’s… it’s a servant class! This is all your fault, Uncle Ben! I was supposed to save the world with a sacred sword, not deliver packages in a dungeon!”
“A Porter?” I snicker, forced to admire the irony. “They gave you the exact class that matches your gameplay. You pushed a wheelbarrow and carried a sword and shield for ten kilometers without using them once! It’s divine pettiness at its finest!”
Chris stays frozen, jaw dropped, like his brain just suffered a Blue Screen of Death. His gaze shifts back and forth between his gleaming sword, his polished shield that he carried with such pride, and the old rusty wheelbarrow. His ears turn beet red. He looks like a kid unwrapping his Christmas present only to find a pair of used socks.
While he contemplates the void of his existence, a final notification appears in front of me. I try to swat it away with the palm of my hand like an annoying fly. I don’t even want to look at it. But the System insists I see its final joke.
[Confirmation]: Ben is now a…